Tomasetti calls at midnight. “DNA from the blood found in the yard of the Schattenbaum farm belongs to Elsie Helmuth,” he says without preamble.
I close my eyes, relieved he can’t see the shiver that goes through me. “Damn it.”
“As far as we know she could have gotten a bloody nose in a scuffle,” he offers, “or fallen and cut herself. Something like that.”
Or else the crazy fucker cut her.…
Neither of us utter the words, but we’re thinking it.
“I hate this,” I say.
He sighs. “Yeah.”
“What about the notes I gave you?” I ask. “Anything come back? Prints? The paper or notebook manufacturer?”
“We got zilch. No prints. No DNA.” A buzz of silence. “Kate, you sound wiped out.”
I laugh, but it rings tired and phony. I tell him about my conversations with Bishop Troyer and Miriam Helmuth.
“That changes everything,” he says. “Do you think any of this could have something to do with the girl being special needs?”
“I can’t imagine. Tomasetti, the Amish consider special-needs children a gift from God. They’re never considered a burden. Any Amish person with a physical or mental handicap is well cared for.”
“What if, for some reason, the mother couldn’t care for her?” He lets the thought trail. “Would that be enough for the Amish to step in?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Family.”
A pause ensues as our minds work that over. “I’m looking for information on missing infants in Scioto and surrounding counties during that time frame. Tomasetti, there’s nothing there.”
“You follow up with the sheriff’s department down there?”
“They got nothing.”
“What about the Amish community?”
“Of course none of them have phones,” I tell him.
“Were you able to find Mary Yoder’s sister?”
“Dead,” I say. “Suicide.”
“Shit.”
“Tomasetti, the bishop who brought the baby to Painters Mill is dead.”
“How?”
“Buggy accident.”
Silence ensues. “Kate, why the hell would a bishop get involved in something like that? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t think a bishop would without some … compelling reason.”
“And what would a compelling reason be to take a newborn baby from its parents?”
“In light of Elsie Helmuth having Cohen syndrome, maybe her mother had been deemed mentally or physically unable to care for a baby. Maybe there was no father in the picture.”
It’s the most honest answer I can give. Or is it? Would it be more truthful for me to admit that the cultural roots I left behind so long ago still have a hold on me whether I like it or not?
“The footprints found at the scene were male,” he reminds me. “What if the mother and her male partner relinquished the child for whatever reason and, at some later point, had a change of heart? Maybe they did some digging and found out where the child was sent.”
“But … murder?”
“We’ve seen it happen for less.”
Lowering my head, I put my face in my hands and rub my eyes. “These people are Amish.…”
“What if they’re not? What if the Amish community saw some … injustice or wrongdoing and stepped in?”
“There has to be some … connection to the Amish,” I say. “Or the bishops wouldn’t have gotten involved.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“There’s only one thing I can do.”
“I can’t go with you to Scioto County. Not with this girl missing and a task force in place.”
“With this being an Amish issue, it’s probably best that I go alone anyway,” I tell him.
“In the interim, I’ll dig around a little on my end.” He pauses. “Is the mayor going to give you grief over leaving town?”
“Of course he is. But I’m hired to protect and serve, not please. Besides, I’ll only be gone a day,” I tell him. “Two, tops.”
“Famous last words.” He sighs. “If it’s not too much trouble, come home and get some sleep before you go.”
“On my way.”
CHAPTER 12
Forty-two hours missing
Dawn ushers in the first frost of the season, a sky the color of slate, a north wind, and just enough drizzle to keep my intermittent wipers busy. I’d planned on an early start, but ended up spending several hours at the station. I didn’t pull out until after nine A.M. to make the four-hour drive to Crooked Creek, which is on the Ohio side of the river half an hour east of Portsmouth. I’m southbound on Ohio 23 just past Chillicothe when the call comes in from Tomasetti.
“The tire-tread plaster casts captured at the scene were viable,” he tells me.
“Best news I’ve had all day.”
“And it’s still early. Manufacturer is Goodyear. Wrangler radial P 235/75R15 105S SL OWL.”
“Does any of that tell us the type of vehicle?”
“Light truck or SUV.”
“Pickup truck,” I say. “Covers a lot of territory.”
“The good news is the tires are worn. The technician says there are markings from wear. In this case, some minor damage, a slice on the outer edge that’s unique to this tire.”
“So if we produce a suspect, chances are good we’ll be able to match the tire.”
The silence that follows tells me there’s more, that it’s probably not good. “Have you talked to anyone at the station?” he asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “Do I need to brace?”
“The national media have moved in. Cable networks started running the story last night. They’re camped out in front of the police station and on both ends of Township Road 14. They’ve got people in town, shoving cameras and mikes in front of anyone who’ll talk to them, especially if they’re Amish.”
“Shit.”
In some cases, the media can be helpful to law enforcement, especially when there’s a missing person. Television and radio can help get the word out and circulate photos. The rest of the time, they just get in the way, passing along misinformation, demanding time no one has, and disrupting the lives of the people involved.
“Might be best if they don’t know you’re down there,” he says. “Especially if you want to keep it low-key.”
