I go to the second note.
The Lord is a God who avenges. O God who avenges, shine forth. Rise up, Judge of the earth; pay back to the proud what they deserve.
And the third.
Anyone who steals must certainly make restitution, but if they have nothing, they must be sold to pay for their theft.
“I should have told you.” Miriam begins to sputter. “I was scared. Ivan didn’t want to tell. He didn’t—”
“Who has handled these notes?” I ask, my voice sharp.
“Me. Ivan. That’s it.”
“Do the passages mean anything to you?”
The Amish woman shakes her head. “The first is a proverb. The second is a psalm. Ninety-four, I think. The other … Exodus.”
I stare at her, letting the full force of my anger come through. “What else haven’t you told me?”
“That’s it. That’s everything. I promise. I was just so scared. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Miriam, listen to me. If we’re going to find Elsie. If we’re going to find the person responsible, you have to trust me. You have to be honest. You have to tell me everything. Do you understand?”
“I do.” She looks down at her hands, where they’re knotted in front of her. “Chief Burkholder, I don’t know who the mother is. Who the parents are. I don’t know where they’re from or why they did what they did.” A sob escapes her. “All I know is that when I took Elsie into my arms, she was mine. She was home.” She goes to pieces. “I want her back. My sweet baby girl. Please. Chief Burkholder, find her for us. Find her before it’s too late.”
CHAPTER 11
Twenty-five hours missing
My head is reeling on the drive to the Troyer farm. Twice I pick up my cell to call Dispatch to find out if there was a missing child in the area seven years ago; twice I put it down without making the call. I need more information. I need to talk to the bishop, find out if he was, indeed, involved, and get all the facts—if there are facts to be had.
Why would a child be taken from her birth mother and placed with another family? Was the mother afflicted with Cohen syndrome, too? Of course, it’s possible she’d passed away or had some other health issue. Usually, if there’s some kind of disability—mental or physical or both—the Amish take care of their own without question. But if that was the case, why all the secrecy?
The possibility that the bishop was involved shakes my world. He’s been a fixture in my life for as long as I can remember. To the Amish girl I’d been, he was revered and feared in equal measure. Is it possible he played a role in placing Elsie with the Helmuths? That he did, in fact, take part in what boils down to an illegal adoption?
I believe Miriam is telling the truth. In terms of the abduction, it could explain a lot. The big question now is who are the parents? What’s their story? Were they knowing participants?
Having grown up Amish, I know that as a general rule, they are decent, law-abiding citizens. They’re family-oriented, hardworking, and they consider children a gift from God. Most Amish couples are exceptional parents. Their children grow up with the support not only of their families, but of the community as a whole.
But like all of us mortals, the Amish are not perfect. Over the years, I’ve heard the whisperings of a belief system and traditions taken too far. When I was fifteen, an Amish girl not much older than me became pregnant out of wedlock. The father-to-be was nowhere to be found. The young woman’s mother and grandmother stepped in and conspired to get her married off to an acceptable Amish bachelor. The marriage was rushed. The dates were fudged. The baby was born “early.” The young woman’s husband—and most of the community—was never the wiser. A happy ending for all—unless you’re a fan of the truth. Did some situation with a social stigma attached bring about what happened with Elsie Helmuth?
A hundred questions pound my brain as I park in the gravel area behind the Troyer farmhouse. It’s after six P.M., fully dark, and a steady rain falls from a low sky. I discern the glow of lantern light in the kitchen window as I take the sidewalk to the back door and knock.
The scuff of footsteps sounds inside. A moment later the door swings open and I find myself looking at Bishop Troyer. He’s always seemed ancient to me, especially when I was a kid. I was as terrified as I was fascinated by him. I like to think I’m long past all that juvenile melodrama. Still, I have to bank a slow rise of nerves.
His hair is silver shot with black. His beard is the same, unkempt, and reaches the waistline of his trousers. He’s dressed in black—shirt, suspenders, jacket, and a flat-brimmed hat. He’s smaller than I remember, his body a little more bent. I heard he took a fall a couple of months ago. He’s using a walker now. None of those things detract from the power that radiates from those steely eyes.
“Katie Burkholder?”
“Bishop Troyer.” I look past him to see his wife standing at the kitchen table. By the light of a single lantern, I notice a half gallon of ice cream and two bowls in front of her. “I need to talk to you. Alone. It’s important.”
He glances past me as if expecting some unsavory non-Amish person at my heels. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.
Gripping the walker, the bishop turns and trundles to the table.
The aromas of lantern oil and green peppers cooked earlier in the evening hang heavy in the overheated air as I follow him into the kitchen.
“Sie bringa zeiya funn da kind?” his wife asks, eyeing me with an odd combination of anticipation and suspicion. She brings news of the child?
I give her a hard look. “No.”
“Ich braucha shvetza zu Chief Burkholder,” he tells her. I need to speak with Chief Burkholder. “Laynich.” Alone.
The woman lowers her gaze in submission. “Voll.” Of course. Draping a kitchen towel over the back of a chair, she leaves the room and disappears into the shadows of the living room.
