Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (7 page)

“Well, them Amishers do prefer to keep to themselves.” He motions toward the scene, where a deputy is talking on his cell. I wince upon spotting what looks like dirty motor oil from a blown engine spilled on the road. But I know it’s not. “As soon as we finish up here,” he tells us, “I’d like to drive out there and talk to the family. They don’t have a phone. Sure would appreciate it if you came along. They’re the damnedest lot to interview, if you know what I mean.”

The words come at me like a cockeyed blow, not a direct hit, but just enough to chafe my sensibilities. He’s right, but that doesn’t make me like the generality any less.

Tomasetti is staring in the direction of the stained roadway. “Who discovered the scene?”

“Motorist spotted a bag on the road about an hour ago. When he got out to take a look, he found all that blood. He remembered hearing about the missing girl and called nine one one.”

“That’s a lot of blood,” I say.
Too much,
a little voice whispers in the back of my mind.

The sheriff grimaces. “If it’s hers, I suspect that girl’s either hurt bad or dead. Course, we got a lot of deer around here. Damn things get hit all the time. We looked around and didn’t find a carcass, but I suppose it’s possible it ran off. You guys got any kind of field test that will tell us if it’s animal or human?”

Tomasetti nods. “Not with me, but I’ll call the CSU and tell them to grab an RSID kit. It’s pretty quick, so we should get an answer right away.”

“That’d be a tremendous help. At least we’ll know what we’re dealing with.” Goddard looks toward the bloodstain and shakes his head. “We think the bag belongs to the missing girl. During the initial interview, her parents said she was carrying one. We’ll run it over there and see if they can ID it.”

As if by some unspoken mutual agreement, the three of us start toward the pool of blood. Around us, the tempo of the forest seems to increase, pulsing with birdsong, cicadas, and other insects. The
whoit whoit whoit
of a cardinal echoes off the thick canopy overhead. The air is heavy and still and smells of damp foliage. As we draw closer to the stain, I discern the buzz of hundreds of flies. They’re feeding on the blood, I realize.

The stain is a red-black slick nearly four feet in diameter, mostly dry now, except for the center. I can smell the deep copper scent of it. At least one vehicle has driven through it, leaving a decent impression of the tread. The CSU will take tire-tread imprints, but my gut tells me that more than likely they were made by an inattentive motorist who simply didn’t notice. At some point, some small animal left paw prints at a place where it may have lapped at the blood.

It’s a macabre scene in the crepuscular light. Like the sheriff, I hope for some benign explanation—a deer struck by a car. But in my gut, I know it’s human blood. I know something terrible happened here. In light of the fabric satchel lying a few feet away, I’m pretty sure it happened to the missing girl.

I look at Tomasetti. “Is that a fatal amount?”

He grimaces. “Hard to tell. Maybe.”

“She could have been walking alongside the road and got hit by a car,” Goddard says, but he doesn’t look convinced.

“With that kind of scenario, it seems like internal injuries would be a more likely result,” I say.

“And there’s no body,” says Tomasetti.

“Maybe whoever hit her put her in the car,” Goddard offers. “Took her to the hospital.”

“No skid marks,” I say.

“Unless it wasn’t an accident.” Tomasetti glances at the sheriff. “Did you check area hospitals?”

Goddard nods. “I’ve got my secretary checking.”

Around us, the forest goes silent, as if in reverence, due to the violence that transpired just a short time ago in this very spot.

Tomasetti scans the surrounding woods. “Do you have the manpower to search the area?”

“I can probably round up some volunteers.” Goddard unclips his phone from his belt but then pauses to indicate the tire marks. “What do you think about those?”

Tomasetti squats and studies the tread mark. “CSU might be able to lift tread imprints. If we can match those to a manufacturer, we might catch a break.”

“How old do you think this blood is?” Goddard asks.

