Shamed Page 6

  Glock and I reach the men. “I’m looking for Lester Nisley,” I say.

  The elder man jabs his thumb at the younger man. “You found him.”

  I turn my attention to the younger man. “Lester, is there a place we can speak privately? I need to ask you some questions about your whereabouts earlier today.”

  The older man straightens, puts his weight on both feet. He’s just realized this isn’t a routine visit.

  The younger man shrugs. “I reckon we can talk right here.”

  “Where were you between noon and five P.M. today?”

  “I was here all morning.” Tipping his hat, he scratches his head. “Went to the feed store around noon.”

  “Were you with anyone?” I ask. “Or were you alone?”

  “I went by myself.”

  “Can anyone corroborate that?”

  He looks at me as if he’s not quite sure what “corroborate” means. “My datt,” he says after a moment. “Guy at the feed store. I got a receipt in the house.”

  The older man nods. “He worked out here in the barn all day, morning and afternoon. Midday I sent him into town to pick up feed.”

  “Do you know the Helmuth family?” I ask, aware that Glock has quietly made his way into the barn for a look around.

  The elder Nisley tilts his head. “Why are you asking us these questions?”

  I don’t respond; I don’t look away from the younger man and repeat the question.

  “Ivan and Miriam?” he says. “Yeah, I know ’em.”

  “Not well,” the elder Nisley cuts in. “My wife took a cake to them when Ivan broke his leg last year. I helped when the wind blew their barn down. That is all.”

  I don’t look away from Lester. “What about the children?”

  He laughs. “They got a bunch, that’s for sure.”

  “Do you know them?” I ask. “Have contact with them?”

  I feel the older man’s eyes on me, but I don’t look away from his son. I stare at him hard, waiting.

  “No.”

  I add a harsh note to my voice. “You sure about that, Lester?”

  “I don’t deal with them. I have no use for kids.”

  “Lester.” I lower my voice. “I know you’re a registered sex offender.”

  The young man’s eyes widen. “She wadn’t no little kid!”

  “You were convicted of having a sexual relationship with a thirteen-year-old girl when you were nineteen.”

  “The Englischer police don’t understand our ways,” the elder hisses.

  “Ways?” I say. “What ways is that?”

  “They were going to marry,” he tells me. As if that makes any difference whatsoever.

  I look at Lester. “Let me see your hands,” I snap.

  Looking bewildered, he puts out his hands, turns them over. “What are you looking for?”

  His hands are dirty, but unmarked. No blood or cuts. I don’t comment.

  The old man’s eyes narrow on mine. “Why are you asking my son about the Helmuth family? Why are you interested in his hands?”

  I give them the basics of what happened at the Schattenbaum farm, watching them closely for reactions. The elder’s mouth falls open. “Mary Yoder?” he gasps. “Doht?” Dead?

  “Elsie Helmuth is missing,” I tell them.

  Comprehension flickers in the elder man’s eyes; he knows why I’m here. “Someone took a child?” he asks.

  I turn my attention to Lester, who has fallen silent. “Lester, did you see any of the Helmuth family earlier today?”

  The younger man’s eyes dart left and right, as if he’s looking for an escape route in case I attack. He’s just realized where this is going and he doesn’t like it. “No!”

  “You were convicted of sexual misconduct with a minor. I’m obligated to ask you about Elsie Helmuth. You are obligated to answer. Do you understand?”

  Lester looks at me, mouth open, eyes wide, frightened now. “Yes, but … that was different. Edna was young, but … we’re married now!”

  The urge to tear into Lester Nisley is powerful, but I don’t. As much as I dislike him on a personal level—as much as I despise what transpired between him and a minor six years his junior—I understand how and why it happened. It was immoral; it was against the law. Unfortunately, some of the Old Order Amish don’t see it that way.