I make no move to assist as the bishop struggles into a kitchen chair. Before he’s seated, I say, “I know Elsie isn’t the biological child of Miriam and Ivan Helmuth. I need to know what happened and who was involved. Right now. Do you understand me?”
When the old man is seated, he sighs, then raises his gaze to mine, impervious to the words, my tone. “I don’t know what you think you know, Kate Burkholder, but chances are you are wrong.”
There were a dozen instances in my youth when my parents were at wits’ end about how to handle me and my unacceptable behavior. Several times I was put before the bishop, alone, and left at his mercy. I’ve always known my mind, and I wasn’t easily intimidated, but I can tell you facing off with this man was a fear-provoking experience. Even after all these years I see him as an elder. A man whose decisions are not to be questioned.
“What I know,” I say firmly, “is that you and Ivan and Miriam have been lying to me. Elsie’s abduction and the murder of Mary Yoder is likely related to what happened with Elsie seven years ago. You need to tell me everything so I can do my job and find her.”
“Miriam told you?”
“She didn’t have a choice. Neither do you. If you refuse to help me, I will arrest you for obstructing justice. You got that?”
“I can tell you what I know, Katie. It isn’t much.”
“Start talking.”
The old man takes my tone in stride. He isn’t shocked or rattled or even annoyed, but for the first time I see the wheels turning behind those cold steel eyes. “Seven years ago, I received a letter from the bishop down in Scioto County, Noah Schwartz. He asked for an emergency meeting. Said it was urgent. I agreed, of course, and the next day he came to me, here in Painters Mill. He said the Deiner had made an important decision and they needed my help.”
“Deiner” is the Deitsch word for “servants,” which is how the elected officials—the bishop, ministers, and preachers—are referred to. “Tell me about the meeting.”
He looks down at the tabletop where his hands, fingers twisted and swollen with arthritis, rest easily. After a moment, he me
ets my gaze. “Noah asked me if I knew of a couple who could take in a child and raise it as their own.”
I tug out my notebook and write down the bishop’s full name. “Why would an Amish bishop become involved in something like that?”
“According to Bishop Schwartz, the child had no one. No one. She needed a family. Parents. A safe place. A home.”
“You didn’t question him about the circumstances? Or ask where she came from? Didn’t you wonder about the parents?”
“I trusted in the wisdom and goodness of the bishop. I had faith that the Lord would see us through the darkness we were facing. You have to understand, Katie, it was a troubling time and there was uncertainty. Grief, even. And fear. None of the decisions made were entered into lightly or without a great deal of thought.”
“Who else was involved?” I ask.
“The midwife.”
“What’s her name?”
“I do not know.”
“Noah Schwartz brought you the baby?”
The old man nods. “Two days later. Noah and the midwife brought the girl child. We took her to Miriam and Ivan late in the night. We prayed. And it was done.”
“Who are the parents?” I ask. “What are their names?”
“I do not know.”
“Where did the baby come from? What town?”
“Scioto County. That’s all I know.”
I write it down. Scioto County is in the southern part of Ohio. In the back of my mind, I recall Martha Hershberger telling me that Mary Yoder’s sister, Marlene, was from “down south somewhere.”
“Do you know Mary Yoder’s sister, Marlene?” I ask.
The bishop shakes his head. “No.”
“Have you ever heard the name?”
Another shake.
Even as I ask the questions, I struggle to make sense of everything I’ve been told. “Why did Bishop Schwartz take the baby? Was the mother sick? Injured? Dying? Why did he become involved at all?”
“I did not ask,” he tells me. “All I can tell you is that Noah Schwartz did this thing in the name of the Lord and the church.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding a hard tattoo against my ribs. I don’t want to believe the story I’ve been told. That two Amish bishops participated in what is at best an illegal adoption. At worst, a kidnapping. But in my heart of hearts, I know it’s the truth, however questionable. While Bishop Troyer is not above manipulation in the name of the Ordnung, he is not a liar.
“Where do I find Bishop Schwartz?” I ask.
“I heard Noah passed a couple of weeks ago.”
Disappointment tings in my chest. “What about the midwife?”
“I do not know.”
“Where are they from?”
“Most of the Amish live in Crooked Creek, I think. A few hours south. Down by the river. I’d met Noah once or twice over the years. Scioto County is not part of our church district, but they are in full fellowship with us here in Holmes County. They are of the same affiliation.”
“Who else knows about this?” I ask.
“Just the bishop and me. The midwife. Miriam and Ivan. That is all.”
“What about Mary Yoder?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I think she knew. Noah mentioned speaking to her, but he didn’t go into detail. In all these years, Mary and I have never spoken of it.”
I close the notebook and give him a hard stare. “Is it possible someone else knows about what happened?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“What about the parents of the baby? Do they know what happened? Do they know where the baby was taken? Who took her in?”
“I do not know.”
“Does your wife know?”
“She was here that night, of course. As the wife of a bishop, she does not question.”
“Bishop, I believe Elsie Helmuth may have been taken by someone who knew about or found out about what happened all those years ago. Her birth parents. A relative. An older sibling. Someone who wanted her back.”
