Shamed

by Linda Castillo

  She chokes out a laugh that holds not a smidgen of humor. “I figured he had another woman in another town. Dumped me and all his bills in one fell swoop.”

  “Any idea where he went or how to get in touch with him?” I ask.

  “His phone is disconnected.” Tears fill her eyes. “Yeah, I know. I’m pathetic. I tried to call him.” She slides from the booth and gets to her feet, swipes at her face with the backs of her hands. “Jesus. Look at me. I gotta get back to work. You guys know what you want to eat?”

  * * *

  We’re nearly to the motel when the call comes in from Dispatch. I know even before answering that the news isn’t good. I have a sixth sense when it comes to the many faces of disaster and I find myself bracing.

  “Hey, Chief,” comes Mona’s voice. “Any luck down there?”

  I hear gloom tucked behind her sanguinity, just out of sight, concealed from most, but not me. I feel Tomasetti’s eyes on me so I address her question, keep my eyes on the road, as I tell her about Elmer Moyer.

  “We’re not sure if he’s part of this, a witness, or a possible victim, but we’re going to take a hard look at him,” I tell her.

  A too long pause then, “Chief, I thought you should know … Bishop Troyer lapsed into a coma a little while ago. The doc is giving him a fifty-fifty chance of making it through the night.”

  I close my eyes briefly, grip the wheel a little harder. Remind myself I’m no longer Amish. That Bishop Troyer is as old as the hills and he’s lived a long, good life. None of it helps.

  “How’s Freda holding up?” I ask.

  “T.J. swung by their place earlier. He said the Amish are holding vigil at the hospital. Her family is there, too.”

  She clears her throat. More comfortable cursing some dipshit who’s run a traffic light than being the bearer of bad news she knows will affect me on a personal level.

  I keep my mind on the business at hand. “Skid still out at the Helmuth place?”

  “Glock relieved him so he could grab some sleep and dinner, but he’ll be back out there at midnight when he comes on.”

  “Tell him thanks, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  “You, too, Mona.”

  I lean forward, punch off the button, slant a look at Tomasetti, and I’m profoundly relieved the cab is dark and he can’t see my face.

  “I don’t think the bishop is going to make it,” I whisper, and I rap my palm against the steering wheel.

  “I’m pretty sure you told me once he’s too damn mean to die.”

  I choke out a laugh. “Whatever punishments he doled out, I probably earned it.”

  “You’ve had a complicated relationship.”

  “And then some, for a lot of years.”

  It will sadden me in a profound way if Bishop Troyer dies, especially if his death is caused by an act of violence. While the Amish are certain he will be going to a better place to rejoin loved ones and be with God, I’m not quite so certain. At times like this, the loss of that kind of faith is hollow and cold.

  “He’s been tough on you,” Tomasetti points out.

  “I was what the Amish call ‘disobedient’ and never the apple of his eye. When I was a teenager I thought I hated him.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Teenagers aren’t exactly the smartest of God’s creatures.”

  “I broke a lot of rules,” I tell him. “I committed some serious transgressions—in the eyes of the Amish, anyway—and I got into a lot of trouble. I didn’t realize it at the time, and I sure as hell didn’t appreciate it, but Bishop Troyer never gave up on me. He never wrote me off as a lost cause. Not even after I left.”

  “So don’t give up on him.” He reaches across the console and I put my hand in his. “He’s a strong man. If he still has something important to do before he checks out—like save your soul from eternal damnation—that might just be enough to get him through this.”

  I can’t help it; I laugh. “Thank you for that perspective.”

  “Anytime, Chief.”

  CHAPTER 24

  One hundred and four hours missing

  I should have known this would be the night my old friend insomnia drops in for an unexpected visit. For two hours I lie beside Tomasetti, staring into the darkness and listening to the sounds of the Sleepy Time Motel, trying to quiet a mind that has no intention of cooperating. I can’t stop thinking about an innocent little Amish girl whose life hinges on my finding her, the possibility that I may not succeed, and the reality that it may already be too late.

