Shamed Read online

  Again, I feel the minutes ticking by and I struggle for patience, with the need to be gentle, to not frighten this child who has already been so traumatized. All of those things are in direct conflict with my need for facts.

  “My grossmuder used to call me little peach.” I tilt my head, and make eye contact with Annie. “Your cheeks kind of look like peaches.”

  A ghost of a smile floats across the child’s expression.

  “Makes me want to pinch them.”

  This time, a full-blown grin.

  I jump on it. “Can you tell me what happened when you and Elsie and your grossmammi were gathering walnuts?”

  The little girl shakes her head, then turns, wraps her arms around her mother, buries her face against her mamm’s bosom. “I’m scared,” she whispers.

  I try again. “Was there someone else there?”

  “Da Deivel,” she mumbles.

  “Can you tell me what he looked like, sweetie?”

  “I can’t remember,” she whispers, not looking at me. “Just a man.”

  I pull a lollipop from my pocket. Hearing the wrapper crinkle, she turns her head and eyes the candy.

  “It’s strawberry.” I offer it to her.

  An almost-smile, and then the girl reaches for the lollipop.

  “What was the man wearing?” I ask matter-of-factly.

  The process is excruciatingly slow, and again, I feel precious time slipping away. Minutes I can’t get back. Minutes in which a little girl is in grave and immediate danger. I feel the tension coming off these parents. My own tension wrapped tight around my chest. And I remind myself: This has to be done. No other way to move forward.

  When Annie doesn’t respond, I try another tactic. “How about if we play a game?”

  The little girl turns, looks at me with one eye, the other obscured by the fabric of her mamm’s apron.

  “I’ll guess what he looks like and you tell me if I’m right or wrong.”

  Nodding, she slides the lollipop into her mouth.

  “Was his hair blond, like yours? Or brown, like mine?”

  “Like yours,” she says in a small voice.

  “Okay.” I pretend to think for a moment. “Was his skin the color of mine? Or was it the color of chocolate pudding?”

  The mention of pudding elicits the whisper of a smile. “Yours.”

  I pull out my notebook and write. White male. Brn. “Did he have a beard like your datt?”

  “I didn’t see.”

  “Was he Plain or English?”

  “Plain.”

  It isn’t the answer I expected. In the back of my mind I wonder how reliable she is as a witness. Usually by the time a child is five years old, they are considered relatively dependable. That said, I’m no expert on the child interview process. There are techniques and procedures and protections in place. In light of a missing sibling, I don’t have time to wait.

  “Good job.” I say the words with a little too much enthusiasm. “Were his eyes blue like your mamm’s or brown like your datt’s?”

  The child looks up at her mother, lets her eyes slide to her father’s face. In the end her brows knit and she shakes her head.

  “Was he old? Like Bishop Troyer? Or young, like your mamm?”

  “Kind of in the middle.”

  “Was he tall or short?”

  “Tall. Grohs.” Big.

  “Fat or skinny?”

  The girl shakes her head. “Just big.”

  “So you and Elsie and Grossmammi were gathering walnuts.” I switch to Deitsch to keep her mind moving, so she doesn’t clam up. “What happened next?”

  “Grossmammi went in the house to look at Mrs. Schattenbaum’s kitchen. We heard something break and then yelling so me and Elsie went in to find her.”

  “What did you see when you went inside?”

  “Grossmammi was on the floor. She was all bloody. Like when Datt takes the cows to make meat. She was making noises. Elsie tried to help her. Then the man came.”

  “He came into the kitchen?”

  “Ja.” Her nose is running now, her upper lip covered with snot. She doesn’t seem to notice. Lower, her foot begins to jiggle. “I thought he was going to help Grossmammi. But he grabbed Elsie. Real rough like. And she got scared.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “I…” She takes the lollipop out of her mouth. Her eyes fill with tears. “I got scared and ran.”

  “What about Elsie?” I ask. “Did she say anything?”

  “All she did was scream.”

