Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

CHAPTER 7

Half an hour later, Tomasetti, Bud Goddard, and I are standing in the reception area of the Trumbull County sheriff’s office with three uniformed deputies, a state trooper, and a single officer from the Buck Creek PD. Tomasetti and I were introduced upon our arrival as “state agents here to assist,” which is usually well received by even the most territorial of law-enforcement agencies. We do a lot more than assist, but then, that’s cops for you.

The sheriff’s department is typical of most county-funded offices: small, cramped, and cheaply furnished, but functional. However, the computers look relatively new and the dispatch and phone system are state-of-the-art. I figure if Goddard is as good at policing as he is at politicking, the county is in pretty good hands.

We convene in an interview room, which is past the rest room, at the rear of the offices. The space is small and windowless, with barely enough room for the rectangular table, which looks like a donation from someone’s garage, and a hodgepodge of folding and task chairs. A laminate podium with the seal of the great state of Ohio affixed to the facade demarks the head of the table. Goddard stands behind it, looking down at his notes. Behind him, a whiteboard as well as a terrain and road map of northeastern Ohio are tacked to the wall. Three red circles indicate the locations where the missing teens were last seen.

Tomasetti and I sit together on one side of the table. Across from us are the three deputies, one of whom is a female. Though she wears a sheriff’s department uniform, she’s armed with a steno pad instead of a Glock, and I realize with dismay that she’s here only to take notes. The trooper and city cop sit one chair down from Tomasetti and me.

Goddard clears his throat. “This is an informal briefing to bring everyone up to speed on a developing missing-person case.” He recites the names and agencies of everyone in the room. “Trooper Harris, who’s with the state Highway Patrol, and Officer Gilmore, a member of the local PD are here to assist the Trumbull County sheriff’s department, as well.”

He turns to the whiteboard and writes: “Missing” with a double underscore. Below that: “Annie King, fifteen, missing thirty-six hours—Buck Creek. Bonnie Fisher, sixteen, missing two months—Rocky Fork. Leah Stuckey, sixteen, missing one year—Hope Falls.”

“That’s what we got so far, folks, and it ain’t much,” he begins. “Three missing females. All three are Amish. All three are teenagers. Annie King is the only missing person from Trumbull County, but Agents Tomasetti and Burkholder believe these three incidents are related. At this point, we do not have a suspect. No motive. No body. So we’re not exactly sure what we’re dealing with.”

“The CSU got back to me on the blood,” Tomasetti interjects. “It’s human.”

“Shit.” Goddard grimaces. “Hers?”

“Lab should have the type by tomorrow.” Tomasetti looks at Goddard. “We’ll need to get her blood type from the family, if they have it.”

“I’ll check,” Goddard replies.

Nodding, Tomasetti continues. “DNA is going to take a few days. Lab is backlogged.”

“There’s a surprise for you.” Sighing, the sheriff looks down at his notes. “We now have a crime scene, which is being processed now by a CSU from the state. We also have the King girl’s cell phone number. Agent Tomasetti is working on gaining access to phone records and getting a triangulation going.”

Goddard looks at Tomasetti. “Any idea how long that’ll take?”

“We should know something tomorrow.”

“Keep us posted.”

No one mentions the possibility that Annie King might not have that kind of time.

I catch Goddard’s eye. “Do you have an address for the other families? I’d like to speak with the parents.”

“Got the Fishers’ address right here.” He leans down and hands a sheet of paper to one of the deputies, who passes it to me. I glance at the type; it contains an address for Fisher’s Branch Creek Joinery in Rocky Fork.

“What were the circumstances of Bonnie Fisher’s disappearance?” I ask.

He looks down at his notes. “Took her bicycle to work one morning at the joinery the family runs, but she never made it there. Bicycle was found a mile from the house.

I nod. “What about the Stuckey family?”

The chief grimaces. “They were killed in a buggy accident a couple of months ago.”

“They have kids?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No one survived the accident.”