  At one A.M. I slide from the bed, make my way to the desk, and open my laptop, along with the files I’ve amassed over the last few days. Twice, I take my cell into the bathroom and close the door to speak with Mona—trying not to wake Tomasetti. I read the files on the deaths of Noah Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman given to us by Sheriff Pallant, but neither file offers anything in the way of new information. I reread my own files, trying to see things with a fresh perspective, but there’s nothing there.

  Frustrated, I shove my laptop in its case and go to the cardboard box where I stowed the pile of newspapers and clippings and the manila folder we retrieved from Sadie Stutzman’s bedroom. I’m not optimistic about finding anything new as I pull out the first stack and set it on the desktop.

  Since I’m not sure what I’m looking for, I begin by sorting the newspapers by date. I spend twenty minutes looking through copies of The Budget, The Connection, and The Diary. I look for highlighted areas or paper-clipped sections, but there’s nothing marked. I skim the local news sections, looking for familiar names or stories that could be related to the Helmuth family or a missing child—anything that doesn’t sit right. I’m hoping I’ll recognize it when I see it.

  Finding nothing of interest, I set the August editions aside and go to September. There’s a story about a buggy-accident fatality, but it’s out of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. I pull out my yellow legal pad and write down the name anyway. I pay particular attention to births and obituaries, but none of the names, dates, or circumstances mean anything to me.

  At three A.M., I’ve gone through four months of newspapers, all to no avail.

  “Shit,” I mutter. Leaning forward, I rub my eyes, thinking about going to bed, trying to sleep. If I don’t get some rest, I’m not going to be worth a damn in the morning. But I can still feel that guy-wire tension in my chest, the clench of fear that I’m going to fail and an innocent kid is going to die because of it, and I know sleep will not come.…

  Scooting my chair back, I dig into the box, spot the folder at the bottom, and pull it out. Dozens of newspaper cutouts spill onto the desktop. MENNONITE THRIFT STORE OPENS IN SCIOTO COUNTY. AMISH COMMUNITY RALLIES FOR INJURED TRUCK DRIVER. AMISH SCHOOL TO BE REBUILT AFTER FIRE. They’re in no particular order; some aren’t dated. Most of the articles are old, the paper yellowed with age. I page through them, trying to determine if they are relevant or could somehow be helpful in terms of the case.

  Nothing.

  I skim the last article and shove it back into the folder. That’s when I notice the dozen or so obituaries and birth notices that slipped out and scattered on the desktop. Tiny cutouts, just an inch or two in length, most with no date or even the name of the publication. Beneath the obits is a folded half-page tear sheet from the Portsmouth Daily Times. The paper is crinkled and yellow with age. I unfold it and skim. There’s an advertisement for a local funeral home. Another for a new hospice center going up in Sciotodale. A few more obits, which I scan.

  Nettie Mae Detweiler was born on March 14, 2012 at 3:32 A.M. and passed peacefully in the loving arms of her parents. She entered the house of the Lord at 6:53 A.M. Nettie was the daughter of Rosanna and Vernon Detweiler.

  It’s the first obituary for an infant I’ve found. Not a stillbirth, but the newborn survived just a short time. Something about it gives me pause. I look at the date.

  … born on March 14, 2012 at 3:32 A.M. and passed peacefully in the loving arms
of her parents. She entered the house of the Lord at 6:53 A.M.

  A resonant ping sounds in my brain. My exhaustion falls away. The mental clutter in my head grinds to a halt. I stare at the date, knowing it’s somehow significant. I’ve seen it before. But where?

  Energized, I spin, go to my laptop case, pull out the file on Elsie Helmuth. I set it on the desktop and page through. My fingers freeze on the Missing flyer published by the Painters Mill Ladies’ Club.

  Have you seen me? Elsie Helmuth. Seven years old. Female. Special Needs. Born: March 14, 2012. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Height: 3′9″. Weight: 60 lbs.

  I go back to the obit and look at the date. March 14, 2012. I’m too cynical to believe in coincidence, especially when it comes to kidnapping and murder. This is noteworthy, but what does it mean? My mind scrolls through the conversations I’ve had over the last few days.