  CHAPTER 3

  One hour missing

  The Schattenbaum place is teeming with activity when I pull into the driveway. I see a Holmes County Sheriff’s Department vehicle. An Ohio State Highway Patrol Dodge Charger. Two Painters Mill cruisers tell me my own department has arrived on scene. While I want all available law enforcement looking for the little girl, I’m cognizant that any evidence left behind needs to be protected and preserved. Not an easy feat when there are a dozen cops tromping all over it.

  An hour has passed since Mary Yoder was killed and Elsie Helmuth disappeared, and already the hounds of desperation are nipping at my heels. I park behind Tomasetti’s Tahoe and call my dispatcher.

  “I need you to get me the names and addresses of all registered sex offenders in Painters Mill and all of Holmes County,” I say. “If the offender has an Amish-sounding name, flag it. Let me know if any of them live in close proximity to the Schattenbaum place. Start with a five-mile radius and expand from there.”

  I hear her typing in the background, noting everything. “Got it.”

  “Run Ivan and Miriam Helmuth through LEADS. Run Mary Yoder as well as her deceased husband. Check Edward Graber, too. See if anything comes back.” LEADS is the acronym for the Law Enforcement Automated Data System, which is operated by the Ohio State Highway Patrol and stores information such as criminal records and outstanding warrants.

  “Okay.”

  “Did you call Doc Coblentz?” I ask, referring to the Holmes County coroner.

  “He’s on his way.”

  “Any media inquiries?”

  “Steve Ressler called ten minutes ago.”

  Not for the first time, I’m astounded by how quickly word travels in a small town. Ressler is the publisher of Painters Mill’s weekly newspaper, The Advocate. “Do not confirm anything at this point. Nothing is for public consumption.”

  “Sure.”

  “Lois, I need an aerial map with topography of the Schattenbaum property and the surrounding area. Call the Holmes County auditor. Ask them to fax it to you. Tell them it’s an emergency and I need it yesterday.”

  I end the call and hit my shoulder mike as I slide out of the Explorer. “Mona, what’s your twenty?”

  “Glock and Skid and I just cleared the barn and the smaller outbuilding.”

  “Anything?”

  “Negative.”

  “I need you to ten-fifty-eight,” I tell her, using the ten code for direct traffic. “I want the road in front of the Schattenbaum place blocked off at both Ts, flares and cones. No one comes in or goes out. I’ll get County out there to help you.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Tell Glock and Skid to search the back of the property. It’s a big spread. Grab some deputies, set up a grid, and get it done.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Pickles? What’s your twenty?”

  “T.J. and I are talking to neighbors, Chief. We split up to cover more ground. He’s south. I’m north.”

  “Anything?”

  “No one saw shit.”

  I blow out a breath of frustration. “Keep at it.”

  As I near the house, I spot a Holmes County deputy standing just off the back porch. He looks my way and I recognize him. He was the first deputy to arrive on scene.

  “Chief.” He crosses to me, looking relieved to be away from the carnage inside. “Damn this is bad.”

  “Anyone else in the house?” I ask as we s
hake hands.

  “BCI guy ordered everyone out. Their crime scene truck is on the way.”

  Tomasetti, I think, and I’m thankful he got here so quickly. “House is clear?”

  “Yep.”

  “Outbuildings are clear.” I look past him toward the barn and field. “Look, I just sent two officers to search the back of the property. Maps of topography and plat are on the way. If you can spare a couple of deputies to help us with the search, I’d appreciate it.”

  “You got it.” He reaches for his shoulder mike.

  “Chief Burkholder.”

  I turn to see Tomasetti come out of the house. I go to him and we shake hands, a ridiculously formal greeting considering we’re living together. Since it’s not common knowledge among our peers, we’re ever cognizant of appearances.

  He holds on to my hand an instant too long. “Any word on the kid?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I talked to the parents. She’s not there. I need to put out an Amber alert.”

  “We meet the criteria.” He pulls out his phone, thumbs something into it. “I need a physical description. Photo, too.”