Disappointment presses into me with insistent fingers. When someone goes missing, the family is almost always the best source of information. That’s particularly true if the missing person is Amish, because most are so family-oriented. Of course, Goddard will have copies of interviews, but nothing contained in the file will be as helpful as a one-on-one with the family.

As if sensing my frustration, he adds, “I’ll get you copies of everything, Chief Burkholder.”

I nod my thanks, hoping the investigating department was thorough.

“Persons of interest.” Goddard recaps our meeting with Justin Treece. “We don’t have anything solid on this kid, but as most of you know, he’s got a violent temper and didn’t have any qualms about beating the hell out of his own mother.”

He gestures toward the papers stacked in front of each of us. “Julie pulled a list of registered sex offenders for Trumbull County. We got sixty-eight perverts in the county. She broke it down by the ages of the victims. That narrows it down to twenty-nine offenders, which is a starting point.”

“Damn big starting point,” one of the deputies says.

Tomasetti speaks up. “I’m running some VICAP queries to see if there are other cold cases that might be related.” He scratches a note on the pad in front of him. “I started with the northeastern part of the state and will fan out from there.”

“Keep us posted.” Goddard nods. “And if the nature of this case ain’t bad enough, I think I got one more wrench to throw into the mix.” He directs his attention to the older deputy sitting across from me. “You remember old Red Gibbons?”

The deputy guffaws. “That sumbitch is kind of hard to forget.”

Laughter erupts from around the table. It seems everyone in the room is familiar with the aforementioned Red Gibbons.

Goddard directs his attention to Tomasetti and me. “Red was sheriff before me. One of the more colorful characters to grace the office.” He glances at the deputy. “He retired, what, about six years ago?”

The deputy nods. “Thereabouts.”

“Red’s been following the development of these cold cases.” All semblance of humor disappears. “He called me this morning and told me about another kid went missing nine years ago in Monongahela Falls. Dot on the map up near Painesville.

“Eigh teen-year-old Amish kid by the name of Noah Mast. I pulled the file. From all indications the kid walked away from the farm and no one heard from him again.”

“I remember the case,” another deputy says. “Everyone thought he was a runaway.”

“The fact that he’s a male stands out,” I put in.

“Was there a missing-person report filed?” Tomasetti asks.

“Eventually.” Goddard nods. “I’ll have copies made for everyone.”

“How far is Monongahela Falls?” I ask.

Goddard indicates the location on the map. “About fifty miles north.”

“An hour’s drive,” Tomasetti comments. “Not too far.”

We watch as Goddard turns to the whiteboard and writes “Noah Mast—nine years ago,” followed by a large question mark. He then circles a fourth location on the map: Monongahela Falls.

Tomasetti raises the next question. “Are any of the sex offenders on that list convicted of assaults on a male victim?”

“One.” Goddard writes a name in bold letters without looking at the list, telling me he’d already considered the angle. “Mike Campbell.” “Forty-two-year-old white male. One conviction sexual assault on a minor. Victim was a thirteen-year-old neighbor kid.”

“Probably worth a look,” the deputy says.

“What’s his location?” I ask, thinking of logistics.

“Sugar Bend.” The chief indicates the location on the map. “About forty-five minutes southeast of here.”

“Do any of these offenders have an Amish connection?” I ask.

Goddard writes another name on the board: “Stacy Karns.” “Karns is some big-shot photographer. Lives out on Doe Creek Road, by the lake. Forty-four-year-old black male. Originally from Toledo. Anyway, he did six months on a child pornography charge. Case file says he photographed a fourteen-year-old Amish girl in the nude. Happened in Geauga County. I guess he won all kinds of awards. Everyone thought it was fucking art.”

“Except her parents,” Tomasetti says.

Goddard smiles. “And the jury.”

“What about that cult over to Salt Lick?” the deputy asks.