  The age of consent in Ohio is sixteen. Most Amish couples marry in their late teens or early twenties. Some of the Swartzentruber and Old Order marry younger. Even with Ohio’s “Romeo and Juliet” law, which would have protected Lester from prosecution if he was less than four years older than the minor female, the six-year age difference made the so-called courtship a crime, hence his two-year stint in the Mansfield Correctional Institution.

  The Amish church district looked the other way for the most part. In the eyes of a few, the only thing Lester had done wrong was have premarital sex. As long as he confessed his sins before the congregation, he was not held responsible. Most of the Old Order supported him. That’s one of several Amish tenets I couldn’t live with and one of the reasons I never fit in—and ultimately left.

  The elder Nisley moves forward. “They’re married now, in the eyes of the Lord. Edna is sixteen. A grown woman.”

  “When’s the last time you spoke to Elsie Helmuth?” I ask Lester.

  “I don’t speak to her at all. I don’t even know which one she is.” Lester says the words with a great deal of defensiveness, as if my questions offend some moral sensibility. The irony doesn’t escape me.

  I pause, let the silence ride. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Glock approach from the shadows of the barn. The older man looks over his shoulder at him, suspicious, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “Mr. Nisley, we believe Elsie Helmuth is in extreme danger. As you can imagine, her parents are worried. If you know something you need to tell me right now.”

  “We don’t know anything,” the older man tells me.

  “Do you mind if I take a look inside your house?”

  “We have nothing to hide.”

  “Thank you.” I send Glock a nod, and he starts toward the house.

  I turn my focus back to the men. “Have you seen any strange vehicles or buggies in the area?” I ask. “Anything unusual?”

  Both men shake their heads.

  Over the next minutes, I take both men through the same questions I posed to the Grabers, but they’ve nothing to add. By the time I’m finished, Glock has exited the house and joins us.

  “If you think of anything that might be important, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.” I hand the elder man my card.

  Neither man says anything, so I nod at Glock and we head back to the Explorer.

  “Not very repentant for a religious guy,” Glock says as we drive down the lane.

  “In the eyes of the Swartzentruber Amish, he did nothing wrong.”

  “A thirteen-year-old kid?”

  I shrug. “As disgusting as that is, I don’t like him for the Helmuth girl.”

  “Yeah.” Glock sighs. “I’d still like to beat his ass.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Four hours missing

  A missing endangered child is the kind of scenario in which a cop needs to be in a dozen places at once. Searching. Talking to family, witnesses, and suspects. Extracting evidence at the crime scene. Doing something—whatever it takes—to find a child in imminent danger and bring her home. Every minute that passes is another minute lost, and that torturous clock never stops ticking closer to a potentially devastating outcome.

  Glock and I spent half an hour talking to registered sex offender Gene Fitch. He’s an unlikable individual and a drunken slob to boot, but he had a solid alibi.

  I’ve called upon every law enforcement resource available, including BCI, the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, and the Ohio State Highway Patrol. I’ve mobilized every member of my own department. The Amber alert has gone out. Tip line has been activated. No one is going h
ome tonight. We’re four hours in, and it’s as if she’s disappeared from the face of the earth.

  It’s excruciating to know an innocent little girl is out there, frightened and alone and in the kind of danger no child should ever have to face. I don’t know what’s worse, thinking of her being brutalized—or imagining her little body lying somewhere and growing cold.

  I’m consciously trying not to become too entangled in my own emotions when a call comes in from Tomasetti. Dread punches me squarely in the gut, and I brace. Please don’t have bad news.…

  “I’m on my way to the Helmuth place,” he begins. “I’m with a colleague. She’s trained to interview young children. I thought we might have another go at the five-year-old.”

  “I can be there in a few minutes.”

  “Hang on a sec.” I hear him speaking to someone on the other end, and then he comes back on. “She’s wondering if you can bring a toy for the girl. Something a kid her age will like and be comforted by.”

  “I know just the thing.”