“I do.”
“In that case I’ll try to keep it under my hat,” he says dryly. “Look, I’ve got to run. Keep me posted on how it’s going. And if it’s not too much to ask, stay the hell out of trouble.”
* * *
Any time a cop pokes around in an outside jurisdiction, it’s prudent to check in with local law enforcement to let them know you’re in town so I make my first stop in Portsmouth. The Scioto County Sheriff’s Office is housed in a newish redbrick building that also accommodates the county jail and communications center. I called ahead, hoping to meet with the sheriff, but he wasn’t available, so I spoke with one of the deputies that regularly patrols the Crooked Creek area. I briefed him on the case, some of which he was already familiar with. I asked him to check for reports—official or unofficial—of a missing child six to eight years earlier. He said it didn’t ring a bell, but he’d only been with the department a couple of years. He promised to take a look and let me know.
Deputy Martin Harleson meets me inside the reception area with a hearty handshake and welcoming smile. After introductions are made, the duty deputy buzzes us through the secure door and Harleson shepherds me to a small meeting room equipped with a table and chairs, a coffee station, sink, and vending machines.
I lay out the fundamentals of the case. “We believe he may be Amish and has connections to Crooked Creek. I wanted to let you guys know I was in town.”
“Any way I can help?” He asks the question sincerely enough, but I see the curiosity in his eyes. Cops are a nosy lot, me included. We like to be in the thick of things, especially when it include
s murder.
“Do you know who replaced Noah Schwartz, the Amish bishop who was killed?”
He shakes his head. “No idea.”
“Do you have the names of any of the ministers?” I ask. “Or preachers? Elders?”
“We don’t deal with the Amish much here in Portsmouth. Most of them live to the east of us. They own a lot of the farms down by the river. A lot of buggies on the road in that area. Bishop Schwartz was the first fatality. Hit-and-run. Let me tell you, it was the worst damn thing I ever saw.”
The term “hit-and-run” gives me pause. “What happened?”
“Driver hit the buggy from behind. Had to be doing fifty. Killed Schwartz instantly.” Sighing, he scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I don’t think those Amish people realize how vulnerable they are in those buggies.”
“You guys make an arrest?” I ask, troubled not only because Schwartz is one of the people who was involved in the case, but because I’m not a fan of coincidence.
“We didn’t have much to work with. There were no witnesses. Nothing left behind. Not even a fuckin’ skid mark.”
I stare at him, aware that my pulse is up. “The driver made no attempt to stop?”
“We assumed he was probably under the influence. Drugs or alcohol or both.” Grimacing he shakes his head. “Welcome to the opioid epidemic.”
“Where did it happen?”
“River Road area. We call it The Bend. East where the road runs along the river, then doglegs north. Kids go out there all the time to drag-race and raise hell.”
“The bishop lived in the area?”
“He actually lived to the east a ways.”
“Any idea what he was doing there?”
“No one ever said.” He cocks his head. “Why the interest?”
“I think the bishop knew the family in Painters Mill.” I shrug, trying to keep it nonchalant. “Did you have a chance to double-check on any missing infants reported six to eight years ago?”
“I did a cross search, expanded the date criteria to four to ten years, and there’s nothing there. Had a missing baby five years ago, but it was a domestic thing and resolved within twenty-four hours. Two-year-old boy went missing nine years ago. Deputy found him in a pond, drowned. That’s all I got.”
He shifts, looking a little miffed because he knows I’m not telling him everything. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re interested in missing minor children?”
“The Helmuth family has relatives down here.” I shrug. “Since most kidnappings of minor children are perpetrated by a family member or someone known to the family, I thought I’d sniff around.”
His eyes narrow on mine. “You think some Amish person from Crooked Creek took that little girl?” He makes no effort to conceal the incredulity in his voice. “Most of the Amish down here are Old Order. Painters Mill is four hours away. That would be a difficult trip to make by buggy.”
“They hire drivers when they need to travel a distance not practical to cover by buggy.”
“You know a lot about the Amish.”
“I was born Amish,” I tell him. “I left the fold when I was eighteen.”
“Oh. That’s interesting.” He offers a sheepish grin. “So you know Penn Dutch and all that?”
“I do.”
“Huh.” He scratches his head, looking amused. “Never met an ex-Amish chief of police.”
I smile back, knowing the revelation would earn me some leeway. “I thought talking to some of the Helmuths’ relatives might be helpful.”
“Wish I could be more help, Chief Burkholder. The Amish keep to themselves down here. The only place I see them regularly is the farmers’ market. They’re there every weekend with furniture, vegetables, quilts, and whatnot. They do some work for folks around here in Portsmouth. Fences. Sheds. Stuff like that. One of the local guys built a workshop for me last summer. Nice dude and he did good work.”
He studies me intently for the span of several seconds. “I think I’ve got his name and address around here somewhere. Might be a good place for you to start.”
“That would be great.”
Pulling out his phone, he taps the screen. “Got it right here. Name’s Adam Fisher.” He recites an address and I thumb it into my phone.