“I’m getting to that.” Goddard turns to the whiteboard and writes another name: “Frank Gilfillan.” “Fifty-two-year-old white male. Clean record. Runs the Twelve Passages Church over in Salt Lick. They got about sixty followers now. Strange mix of people. Most are fanatical, and they’re big into recruiting. The reason this group is of interest is because Gilfillan doesn’t like the Amish. He’s outspoken about it and makes an effort to recruit their young. A couple of Amish teens have joined the Twelve Passages Church. Don’t know if any of that is related to our missing persons, but I thought it was worth a mention.”

I’m still thinking about the missing Amish boy. “Has anyone talked to Noah Mast’s parents recently?”

Goddard shakes his head. “I didn’t even think of the Mast disappearance until Red mentioned it. To tell you the truth, I’m not convinced it’s related, what with the time gap and his being a male. Won’t hurt if you want to run out there. They live in Monongahela Falls.”

“If I recall,” the deputy begins, “Perry Mast was some kind of Amish elder or deacon.”

Goddard returns his attention to the group, looking from person to person. “A missing-person report has been filed on King. All of these girls are categorized as “missing endangered” and Amber Alerts have been issued.” He nods at the trooper. “The state Highway Patrol has been notified. “Info has been entered into NCIC. I also put the call into A Child is Missing, so the ball is rolling.

“Assignments.” Goddard flips to the next page, then looks at the young deputy. “Lewis, I want you to talk to Mike Campbell. See if he’s got an alibi and then check it. If something doesn’t jibe, I want to know about it. And don’t break any heads. You got that?”

Laughter ripples around the table, but the humor is short-lived. Goddard looks at the officer from the local police department. “Dale, why don’t you guys recanvass the area where the King girl disappeared. Talk to the neighbors again and see if anyone saw anything. And walk those woods again to see if we missed anything.”

Goddard’s gaze lands on the older deputy. “Clyde, you want to come with me to talk to Gilfillan?”

The deputy pats his shirt pocket. “Got my holy water right here.”

Another round of laugher erupts.

The deputy named Clyde looks at me. “Fisher place isn’t too far from Karns’s.”

“We’re game if you want us to swing by,” Tomasetti offers.

Goddard and Clyde exchange cockeyed looks, as if they share some amusing secret. “Might not be a bad idea,” Goddard says.

The deputy chuckles. “Karns doesn’t have much respect for smalltown cops.” His gaze narrows on Tomasetti. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you kind of have that big-city look about you.”

“I also carry a sidearm,” Tomasetti says, deadpan.

The beat of silence lasts an instant too long; then everyone in the room breaks into laughter.

It takes Tomasetti and me almost an hour to reach Rocky Fork and locate the Branch Creek Joinery, the woodworking shop owned by Eli and Suzy Fisher. They build kitchen cabinets, desks, and other wood furniture, utilizing only old-fashioned methods and tools. According to Goddard, the business has been in the Fisher family for two generations.

Tomasetti parks in the gravel lot, where two draft horses are hitched to a wagon loaded with cabinetry.

“Looks like they’re about to make a delivery,” I say.

“Damn nice cabinets.” Tomasetti shuts down the engine.

The joinery is housed in a nondescript gray building with small windows and a tin roof. We exit the Tahoe and start toward the entrance, which is a plain white door with no window or welcome sign. The absence of a sign, combined with the lack of customer accommodations, tells me they probably don’t sell directly to the public, but to area builders and furniture stores.

The odors of freshly cut wood, propane, and diesel fuel greet us when we walk in. The shop is large, with high ceilings and two Plexiglas panels for added light. Several propane lights dangle from steel rafters. An Amish man wearing a light blue work shirt and dark trousers with suspenders taps a chisel against what looks like a headboard. A second Amish man, this one with a salt-and-pepper beard, his hands gnarled with arthritis, operates an ancient treadle lathe with his foot. Somewhere in the back, a generator rumbles.