  “Seven-year-old white female. Brown eyes. Brown hair. Three feet nine inches. About sixty pounds. Tomasetti, she’s special needs.”

  “Shit.”

  “No photo.” I describe her clothing—a white kapp and light blue dress—and he types all of it into his phone.

  “You have anything on the suspect?” he asks.

  I recite the particulars from memory. It isn’t much. It isn’t enough. But it’s all I have, so we’ve no choice but to run with it.

  He doesn’t look away from the screen or question me about any of it as he sends the information. Both of us are too aware that a stranger kidnapping of a child is the most dangerous kind. Every minute she’s gone raises the possibility of a negative outcome. For me, the passage of time is like the pound of a tine against a broken bone.

  “Vehicle?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. The sister said he was Amish.”

  “Still, he could be driving a vehicle. He could be disguised as an Amish person. But we’ll go with it for now.” He sighs. “I’ll get this put into NCIC,” he tells me, referring to the National Crime Information Center system. “I’ll call the coordinator over at DPS.” The Department of Public Safety. “Amber alert broadcast will go out within the hour. I’ll send what I have and we’ll fill in the rest of the blanks as we figure things out.”

  The crunch of tires on gravel draws our notice. Relief eases some of the tension at the back of my neck when I see the BCI crime scene truck pull into the driveway. Tomasetti and I start toward it. Normally, I’d stick around for the collection of evidence. I’d wait for the coroner to arrive. But with a child missing, my efforts are best used looking for her or developing a suspect.

  I look at Tomasetti. “You got this?”

  “Got it covered, Chief. Go.”

  I leave him with the crime scene unit. I’m on my way to locate the fence line to the east when I run into Glock and Skid along with two Holmes County deputies.

  “You been to the back of the property?” I ask.

  “Heading that way now,” Glock tells me.

  I look around. Another Holmes County cruiser has arrived on scene. I think about the missing girl again, feel that incessant beat of time.…

  “I think the Schattenbaums owned about sixty acres,” I tell them. “Ran cows for a while, so it’s fenced. Probably cross-fenced.”

  Skid motions right. “Woods are pretty thick along that creek on the east side.”

  “Whole damn place is overgrown,” one of the deputies pipes up. “Nooks and fuckin’ crannies.”

  “Got some deep pools in that creek,” Glock adds. “Water runs swift in a couple of areas.”

  “All right.” I bring my hands together and relay a description of the girl. “Name is Elsie. Seven years old. Amish. Special needs.” I motion toward the rear of the property. “Set up a loose grid. Glock, you take the east woods. Keep your eyes on the brush and water, especially any deep pools. Skid, you got the fence line. Keep your eyes west.” I look at the two deputies. “Can you guys handle the pasture?”

  Both men nod.

  “Keep your eyes open for blood,” I tell them. “Stay cognizant of evidence. Mark anything suspect. We’ll do a more thorough grid search when we get more guys.” I motion toward the greenbelt. “I’ll take the creek in front. Eyes open. Let’s go.”

  The four men head toward the back of the property. I cut between the house and barn, head toward the woods. The grass is hip high as I pass through a microforest of saplings, most of which are taller than me. It’s a huge, overgrown area. I try not to think about how easy it would be to miss something important. Midway to the fence line, I rap my shin on a solid object, realize it’s the remains of a doghouse. From the look of things, no one has been this way for a long time. No broken branches. None of the grass is laid over.

  I find a stick, use it to poke around, hopefully avoid running into something hidden. Fifty yards and I reach the fence that runs front to back along the east side of the property. Rusty barbed wire is propped up on a combination of cedar posts and steel T-posts. The fence is falling down where the wood has rotted through. I make the turn, head south toward the road.

  The house is now behind me and to my right. I stick to the fence line, ducking beneath branches, glad it’s too late in the year for snakes. I hear the rush of water over rocks to my left, telling me I’m not far from the creek.