  * * *

  I make it to the Carriage Stop Country Store on the traffic circle just as the manager is locking up for the night. Some fast talking gets me in the door and to the toy aisle. I was never a doll lover as a child; much to my mamm’s chagrin, I was a tomboy and more likely to be playing ice hockey or riding the plow horse. Still, I manage to find an Amish-made doll I think a five-year-old girl will like.

  In keeping with the Amish tradition of avoiding any type of graven image, it’s faceless and made of nude-colored fabric. She’s wearing a royal-blue dress, a black apron, and a black bonnet, with smooth nubs for hands and feet. I deflect questions from the clerk about the murder and missing girl as she rings up the sale. I put it on my card and then I’m through the door and back in the Explorer.

  I pass six buggies as I near the Helmuth farm, Amish men armed with flashlights or lanterns and the resolve to find one of their own. At the mouth of the lane, I raise my hand in greeting to two boys on horseback. It’s unusual to see so many out after dark, when most Amish families are winding down for the night or already in bed. These men have organized search parties. More than likely, the women are cooking and cleaning for the Helmuth family. As is always the case, the Amish community has rallied to support those in crisis.

  The farm glows with lantern light. The windows. The front porch. Even the barn is lit up. There are four more buggies, the horses still hitched, parked in the gravel off the back door. Tomasetti’s Tahoe sits adjacent to a chicken coop, the headlights on, engine running. I park behind the Tahoe and start toward it. I’m midway there when Tomasetti and his passenger get out. He’s wearing his usual creased trousers, button-down shirt, and suit jacket with the tie I bought him for Christmas last year. He looks tired, rumpled, and grim.

  “Agent Tomasetti.” I extend my hand, cross to him, and we shake.

  “Chief Burkholder.”

  I turn my attention to the woman standing next to him and offer my hand. She’s petite, about fifty years of age, with silver hair cut into a sleek bob. She’s wearing the usual agent attire. Khaki slacks. Button-down shirt. Practical shoes. A navy windbreaker embellished with the BCI logo. She’s soft-spoken and self-assured, without the in-your-face demeanor I see in so many law enforcement pros.

  “Mackenzie Upshaw.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “Everyone calls me Mackie.”

  She’s no-nonsense and to-the-point. No makeup. No frills. Discerning blue eyes beneath thick black brows.

  “Agent Tomasetti was just filling me in on the case,” she tells me. “I wanted to get your take before we speak to the child.”

  With the niceties out of the way—and kept to a minimum—she’s ready to get down to business. I like her already.

  Tomasetti motions to his Tahoe and we gather around for a quick huddle. “Kate, Mackie is trained in the forensic-interviewing protocol RATAC—rapport, anatomy identification, touch inquiry, abuse scenario, and closure,” he tells me. “It’s a questioning process most often used with child victims of sexual abuse.”

  “It’s a terrific protocol,” Mackie tells us. “Effective and nonintrusive. It basically means I’ll be asking nonleading questions, using terms the little girl will understand. I’ll keep it nice and slow since most children that age have pretty short attention spans.”

  “I talked to Annie immediately after the incident.” I relay to her our exchange. “I didn’t get as much out of her as I would have liked.”

  “Kids make for extremely difficult interview subjects, especially when they’re younger than six or seven years old.” She pauses. “I understand this child is Amish.”

  I nod.

  “Is there anything you can tell me that might help me relate to her?” Mackie adds.

  I take a moment to get my thoughts in order. “Amish kids are much like their English counterparts, especially when they’re as young as Annie. That said, there are distinct differences.” I pause, thinking. “Generally, Amish kids are more sheltered. More disciplined. Religious. They’re taught to respect and obey their elders, especially their parents. The biggest difference is that she will probably see you as an outsider, not because you’re a cop, but because you’re not Amish.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Win her trust.” I hold up the doll, pass it to her. “Bribery.”

  Mackie takes the doll and grins. “Cool.”

  “Works every time,” Tomasetti mutters.

  “If I sense she’s clamming up or becoming uncomfortable,” Mackie says, “I want you to jump in. We need to keep her engaged and as focused as possible. Any thoughts on that?”