For several seconds, we stand there, taking it all in. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time. My datt did a good bit of woodworking, making birdhouses and mailboxes, which he sold to one of the local tourist shops. When I was three years old, he made me a wooden rocking horse—against the explicit wishes of my mamm. It was painted red, and the rough edges chafed the insides of my thighs. That didn’t matter to me; I loved that rocking horse, and my mamm couldn’t keep me off it. I don’t think she ever forgave my datt for setting me on the path to eternal damnation.

“May I help you?”

The softly spoken words drag me from my musings. I look up and see an Amish man wearing a light green shirt, dark trousers, and a dark hat approach. I guess him to be about forty-five years old. His full beard tells me he’s married. The bulge at his belt indicates that his wife keeps him well fed.

I extend my hand to him, and Tomasetti and I introduce ourselves. “We’re looking for Eli Fisher.”

“I am Eli.”

“We’d like to ask you some questions about your daughter,” Tomasetti begins.

“Bonnie?” Hope leaps into his eyes, and I realize he thinks we’re here with news. “You have some news of her?”

Quickly, I shake my head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Fisher. We just want to get some information from you.”

“I have already talked to the police.”

“These are just a few follow-up questions,” Tomasetti replies easily.

Suspicion hardens Fisher’s eyes. He knows this is no chance visit. “It has been two months. What questions do you have now that you did not have before?”

There’s a thread of steel in his voice. He’s frightened for his daughter and frustrated with the police. He stares at us with direct, intelligent eyes, and I wonder how he was treated by local law enforcement in the agonizing days following her disappearance. I don’t believe the sheriff’s office had treated him callously, but I know that sometimes cultural differences can cause misunderstandings.

I notice the other man looking our way and lower my voice. “Is there a place we can speak in private?”

He looks from Tomasetti to me as if trying to decide whether he should throw us out or let us rip his world to shreds one last time. He’s wondering if we’re there to help him find his daughter, or if we’re just two more in a long line of bureaucrats.

After a moment, he nods. “There is an office in the back.”

He takes us through the shop, past wood shelves filled with intricately carved bread boxes and dollhouses with tiny shutters and a chimney fashioned from cut stones. The workmanship is exquisite, and I find myself wanting to run my fingers over the wood to explore every detail.

“You have many beautiful things.” I say the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.

He gives me a sharp look over his shoulder. “You speak the language well. How did you come to know it?”

“I was born Amish,” I tell him. “Did you make the bread boxes yourself?”

“God bestowed upon me the gift of carving. My datt didn’t see it as ornamentation, but an art form to be nurtured, like a crop. He saw to it that I didn’t let it go to waste.”

Eli pauses outside a door and lowers his voice. “My wife works here in the office. We have spoken to the police many times. It never gets any easier for her.”

“We’ll do our best not to upset her,” Tomasetti tells him.

Nodding once, the Amish man opens the door.

The office is small and cluttered, with a single window that looks out over a cherry tree. A plump Amish woman of about forty sits behind a wooden desk, clutching a number 2 pencil as she transfers numbers from a form onto a columnar pad, her concentration intent. When the door clicks shut, she looks up and smiles briefly. I know it the instant she recognizes us as cops. Her hand stills. The smile freezes on her lips.

Her gaze goes to her husband and she slowly rises. “Is it Bonnie?” she asks hopefully.

Eli shakes his head. “They have questions for us.”

The woman seems to sink into herself. The hope that had lit her eyes just seconds before goes dark.

“I’m Kate Burkholder.” I cross to her, extend my hand. “We’re sorry to bother you on such a busy day.”

“I’m Suzy.” She returns the shake, but her hand is clammy and limp, as if the life has been drained from her.

“You have a very nice workshop,” I tell her. “And some lovely things.”

“The Lord has blessed us with much work.”

I note the Rolodex on her desk and the wooden antique card files behind her. “I see you have a state-of-the-art computer system.”

I’m speaking ironically, of course. While some of the younger Amish might sneak a cell phone and partake in texting or listen to music, the adults who have been baptized do not utilize any kind of electronic gadgetry.