Tomasetti shakes his head. “There’s quite a bit of drying around the edges. Spatter is dry.” He looks up, and I realize he’s trying to figure out how much sun gets past the trees. “Doesn’t get much sun here. It’s humid. I’d say six or seven hours.”

The sheriff jerks his head. “I’ll get to work on those volunteers.”

Stepping away from the scene, Tomasetti pulls out his phone, punches in numbers, and begins speaking quietly.

I study the scene, trying to envision what might have happened. The bag lies on the gravel shoulder, about four feet from the bloodstain. A couple of ears of sweet corn still wrapped in their husks have spilled out of it, looking out of place on the asphalt. I cross to the bag for a closer look. It’s a satchel made of quilted fabric—an Amish print—and looks homemade. My
mamm
had a similar one when I was a kid; she used it when she went to the grocery store or into town for supplies.

Pulling a pen from my jacket pocket, I squat next to the bag and use the pen to open it and peer inside. I see green peppers, another ear of sweet corn, and tomatoes that have gone soft in the heat. Straightening, I cross to the sheriff. “Is there a vegetable stand nearby?”

He blinks at me, as if realizing he should have already explored that angle. “The Yoders run a stand a couple miles down the road.”

“You talk to the folks at the stand?”

“Not yet,” he says sheepishly. “There ain’t no phone out there.”

The statement sounds like an excuse, and he knows it. The last thing I want to do is ruffle local feathers. By all indications, he’s competent and capable. Still, I’m surprised that hadn’t occurred to him.

Looking chagrined, he pulls his phone from his belt. “I’ll get one of my deputies out there.”

I walk the scene, memorizing as much of it as I can. The location of the pool of blood, the proximity of the satchel in relation to the blood, the angle of the tire tread.

When he ends the call, I ask, “Did you photograph the scene?”

“Not yet.”

“Have you checked registered sex offenders in the area?”

“My secretary is pulling it now.”

We study the scene for a minute or so and then I ask, “What can you tell me about the family?”

“Girl’s parents are Edna and Levi King. They’re Old Order. Nice folks, though. I think they got about eight kids now, with Annie being the oldest. Anyway, they came into my office about eight this morning and told me she didn’t come home last night.

“Evidently, they spent the night looking for her. Got the neighbors involved. Finally, they got so worried, they decided to involve the police.” He swats a fly off his forehead. “I wish they’d come to me right away, so we could have gotten a jump on this.”

“You have a description of the girl?”

“They didn’t have a photo.” He pulls a note pad from his back pocket, flips it open. “Fifteen years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A hundred and fifteen pounds. Five feet five inches.” He grimaces. “I seen her a time or two. Pretty little thing.”

A picture of her forms in my mind. I see a plain, slender girl with work-rough hands. Trusting. At 115 pounds, she would be easy to overpower. Easy to control. I pull out my own pad and jot down the information. “Do you know what she was wearing?”

“Blue dress with a white apron. Black shoes. One of them bonnet things on her head.”

“Prayer
kapp,
” I tell him.

He gives me a “Yeah, what ever” look.

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

“To tell you the truth, Chief Burkholder, the parents weren’t very forthcoming about the girl’s personal business. They kind of clammed up when I asked, and I got the impression they were uncomfortable talking to me.” He grimaces. “I was thinking we could run out there so you could have a go at them.”

“Sure,” I tell him.

“CSU is on the way.”

We turn at the sound of Tomasetti’s voice. He’s striding toward us. “Should be here in an hour or so.”

“I think we need to speak with the parents,” I tell him.

“Sounds like a good place to start.” He glances at Goddard. “Do you have the manpower to protect the scene?”

“I’ll tell my deputy to stay put until your crime-scene guy gets here.” He starts toward the young officer.

Tomasetti and I head toward the Tahoe. “What do you think?” I ask as we climb in.

He grimaces. “I think that blood is a bad fucking sign.”

I agree, but I don’t say the words.