  They brought her to us. In the middle of the night. This screaming, red-faced little baby.

  They’re Miriam Helmuth’s words, recalling the night the two bishops—Troyer and Schwartz—and midwife Sadie Stutzman brought them a baby from Scioto County.

  Is it possible Nettie Mae Detweiler and Elsie Helmuth are the same girl?

  “Holy shit.” Rising abruptly, I grab the file and tread to the bathroom. I’m hitting the speed dial for Dispatch even as I close the door.

  “You’re up late,” Mona says.

  “Get me everything you can find on Rosanna and Vernon Detweiler.” I spell the last name. “Check Scioto County. See if you can find an address. If there’s nothing there, try the adjoining counties. Run them through LEADS. Check for warrants.”

  “Got it.”

  “Mona, check with the Scioto County Auditor website. Do a property search to see if they own property. A house or acreage.”

  “You got a town? Or middle initials?”

  “Negative.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Mona?”

  “Yeah, Chief?”

  “Any news on Bishop Troyer?”

  “Holding his own.”

  Ending the call, I swing open the door. I startle at the sight of Tomasetti standing there, looking rumpled and grumpy. He frowns at me as if he’s thinking about laying into me for working in the middle of the night, for waking him when both of us should be sleeping, but he doesn’t.

  “You’re looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for a woman who’s been up all night,” he growls.

  “I think I found something,” I say.

  He groans. “Lay it on me.”

  * * *

  Half an hour—and four large coffees—later, Tomasetti and I are sitting at the desk, my laptop humming in front of us. He’s been on his cell with several law enforcement agencies, trying to get BCI and the local jurisdiction on board. I’ve got Mona on my cell.

  “I ran Rosanna and Vernon Detweiler through LEADS,” she tells me. “No warrants. No record. But I have an address from the county auditor tax roll for a property owned by Vernon Detweiler. 8184 White Oak Road, Bracks Hollow.”

  I type the address into my laptop maps software, watch it fill the screen. It’s a rural area a few miles east of Ironton, north of the river. “Do either of them have a driver’s license? ID card?”

  “Vernon Detweiler has a driver’s license.”

  “Physical description?”

  “Six feet, four inches. Two twenty. Brown. Brown.”

  “What do you have on the property?”

  “A hundred and fifty-two acres.”

  “Can you get me a plat?”

  “You got it.”

  “Look, I’m with Agent Tomasetti. We’re in Crooked Creek, twenty minutes from Bracks Hollow. He’s working on an affidavit for a warrant. We’re going to move as soon as it comes through. None of this is for public consumption.”

  “Roger that. Anything else, Chief?”

  “A prayer for the girl might help.”

  “Done.”

  I hit END and turn to Tomasetti, who’s frowning at me. He’s dressed and restless, his expression grim. “Vernon Detweiler is six-four,” I tell him. “Two hundred and twenty pounds. I bet the farm he’s a size-thirteen shoe.”

  “Amish?”

  I nod. “We need that warrant yesterday.”

  “Sheriff Pallant and the judge are golf buddies. He’s on his way.”

  I think about Elsie Helmuth. The violence her abductor is capable of. The number of days she’s been missing. All the things that could happen to a little girl in that time frame. “How long?”

  He shrugs. “Hard to tell. An hour.”

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to wait? Tomasetti, what this guy did to Mary Yoder … that girl has been at his mercy for days now. We may already be too late.”

  He’s still looking at me, cocking his head slightly. “You go in without a warrant and you risk blowing the case if it goes to trial. You know that.”

  “We’ve got exigent circumstances. A missing endangered minor child—”

  “We need to get this right.”

  I turn away from him. He’s right, of course, but it doesn’t allay the sense of urgency or the fear that has crept up the back of my neck. And yet here we are, waiting.

  “You believe this couple are the parents of Elsie Helmuth?” Tomasetti asks.

  “There’s no way those dates are coincidental.”

  “What’s the connection to Miriam and Ivan Helmuth? Or is there a link at all?”

  “I don’t think anything that happened with that baby was random.”

