Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

CHAPTER 11

“Are you sure you’re up to this?”

Tomasetti doesn’t ask the question until we’re turning into the gravel lane of the farm where Bishop Abraham Hertzler, aka “Old Abe,” and his wife, Ruth, reside.

“I’m sure.” I don’t look at him as I reply, because I know he’s far too astute to miss the trepidation that’s plastered all over my face. “I’ll do a better job than Goddard.”

“I could have just run over you with the Tahoe.”

I can’t help it; I laugh and glance over at him. “You’re not trying to subtly tell me I’m a glutton for punishment, are you?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

But I know he won’t try to talk me out of it; he knows I’m right.

The eastern horizon is awash with Easter-egg pastels as he parks adjacent a ramshackle barn, next to an old horse-drawn manure spreader. We exit the Tahoe without speaking. I notice the yellow glow of lantern light in the window, telling me the Hertzlers are awake. We’re midway to the porch when the door swings open.

An old Amish woman with a braided rug draped over her arm looks at us through bottle cap–lensed glasses. She’s wearing a plain black dress with a white apron. Her silver hair is pulled severely away from her face and covered with the requisite prayer kapp. “Who goes there?” she asks in a gravelly voice.

“Mrs. Hertzler?” I call out.

“I can’t see you. Who are you?”

“I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder and this is Agent Tomasetti with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation.” We reach the porch and show her our identification. “We’re assisting the police department in their search for Annie King.”

The woman squints at our IDs. Her eyes are rheumy and huge behind the lenses of her glasses. But I see within their depths a sharp mind and a foreboding that wasn’t there before. The police don’t show up at your back door at 6:00 A.M. for idle chitchat.

“Is the bishop home, Mrs. Hertzler?”

“Was der schinner is letz?” What in the world is wrong? She asks the question as she opens the door wider and ushers us inside.

Tomasetti and I step into a small kitchen. I see a homemade wooden table for two, rustic shelves mounted on the wall, an old-fashioned potbellied stove. The smell of coffee and scrapple laces the air. A bent old man, as thin as his wife is plump, sits hunched over a cup of steaming coffee. He’s clad wholly in black, the shock of white beard and hair contrasting severely against his jacket. Their dress tells me they are conservative Amish, and I wonder if they’ll agree to ride in the Tahoe, or if we’ll have to follow their buggy to the King farm, which will add hours to the identification process.

“Guder mariye,” I say, bowing my head in respect as I bid them good morning.

Both people look at me as if I just beamed down from another planet. The last thing they expected was for an Englischer to walk into their kitchen and greet them in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Kannscht du Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch schwetzer?” the bishop asks after a moment, surprised I speak Pennsylvania Dutch.

I explain to them that I’m from Holmes County—leaving out the part about my excommunication—and am assisting with the Annie King case. “The body of a young woman was found this morning.”

Mrs. Hertzler gasps, but I don’t stop speaking. “We need Mr. and Mrs. King to tell us if it’s Annie.” I look at the bishop. “I thought you might be a comfort to them.”

The room falls silent. The only sounds are the hiss of the lantern and the rain dripping from the eaves. The air is hot and stuffy, but neither the bishop nor his wife seems to notice.

“Mein Gott,” Mrs. Hertzler whispers. “God be with that poor child. God be with her family.”

“We need to speak with the family as soon as possible, Bishop Hertzler,” I tell him. “I don’t want them to hear the news from someone else. Will you come with us?”

The old man reaches for the cane leaning against the back of his chair, grips it with a gnarled hand, and pushes unsteadily to his feet. “Bring me my Bible.”

The drive to the King farm is silent and tense. By the time we pull into the gravel lane, it’s nearly 7:00 A.M. The sun sits on the eastern horizon like a steaming orange ball, burning away the final vestiges of the night’s storm.

Despite the early hour, the King farm is abuzz with activity. Two children—little girls clad in matching blue dresses—are on their way to the barn when we park next to a flatbed wagon loaded with a single milk can. They stare at us as Tomasetti and I help the bishop from the Tahoe, but they don’t stop to chat. More than likely, they’ve got cows or goats to milk before school.