  I shrug. “Deitsch might help.”

  “Excellent.” She thinks about something a moment. “Is she shy?”

  I nod. “That’s my impression.”

  Mackie looks at Tomasetti. “Would you mind sitting this one out? The fewer people present, the more comfortable she’ll be.”

  “No problem.”

  “You’re a good sport, Agent Tomasetti.” Mackie looks at me. “Shall we?”

  As we cross the gravel to the sidewalk, I notice the young hostler carrying a bucket of water to the buggy horses. I recognize him as one of the Helmuth children. Even in times of turmoil and stress, the parents keep the kids busy with responsibilities.

  I knock and we enter. The aromas of lantern oil, candle wax, and something frying fill the air. We’re midway through the mudroom when Ivan Helmuth rushes through the door to greet us. “You bring news of Elsie?”

  “We’re here to speak with Annie,” I tell him.

  His brows furrow. For an instant, I’m afraid he’s going to refuse. But he knows what’s at stake. “This way.” He leads us into a well-lit kitchen.

  Two Amish women stand at the sink, washing and drying dishes. A third mans the stove, stirring a steaming Dutch oven with a wooden spoon.

  Mackie extends her hand to Helmuth and recites her name. “I’m with BCI,” she tells him.

  “Sit down.” He motions to the big wooden table. “I’ll get Annie.”

  Mackie and I pull out chairs and sit. She puts the doll on her lap and sets her hand on it. I nod, letting her know it’s going to make a good first impression.

  A minute later, Ivan and Miriam Helmuth appear at the kitchen doorway with their daughter. Miriam’s hands are on Annie’s shoulders. The girl is pale, with circles beneath her eyes. She’s wearing a light green dress with sneakers and her kapp. Upon spotting us, she turns and buries her face against her mamm’s skirt.

  “You remember Chief Burkholder?” Ivan asks.

  The girl doesn’t turn around, but nods.

  “You can call me Katie,” I tell her in Deitsch.

  She turns her head, peeks at me out of the corner of one eye. Curious about my use of Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “My friend’s name is Mackenzie,” I tell her, “but everyone calls her Mackie.”

  Annie turns slightly, her one eye seeking the BCI agent, and she repeats the
name, testing it, as if she likes the way it feels on her tongue.

  The instant the girl makes eye contact with Mackie, the BCI agent raises the doll. “I’m hoping we can come up with good name for her. Do you have any ideas?”

  The girl looks up at her mamm as if asking for permission to speak. Tugging out a chair, the Amish woman settles into it, pulls the child into her lap, and wraps her arms around her. Ivan leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed, watching.

  “What do you think about Willie?” Mackie says with a mischievous grin.

  Annie smiles shyly and presses her face against her mamm. “That’s a boy’s name.”

  Mackie laughs. “Do you have any ideas?”

  The girl nods, but she’s not engaged; she doesn’t want to talk to us. She doesn’t care about the doll.

  “I always liked the name Susie,” I tell her. “What do you think, Annie?”

  For the first time the girl gives us two eyes, dividing her attention between Mackie and me and the doll. “I like it.”

  “Susie it is then.” Mackie looks longingly at the doll, giving an exaggerated frown. “I think I’m a little too old for dolls.”

  “Annie’s just about the right age,” I put in.

  Mackie perks up as if she hadn’t thought of it. “What a great idea! Annie, would you like her?”

  Again, the girl looks up at her mamm. Asking for permission to accept the gift. The woman nods, encouraging her to interact.

  The girl gives an enthusiastic nod. “Ja.”

  Mackie runs a hand over the doll’s head, gives it a big, smacking kiss, and then passes it to the child. “There you go.”

  A smile whispers across the girl’s face as she takes the doll. Something shifts inside me when she looks at the doll, then closes her eyes and hugs it against her.

  “Maybe Susie can keep you company until we find Elsie,” Mackie says.