The woman offers a weak smile. “It contains the names and addresses of every wholesale customer we’ve had since Eli’s grandfather sold his first bread box seventy-six years ago.”

Suzy lowers her eyes to the desktop, sets her hand over her mouth, and closes her eyes tightly. “We pray every day for her safe return,” she whispers.

To my right, Eli rounds the desk and comes up behind his wife, sets his hand on her shoulder. “What is it you want to know?” he asks us.

Tomasetti and I read the file before driving over. We know the particulars of the case: when Bonnie went missing, where she was last seen, who searched for her, whom she was last seen with, who was questioned. The local PD interviewed her friends and family. What we’re looking for today are any details that, for what ever reason, either weren’t included in the reports or that her parents failed to mention.

“In the weeks and days before Bonnie disappeared, what was her frame of mind?” I ask.

If my line of questioning surprises him, Eli doesn’t show it. “She was fine,” he tells me. “The same as always.”

I look at Suzy. “Was she troubled by anything? Was she having problems with any of her friends?”

The woman meets my gaze, shakes her head. “She is a happy girl. Looking forward to helping teach the little ones in the fall.”

“Does she have a beau?”

Suzy’s eyes skid right and she picks up her pencil. “She does not have time for a beau. She stays busy with teaching the children.”

It is then that I realize Eli Fisher is either a better liar than his wife or is oblivious to the fact that his daughter was involved with someone. “What about arguments? Did either of you have words with her?”

Eli shakes his head. “Nothing like that.”

I don’t take my eyes off of Suzy. Beside me, Tomasetti hangs back, gives me the floor. “Is that true, Mrs. Fisher?” I ask gently.

“Of course.” But the Amish woman’s breaths quicken. Her grip on the pencil tightens so much, her knuckles turn white.

Eli runs his hand lightly over her shoulder before letting it fall to his side. “Why are you asking these things?” he asks.

“Because I want to find your daughter.”

“We have told the police everything.” He glares at me. “Why do you come here now and ask the same things all over again?”

“I want to make sure no one left something out that could be important.” I hold his gaze. “Something that might help us find Bonnie.”

I feel Tomasetti’s attention burning into me, but I don’t look away from Eli.

“You think we have done something wrong?” the Amish man asks. “You think we are guilty of something?”

“I think you’re trying to protect your daughter.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come.

“You don’t have to protect her from us,” I tell him. “Please. I need the truth. All of it.”

Suzy raises her eyes to mine. I see a resolve within the depths of her gaze, something I hadn’t seen before, and I know my suspicions are correct. She wants to come clean about something, but she doesn’t want to speak in front of the men.

“Mr. Fisher,” I begin, “I was wondering if I could buy one of those bread boxes from you?”

“We don’t sell to the pub—”

He stops abruptly when Suzy reaches up and squeezes his hand. “Sell her the bread box,” the woman says.

I glance at Tomasetti. With a nod, he moves toward the door. “I know which one you want,” he says over his shoulder as he leaves the room.

Eli takes a final look at his wife. With a shake of his head, he follows.

When we’re alone, I address Suzy in Pennsylvania Dutch. “He’s a good husband, isn’t he?”

“Ja.” She nods adamantly, but her eyes are sad. “A good father, too.”

I wait.

“But he is a man and there are certain things he cannot understand.”

I don’t agree; men are as capable of understanding as women, but I let it go. I watch her struggle with the words; then she raises her gaze to mine. “Bonnie had a beau,” she says.

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he Amish or English?”

“I do not know.”

“How do you know she had a beau?”

She looks down at the invoice to her left, transfers a number onto the columnar pad. “Because she was with child.”

I’ve been around the block a few too many times for this news to shock me. Teenagers having babies is nothing new—even within the Amish community. The thing that does surprise me is that this information hadn’t come out before now.

“How far along was she?” I ask.

“I don’t know. She wasn’t showing yet.”

“She confided in you?”