A big black dog with white paws bounds over to us, tongue lolling. Tomasetti bends, stepping between the animal and the bishop to keep the dog from knocking the old man off balance.

We’re midway up the sidewalk when the screen door squeaks open and Levi King steps onto the porch. He looks gaunt and exhausted. His eyes settle on Bishop Hertzler, and I see a recoil go through his body.

“Has something happened?” he asks, starting toward us. “Is it Annie? Did you find her?”

“Mr. King—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Bishop?” Desperation rings in King’s voice. He stops a few feet away and stares at the old man, as if Tomasetti and I aren’t there. “Tell me. Why are you here?”

“We found a girl’s body,” I interject. “There was no ID. We need for you to come with us and tell us if it’s Annie.”

King looks at me as if I just rammed a knife into his abdomen and gutted him. His mouth opens. His lips quiver. “It isn’t Annie. It can’t be.”

In my peripheral vision, I see Tomasetti glance toward the Tahoe, and I wonder if he’s reliving the moment when someone told him about the deaths of his own daughters, the death of his wife.

The bishop maintains his grip on the younger man’s arm. “Be faithful, Levi, and leave the results to God.”

The screen door slams. I look up, to see Edna King standing on the porch in her plain dress and kapp, a threadbare dishcloth in her hands. There’s no way she overheard the conversation. But she knows this is about Annie. She knows it’s bad.

The dishcloth flutters to the ground, and then she’s running toward us. “Is it Annie?” she asks. “Did something happen?”

Levi steps back into himself. When he turns to his wife, his face is resolute and calm. “There was a girl found,” he tells her. “It may not be Annie.”

“A girl?” She covers her mouth with both hands. “She is alive?”

Her husband sets both hands on her shoulders, shakes his head. “God will take care of Annie,” he says with conviction.

“Edna, there is much comfort in that,” the bishop adds.

I see the struggle waging within her, the war between absolute faith and the terror of knowing something horrific may have happened to her daughter. “It cannot be Annie,” she whispers. “Not Annie.”

Tomasetti snags my attention and motions toward the Tahoe. I take a step back and we start down the sidewalk.

“I have to go with them,” Levi tells her. “Be strong, Edna. Get breakfast for the children. I’ll be back before you’ve washed the dishes.”

“Levi . . .”

I hear her crying softly, but the Amish man turns away. Stone-faced, staring straight ahead, he starts toward the Tahoe.

Behind him, his wife falls to her knees, clenches handfuls of grass in both hands, and cries out her daughter’s name.

The drive to Trumbull Memorial Hospital takes twenty-five minutes, but it seems like hours. The sense of dread inside the vehicle is palpable. Bishop Hertzler and Levi King ride in the backseat and spend much of that time in silent prayer or speaking quietly. Mostly, they talk about Annie—her youth and goodness, her love of God and family, the possibility that the body isn’t hers and that another family will be needing their prayers. Levi returns to that theme again and again, and I know he’s clinging to that hope with the desperation of a man trying to save his own life. In a way, he is.

By the time we park in the garage across the street from the hospital, the men have fallen silent. No one speaks as we disembark. The two Amish men draw some attention as the four of us take the skyway from the garage to the hospital. It’s always hard for me to believe there are people living in Ohio who’ve never seen an Amish person. Once inside, we take the elevator to the basement, where the morgue is located.

The elevator doors open to a reception area with pale yellow walls, a blue sofa and chair, and a couple of large areca palms. The coffee table holds a vase filled with silk peonies. A flat-screen television mounted on the wall is tuned to the Fox News Channel. As I take in the decor, I can’t help but think that someone tried a little too hard to make a dismal place seem normal.

A middle-aged woman in a fuchsia skirt and jacket sits behind a glossy oak desk with a headset on. She offers an appropriately somber smile. “Can I help you?”