“I don’t see how, Katie. Bringing that baby here to Painters Mill, it was a solemn and private thing. Done in the night, under cover of darkness. We were careful. It was never spoken of again.”
“Someone spoke of it.”
He stares at me, silent.
I set my hands on my hips and sigh. “Bishop, you can’t just take a baby from one family and give it to another one. Even if your intentions were honorable and you think it’s the right thing to do.”
“You come here tonight to question our ways? You of all people?”
I don’t respond to the jab, but I feel it in a place I thought was immune. “This isn’t about me. It’s about finding that girl.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
I shake my head and sigh. “You likely broke the law. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“It was done in the eyes of the Lord. His law is above man’s law. You know this, Katie. Or have you strayed so far from your roots that you no longer believe?” He says the words in a voice like iron. “If what we did is against some English law then so be it.”
* * *
… the child had no one. She needed a family. Parents. A safe place.
We took her to Miriam and Ivan late in the night. We prayed. And it was done.
If I hadn’t heard the words directly from Bishop Troyer, I never would believe he was capable of something so outrageous and reckless.
I drive back to the station in a state of shock, my conversations with Miriam Helmuth and Bishop Troyer replaying in my head like some tragic song. By the time I park and head inside, I’ve come up with a loose plan.
I find Mona, still in uniform, sitting at the reception desk, listening to the radio, surfing the internet.
“Oh, hey, Chief.”
“Dig up everything you can find on Noah Schwartz. I think he lived in Crooked Creek, Ohio. Scioto County. No middle. He was an Amish bishop. I believe he’s deceased.”
She’s already reaching for a legal pad, jotting everything down. “Got it.”
I slide messages from my slot and head toward my office. “Run him through LEADS. Check for warrants,” I say over my shoulder. “Get me a list of midwives in Crooked Creek and Scioto County. I think there are some registries out there.” Even as I bark out the requests, I realize that because we’re dealing with the Amish—many of whom stay off the governmental grid—the information may be hit-or-miss.
“Chief, you still interested in Marlene Byler?” she calls out.
I turn and go back to her station to find her holding out a purple folder. “There’s not much out there. I mean, with her being Amish and all. Just a newspaper story and an obituary,” she tells me. “That’s how I found her. Mary Yoder is listed in the obit.”
I take the folder. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a great detective’s mind?”
She grins. “All the time.”
In my office, I boot up my computer, pour a cup of day-old coffee, and open the file on Marlene Byler. Her obituary is on top, so I read.
Marlene Byler, 29, of Crooked Creek died unexpectedly on March 17, 1990. She was born in Scioto County on May 11, 1961. She was a homemaker and member of the Old Order Amish Church. She is survived by her sister Mary Yoder of Painters Mill.
I go to the next page. It’s an article from the Scioto County Times Record newspaper dated two days after her death twenty-nine years ago.
SCIOTO COUNTY WOMAN JUMPS TO HER DEATH
Sheriff Kris McGuire tells the Scioto County Times Record 29-year-old Marlene Byler died after jumping from the Sciotoville Bridge into the Ohio River about 5 P.M. Thursday. McGuire said her death is being investigated as an apparent suicide. According to the sheriff’s department spokesman, an autopsy will determine if Byler died from the impact, drowned, or died from a combination of factors.
I read the article twice. It’s a troubling, unusual story. Not only was Marlene Byler Amish, but she was evidently distraug
ht enough to jump to her death. Is any of it related to the murder of Mary Yoder or the abduction of Elsie Helmuth? What secrets did she take with her to her grave?
Shoving the questions aside for now, I cruise out to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children website, seeking information on infant abductions in Scioto County seven years earlier. There’s nothing there. I spend an hour scouring every law enforcement and missing-person database I can think of—all to no avail.
At the same time, Mona ferrets through various internet sites for information on Noah Schwartz, the bishop. The only thing she finds is a single piece on the buggy accident that took his life two weeks earlier and an obituary in The Budget.
“Here’s the list of registered midwives for Scioto County.” She passes me a printout from one of the national registries. “None listed for Crooked Creek, Chief. Several from Scioto County.”
I take the list. “You got your Google hat with you?”
She grins. “Never leave home without it.”
“I’m looking for information on a newborn that went missing seven years ago, give or take. If you strike out in Scioto County, expand your search to contiguous counties. Look at everything, not just law enforcement databases—but blogs and social media sites, too.”
“I’m all over it.”
For three hours Mona and I probe every crevice of the internet, searching for even the most obscure mention of a missing child, first in Crooked Creek, and then Scioto and surrounding counties. A couple of cases meet our general criteria, but further investigation proves it couldn’t have been Elsie. Either the case was solved or the baby was male or the parents were of Asian or African American descent.
At ten P.M., I hit a wall. The words and images on the screen begin to blur. The last thing any cop wants to do when a child is missing is walk away because of something as inconsequential as sleep. But there comes a point when exhaustion becomes an impediment to productivity. I’ve reached that point.
Elsie Helmuth has been missing for thirty excruciating hours. Every tick of the clock lessens her chance of survival. But it’s time to call it a day. Go home. Sleep. Start fresh in the morning. Right.
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