  I’m thirty yards from the road when I spot a patch of disturbed grass. I stop, my pulse kicking, eyes tracking. The grass is laid over. A path, I realize. It starts at the house, weaves through a dozen trees, and leads to the fence. From there, it follows the fence line toward the road. I hesitate, taking it in, aware that if someone left the house in a hurry and didn’t want to be seen, this would be the perfect route.

  That said, there are a lot of deer in the area. My datt was a hunter and I went with him often enough to know the animals are creatures of habit and use trails. Still … I move right, as to not disturb the path. When I’m close enough, I squat and lean over to check for cloven hoofprints, but there are none. This is not a deer path. Upon closer inspection, I see that the tall blades of grass are broken in places. I’m no tracker, but it looks fresh.

  I’ve gone another dozen yards when I spot the shoe. It’s a girl’s sneaker. The laces are still tied. Canvas. Cheap. The kind of footwear a growing Amish girl might wear. Avoiding the path, I travel another ten feet, and a glint of red on the grass stops me cold. I know even before I move closer for a better look that it’s blood.

  “Shit,” I whisper. “Shit.”

  I check my duty belt for something with which to mark the location. The only thing I can come up with is a yellow sticky note. I skewer it on my stick and poke the length of wood into the ground. I move on.

  I find more blood. A footprint. Adult size with visible tread. No more sticky notes; I’m going to have to rely on my initial marker and my memory. In the back of my mind, a little voice chants: Please don’t find that little girl dead.…

  There’s no way to tell whose blood it is. There was a copious amount inside the house; it’s likely the killer carried it out on his clothes or shoes or both, and it transferred to the grass. It’s also possible he cut himself during the attack. Knives get bloody; they get slippery. The good news is I now have evidence to collect and send to the lab. Worst-case scenario, the blood belongs to the girl.…

  I snap several photos and then traverse the ditch that parallels the road in front of the house. I step onto the asphalt. A quarter mile away, police lights flicker where the sheriff’s department has closed the road. Somewhere in the distance an ambulance sings. I walk through the ditch again and go back to the mouth of the path. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I walk slowly alongside the trail, watching. Another smear of blood on the trampled blades. I bend, study the ground, spot the heel mark. Not
a child’s, but an adult’s. Large, probably male.

  Tugging out my cell, I call Tomasetti. “I got blood. And a decent footprint.”

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  I look around. I can just make out the roof of the house through the trees. “A couple hundred yards southeast of the house, near the fence line.”

  “I’ll get another agent out here. We’re running out of light.”

  He’s right; dusk is fast approaching. If the clouds to the west are any indication, we’ve probably got rain on the way, too. Neither of those things bodes well for evidence collection, some of which is out-of-doors.

  “You have a generator?” he asks.

  “At the station.” I’m walking toward the road, looking down at the ground, when I spot tire marks in the moist soil. Not from a buggy, but a car or truck. “I got tire imprints, too.”

  A thoughtful moment and then, “Tread?”

  I pull the mini Maglite from my duty belt and kneel. “Yup.”

  The rumble of thunder in the distance reminds me that we don’t have much time. “Tomasetti, if these marks get rained on, we’ll lose this.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  A few minutes later, his Tahoe rolls up on the road and stops. Leaving the engine running, the headlights shining in my direction, he gets out and starts my way. “An agent with some plaster should be here in twenty minutes.”

  “Rain isn’t going to wait,” I tell him.

  “That’s why they invented garbage bags.” He snaps open a large trash bag. “Might work if it doesn’t pour.”

  Flipping on my flashlight, I take him to the tire-tread marks, shine my beam on the ground. He squats, careful not to get too close.

  “Looks like he came down the road, heading east,” I say. “Pulled over here. Left that imprint.” I shift the beam to the falling-down fence at the edge of the property. “From there he went to the fence, used the trees for cover. Walked to the house, sticking to the fence line, and then cut over, keeping out of sight in case someone drove by.”

  His gaze jerks to mine. “You got guys out canvassing?”

  I nod, but we both know that in light of the tire tracks, the man we’re looking for is probably gone.