Tomasetti steps ahead of us and shows his identification. “We’re here for a viewing.”

“We’re expecting you. I think they’re ready back there.” She eyes the two Amish men as she hands him a clipboard. “Just sign at the bottom.”

Tomasetti scribbles an illegible signature on the form and returns the clipboard to her.

She rounds her desk. “This way, please.”

With Tomasetti and I behind her and the two Amish men trailing, she takes us around the corner. We pass by a windowless gray door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Above the door, a sign printed in an Old English font reads MORTUI VIVIS PRAECIPIANT. It’s not the first time I’ve seen those words. I don’t read Latin, but I know the translation by heart: “Let the dead teach the living.”

The hall opens to a small, starkly furnished room painted an eye-pleasing beige. A sofa table holds a small lamp and a box of tissues. Above the table, a cheap southwestern print in an oak frame is hung a few inches too high. A ceiling-to-floor curtain drapes the fourth wall. Next to it, a small round speaker with a red button is set into a niche. Behind the curtain, I know, is the viewing window.

“I’ll let them know you’re here,” the woman tells us.

Bishop Hertzler and Levi King stand near the sofa table, looking out of place, not making eye contact with Tomasetti or me. Neither man acknowledges the curtain, as if pretending it isn’t there will make whatever’s on the other side disappear.

The urge to move, to pace the confines of the small space, is strong. I stand there waiting, impotent.

“Never doubt in the dark what God has shown you in the light,” the bishop says. “He will take care of His children.”

No one responds. No one knows what to say. Those of us in law enforcement know that sometimes God sits back and lets Fate have her way. We know sometimes God’s children die before their time.

Levi shoves his hands into his pockets and looks down at the floor. A few feet away, Tomasetti stands near the curtain, looking as if he might tear it aside himself if it doesn’t open soon.

“Agent Tomasetti? Are you ready?” A male voice crackles from the speaker set into the wall.

Tomasetti looks at Levi. The Amish man nods. Tomasetti turns back to the speaker and depresses the red button. “Let’s do this.”

An instant later, a motor hums and the curtain glides open. Levi King leans forward, his eyes seeking. I’m standing slightly behind him. I make eye contact briefly with Tomasetti. He looks as grim and tense as I feel.

I see a small rectangular room tiled completely in white. Stark light rains down on a stainless-steel gurney covered with a light blue sheet. I can just make out the shape of the body beneath. A young technician in green scrubs stands at the head of the table, looking out at us. He peels away the sheet. I see brown hair combed away from a slack, pale face, blue lips that are partially open, slender shoulders with blue-white skin.

The sight of the dead is always a terrible thing. But knowing the promising life of a young woman was cut short by violence is worse. Sometimes the senselessness and injustice of that is almost too much to bear.

Next to me, Levi King makes a noise. A quick intake of breath. From where I stand, I can see his mouth quivering. His shoulders begin to shake. Bishop Hertzler reaches out and squeezes his arm, but Levi doesn’t seem to notice, and I know there will be no comforting.

In the Amish culture, grief is a private thing. Levi King doesn’t have that option. The sound that erupts from him is so unsettling, the hairs at the nape of my neck stand up. His cry of grief cuts through me like a blade. In the periphery of my vision, I see Tomasetti turn away. The bishop wraps his arm around the other man’s shoulders. “She is with God,” the bishop says. But the words aren’t convincing.

I glance at Tomasetti. He’s standing a few feet away from the window, staring through the glass at the dead girl. His expression is dark and inscrutable. “Is it your daughter?” he asks.

Levi King turns his face to Tomasetti, jerks his head once. Tears stream down his face and run unchecked onto his shirt.

It is a scene in which I’ve participated a dozen times in the course of my career. When I was rookie, I always believed it was my inexperience that made it so damn hard. The truth of the matter is, it never gets easier. You don’t get tougher or harder or colder, at least not in any way that counts. Every time, bearing witness to another person’s grief cuts out a piece of you.

“Who could do this terrible thing?” the Amish man whispers.

No one answers.