I rise and once again extend my hand for a shake. “Is there a police department in Crooked Creek? Anyone I could talk to there on the law enforcement side?”
“Mayor disbanded the department a couple years ago. They were down to two officers. Lack of funds, you know. Scioto County covers that whole area now.”
He looks at me again as if he wants to say something else, but doesn’t. “If you need anything from us, Chief Burkholder, you let me know and we’ll help out if we can.”
I thank him for his time and head for the door.
* * *
Driver hit the buggy from behind. Had to be doing fifty. Killed Schwartz instantly.…
The deputy’s words echo in my head as I drive east toward Crooked Creek. Sadly, buggy accidents are a fact of life in Amish country. They’re slow-moving vehicles and, unfortunately, some of the Old Order reject the use of reflective signage and safety lights. Add a driver under the influence to the mix and it’s a recipe for disaster. I’ve investigated my share of accidents over the years; too many of them are alcohol or drug related.
No witnesses. Nothing left behind. Not even a fuckin’ skid mark.…
While his assertion that the lack of skid marks can indicate an intoxicated driver, it’s not the only conclusion that might be drawn. If Bishop Schwartz was involved in the illegal adoption of an infant, who’s to say some enraged parent or relative didn’t take it upon himself to mete out a little retribution?
Crooked Creek is a tiny village with a population of 623, according to the sign at the corporation limit. The hamlet is nestled in an old-growth forest along the banks of the Ohio River. Set against the backdrop of the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains to the south and east, it’s a picturesque setting. But there’s poverty, too. On the outskirts of town a smattering of abandoned industrial-type buildings demark what was probably once a bustling manufacturing hub.
The small downtown area is lined with historic buildings, some of which date back to the mid-1800s. As I make the turn onto River Road and idle down the brick-paved street, it becomes even more apparent that hard times have fallen upon this pretty little town. At least half of the once-grand buildings are vacant. Several of the display windows are boarded up with plywood; others are broken, the interiors left open to the elements. There’s a sandwich shop called The Fat Catfish that looks open. Dooley’s Hardware advertises red-hot deals on potting soil, select hand tools, and Adirondack chairs. Lochte General Store has Folgers coffee and women’s housecoats on sale. I see a sign for a pharmacy, but as I drive past I realize it, too, has closed. At the end of town, a sign with an arrow urges motorists to make the turn for Deer Corn and Beer.
I leave the downtown area, drive past a post office and a gas station, and I head east on the Ohio River Scenic Byway. Even in light of the economic downturn, this part of the state is beautiful. Light rain falls from a glowering sky as I drive past massive maple, oak, and black walnut trees. I pass several quaint farms, some of which are Amish. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of the river, a shimmering, muddy blur through the trees.
As I travel east, the houses become sparse. Many are little more than shacks. Mobile homes sit like rusty tin boxes. I can’t help but wonder what this place was like at the height of its manufacturing heyday.
A few miles east of Crooked Creek proper, the voice of my GPS tells me to turn left on Stephen Road. Another mile and the name on the mailbox tells me I’ve reached my destination.
The Fisher farm is set on lush bottomland with a pasture to the east and a cut cornfield on the west side. Farther in, the lane wends through a wooded area. At the top of a rise it veers toward a two-story brick house that’s been painted white. Green shutters. A galvanized-steel roof from which a tall
chimney juts. There’s a bank barn twenty yards from the house. A dozen or so head of Black Angus cattle graze in a pasture. There’s a manure spreader heaped with its namesake parked in front of the barn.
I cruise around to the rear of the house, park, and take a pea-gravel walkway bracketed by landscape timbers to the front. I’ve just stepped onto the porch when the door swings open. I find myself looking at a plump Amish woman of about forty. She’s holding a broom in one hand, a dustpan in the other. White apron and kapp. Cheap black sneakers.
She startles upon spotting me and drops the dustpan, which clatters to the floor. “Oh.”
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” I pick up the dustpan and hand it to her. “I’m looking for Adam Fisher.”
“That’s my husband.” She glances at my badge as if she’s not quite sure she believes me. “What’s this all about?”
“I’m working on—”
“Was der schinner is kshicht?” What in the world is going on?
I look past her to see a tall, thin Amish man approach. He’s wearing typical garb: blue work shirt, dark gray trousers with suspenders, a navy jacket, and a flat-brimmed hat.
I introduce myself. “I’m working on a case in Painters Mill that involves an Amish family with connections to Crooked Creek.” I recap, sticking to generalities, watching him carefully for a reaction. “I was wondering if you could tell me how to get in touch with Bishop Schwartz’s widow?”
“That would be Lizzie. Put the house up for sale just last week.”
“Do you have an address?”
“The old one.” He recites a Crooked Creek address. “Not sure where she moved to.”
I pull out my notebook and write it down. I direct my next question to Mrs. Fisher. “Do either of you know the names of the midwives in the area?”
They seem surprised that a midwife would be of interest, but Mrs. Fisher answers readily. “Well, Sadie Stutzman was the only midwife around for years. I used her with our seven children. But she’s getting old, you know. Had a stroke a few months back.”
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