Ten minutes later, we turn onto a winding gravel lane bounded on both sides by cornfields, the shoulder-high stalks shimmering like some massive green mirage in the afternoon sun. A tangle of raspberry bushes grows along the wire fence on the north side. White dust billows from the tires of Sheriff Goddard’s cruiser in front of us, tiny stones pinging against the grille of the Tahoe.

A quarter mile in, the track opens to a large gravel area. Two hulking red barns trimmed in white loom into view. Ahead, I see several smaller outbuildings, an old outhouse, and a rusty metal shed. On my left, a white farmhouse with tall, narrow windows and a green tin roof looks out over the land. I wonder about all the things the house has witnessed over the years and I know this place, like so many others in this part of the country, has stories to tell.

Beyond, several huge maple trees shade a manicured yard teeming with blooming peonies and tufts of pampas grass with spires as tall as a man. A scarecrow wearing a straw hat and suspenders stands guard over a garden abundant with strawberries and green beans. An Amish girl in a tan dress stops hoeing to watch us.

I recall reading, when I was in college, that sense memories can be a powerful trigger of flashbacks. The sight of this farm, combined with the smell of cattle and horses and that of summer foliage, elicits an intense sense of déjà vu. This farm is uncannily similar to the one I grew up on, and for the span of several seconds I’m transported back to the past. I see my
mamm,
a clothespin between her teeth, hanging trousers and dresses on the clothesline. Looking at the field behind the barn, I imagine my brother Jacob driving our team of Percheron geldings while my
datt
and the neighbor boy cut and bundle hay. I remember the frustration of being stuck in the house, scrubbing floors, when I desperately wanted to be outside on the back of one of those horses.

They were happy, innocent times, and though that part of my life was far from perfect, the memories evoke an uneasy sense of longing. It’s not that I want to be Amish again or that I want to recapture my youth or a past I know is forever gone. But invariably when I remember those days, I can’t help but think of all the things I left unfinished. Mostly my childhood, which was cut short long before its time. So many things I left unsaid, most of it to my family. But if I’ve learned anything in my thirty-three years, it is that no matter how badly you want a redo, life never makes such allowances.

I think of Annie King and I wonder if she was content living here with her family. If she found comfort in being part of this tight-knit community. Or was she like me? Perpetually discontent and pining for things she could never have. I wonder where she is at this very moment. If she’s frightened and wishing she was back here with her brothers and sisters and the monotony of farm life. I wonder if years from now she’ll look back and, like me, wish she’d done things differently.

“Looks like they’ve got company.” Tomasetti’s voice snaps me out of my fugue.

Two Amish men in blue work shirts, straw hats, and dark trousers with suspenders stand at the barn door, watching us. “They’re probably neighbors,” I tell him. “Here to help with the search or care for the livestock while the family deals with this.”

I follow his gaze. A few yards away, two Amish girls are trying to wrestle a large dog into a beat-up washtub. The girls are about ten years old. They’re wearing plain green dresses, their mouse brown hair pulled into buns at their napes. Their feet are bare and dirty, and the dresses haven’t fared much better. The simplicity and innocence of the sight makes me smile.

All children are innocent, but Amish children possess a particular kind of innocence. They believe the world is a good place, that their parents never make mistakes, that everyone they meet is their friend, and that if you pray hard enough, God will answer your prayers. It’s particularly shattering for an Amish child when she realizes none of those things are true.

Tomasetti and I watch the girls for a moment, each of us caught in our thoughts. That’s when it strikes me that these girls are about the same age his own would have been had their lives not been cut short by a career criminal who thought he’d make an example of a cop who crossed him. That was three years ago, and I know Tomasetti is still clawing his way out of that bottomless pit of despair. Most days, I think, he succeeds. But sometimes when I look into his eyes, I see the dark place in which he resides.

He cuts me a sideways look. “I think the dog is going to win.”

“My money’s on the girls.” I smile at him.