Her gaze skates away from mine, and I realize she’s more hurt by the fact that her daughter didn’t confide in her than she is by the out-of-wedlock pregnancy. “I found the . . . plastic thing,” she tells me. “You know, from the drugstore.”

“A pregnancy kit?”

“Ja. In the trash. She’d tried to hide it, but . . .” A sigh shudders out of her. “That’s when I knew.”

“You asked her about it?”

“She denied it at first, but when I told her I’d found the test, she . . . confessed.”

“Do you know who the father is?”

My question elicits a blank stare, as if it hadn’t occurred to her to ask. But I know it had, and I realize with some surprise there’s something else going on that she considers even worse than the pregnancy.

“Who’s the father?” I ask again.

She transfers another number onto the columnar pad.

“Mrs. Fisher?” I say gently. “This could be important. Who is he?”

The woman looks down at the desktop, folds her hands in front of her. “Bonnie doesn’t know,” she whispers.

“She had more than one partner?”

The woman jerks her head. “I don’t understand her. I don’t understand why she does these things.”

“Do you know the names of the men she was with?”

Her face screws up, but she regains control before the tears come. “She would not say.”

“Do you know how many there were?”

She puts her face in her hands and shakes her head. “No.”

“Do you know where she met them?”

“She is . . . secretive about such things. She gets angry when I ask too many questions.”

I want to say something to comfort her. But I’m so far out of my element, I can’t find the words. The things I know as a cop would be no comfort, and so I hold my silence.

“We did not teach her to be that way. I don’t know how she knew. . . .”

I nod, give her a moment. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us find these young men?”

She shakes her head, as if she’s too upset to speak. When she raises her gaze to mine, her eyes are haunted. “Do you think one of the boys might have taken Bonnie?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “But I’m going to do my best to find out.”

Ten minutes later, I slide into the Tahoe beside Tomasetti. Neither of us speaks as he backs from the parking space. The two horses and the wagon filled with furniture are still there. Eli Fisher is helping a younger man load a cabinet into the back. He stops what he’s doing to watch us. His eyes are shadowed by the brim of his hat, so I can’t discern his expression, but he’s not smiling and he doesn’t wave.

“Mrs. Fisher isn’t a very good liar,” Tomasetti says as he pulls onto the road. “Did you get anything?”

“Bonnie Fisher was pregnant.” Only after the words are out do I realize I’m speaking of her in the past tense.

He glances away from his driving and makes eye contact with me. “Who’s the father?”

“She doesn’t know.” I pause. “Evidently, the girl didn’t know, either.”

He cuts me a sharp look. “Maybe her disappearance is some kind of jealous-lover situation. One guy finds out about the other and the girl gets the short end of the stick.”

“Or maybe lover boy decided he didn’t want to be a dad.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

I think about that a moment. “Two of the missing girls were involved in relationships.”

“I don’t think that’s unusual.”

“Undesirable relationships,” I say, clarifying. “Especially in the eyes of the Amish.”

He nods. “Might be something we need to add to the profile.”

I run all of that through my mind. “Do you think she’s dead?”

“Two months is a long time to be missing, Kate.” He grimaces. “We need the names of the men she was involved with.”

“All we can do at this point is talk to the people she knew,” I tell him. “Especially her friends.”

As we pull away, I try to put my finger on something else that’s bothering me about our meeting with the Fishers, but I can’t pinpoint it. I glance out the window and see Eli Fisher standing at the rear of the wagon, watching us, his mouth a thin, flat line.

“You know, Chief, that was pretty smooth, asking for one of those bread boxes.”

I glance over at Tomasetti and see one side of his mouth twitch, and I know he’s messing with me. “How much do I owe you?” I ask.

“I thought maybe you could buy dinner.”

I glance at the clock on the dash. It’s almost 6:00 P.M. I wish I could reach out and stop time. “Is later okay?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I thought we’d drive up to Monongahela Falls and talk to the parents of the missing boy.”

He gives me a look of feigned disappointment. “You’re not trying to weasel out of dinner, are you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”