  He considers that a moment. “Every person who was murdered or targeted was somehow involved in the taking of or the transporting of the infant to Painters Mill. Sadie Stutzman. Bishop Schwartz. Bishop Troyer.” He scrubs a hand across his jaw. “How does Mary Yoder play into this?”

  “Maybe she was … collateral damage.” I shrug. “She tried to stop him, tried to protect her granddaughter, and he killed her for it.”

  “Stabbed twenty-two times.” He shakes his head. “That’s a lot of violence. A lot of rage if all he intended to do was take the girl.”

  I stare at him, my mind blinking back to my exchange with Sadie Stutzman when I asked about Byler.

  They shamed her to death. That’s why she jumped. They shamed her. Shamed her. Like mother, like daughter. One and the same—both were bad eggs.

  At the time I’d thought the words were the ranting of a woman whose mind had been devastated by a stroke. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe Sadie Stutzman was a hell of a lot more cognizant than anyone gave her credit for.…

  “A name that has come up repeatedly in the course of this case is Marlene Byler,” I say. “She lived in Scioto County.”

  “Mary Yoder’s sister.” His eyes narrow. “Miriam’s aunt. Elsie’s great-aunt.”

  “It’s a familial connection.” I tell him about Marlene Byler’s suicide. “Rumor has it she took her baby with her when she jumped off the bridge.”

  “Does Byler have other children?”

  “Not that we’ve found.”

  “If she does,” he says, “they might be worth a look.”

  “I’ll get with Mona, tell her to keep digging.”

  A sharp rap sounds at the door. Tomasetti and I exchange a look and for the first time I realize Pallant will know we shared a room. Nothing we can do about it now.

  Growling beneath his breath, Tomasetti goes to the door, yanks it open. Sheriff Pallant and another deputy are standing in the dark and drizzle, looking in.

  “Morning.” Pallant’s eyes slide from Tomasetti to me and back to Tomasetti.

  “Any luck with that warrant?” I ask.

  Pallant slaps a rolled-up stack of papers against his palm. “Got it.”

  Tomasetti steps back, all business. “In that case, come in.”

  An instant of awkwardness descends when the two men enter the cramped confines of our room. It doesn’t last; there’s too much focus on the case, on what lies ahead.

  “What does th
e warrant cover?” I ask.

  “In light of a missing minor child, the house and property,” the sheriff tells me. “The judge was pretty gung-ho and kept it broad.”

  “Which means we can basically go in and look at whatever we want,” Tomasetti says.

  Pallant nods. “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Do either of you know Vernon or Rosanna Detweiler?” I ask. “Have you met them? Dealt with them? Do you know anything about them?”

  The sheriff shakes his head. “We’ve never had any dealings with them. Never taken a call that involved them. Never had cause to go out there or talk to them.” He grimaces. “How sure are you these people have the kid?”

  I recap what I know and explain the significance of the dates. “Add to that the plaster from the size-thirteen work boot and Detweiler’s height, and we’ve got probable cause.”

  Pallant doesn’t seem convinced. “The judge bought it.”

  “Does anyone know if Detweiler has guns on the property?” Tomasetti asks. “Does he hunt?”

  “We don’t know,” Pallant responds.

  “If they’re Amish and live on a farm, we have to assume they do,” I say. “Most Amish hunt.”

  “David Troyer was likely shot with a muzzle-loader,” Tomasetti says.

  “The only thing good about that is a muzzle-loader is slow to load,” Pallant adds.

  “Anyone know the layout of the property?” I ask.

  The two men shake their heads.

  “It’s a big spread,” the sheriff says.

  “They run cattle,” the deputy adds. “I’ve seen them when I drive by. A couple dozen head.”

  I go to the desk, pull up an aerial view on my laptop, and zoom in close. “In addition to the house, there are at least three good-size outbuildings.”

  “Lots of places to hide,” Tomasetti says.

  The sheriff leans closer, squints at the screen. “Any other buildings?”

  “Not on this aerial, but it’s over a year old.” I indicate what looks like an excavated area at the rear of the property. “Not sure what that is.” Using my mouse, I zoom in, but it doesn’t help. “A pond that’s gone dry?”