Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

CHAPTER 13

An hour later, Tomasetti and I are back in the interview room of the Trumbull County sheriff’s department. He’s slumped in a chair, looking grouchy and bored, pecking on the keyboard of his laptop. I’m standing at the rear of the room with my cell phone stuck to my ear, listening to Auggie Brock lament the injustice of his son’s ongoing legal saga. I make all the appropriately sympathetic noises, but I know what he wants and there’s no way I’m going to compromise my ethics because his seventeen-year-old son has the common sense of a snail.

The rest of the deputies are out in the field, working various angles. I can hear Sheriff Goddard in his office down the hall. He’s loud when he’s on the phone, and now he’s embroiled in a conversation that involves securing a warrant for the home of Frank Gilfillan, the leader of the Twelve Passages Church. Evidently, the judge on the other end doesn’t see things the way the sheriff does, and Goddard isn’t taking it well. So far, we’re batting zero and the frustration level is rising.

“Kate, for God’s sake, are you listening?” Auggie asks.

“I’m listening,” I reply, lying.

“My son’s life is at stake here. If he’s tried as an adult and convicted, his life is all but over.”

For an instant, I entertain the notion of telling him I’ll do what I can, just to get him off the phone. Then Sheriff Goddard comes through the door, looking like he’s had the crap beaten out of him, and saves me from stepping into that particular pile. “Look, Auggie, the sheriff just walked in. I’ve got to go.”

“Will you at least think about what I said?”

I hit END and frown at Goddard.

He frowns back. “Looks like your day might be heading in the same direction as mine,” he says.

“You mean to hell?”

“Thereabouts.”

I smile. “Any luck with the warrant?”

Goddard sighs. “Judge says the Twelve Passages is a church and they got the right to worship any way they see fit.” Another sigh. “It’s a damn cult, if you ask me.”

“Judge isn’t a member, is he?”

Goddard gives me a look, as if I might be serious, and then erupts with a belly laugh. “I don’t think so, but I swear to God, nothing would surprise me these days.”

“Did you talk to Gilfillan?”

“We did, and let me tell you he’s a weird son of a bitch. Got a weird belief system and bunch of damn weird followers. A lot of them aren’t much older than our missing teens. He’s recruited some Amish young people, too.”

That snags my attention. “Does he have a record?”

“Not even an arrest.”

“Hard to ignore the Amish connection.”

“Well, it ain’t over till it’s over.” He glances at Tomasetti. “You guys have any luck with Karns?”

“He’s worth keeping on the radar,” I tell him. “He shoots nude photos of kids, has an unusual interest in the Amish.”

“Maybe I’ll have better luck getting a warrant for his place.”

“Judge isn’t an art fan, is he?”

He chortles. “Chief Burkholder, you’ve got a mean streak.”

A few feet away, the pitch of Tomasetti’s voice changes, drawing our attention. I glance over at him and find his eyes already on me. I can tell by his expression that he’s got something. I wait while he thanks the person on the other end of the line and sets down his phone. “Remember those queries I put into VICAP?” he asks. “Analyst found a cold case with the same MO.”

Goddard looks baffled. “We checked similars,” he says. “Ran a search through OHLEG. Nothing came up.”

“That’s because it didn’t happen in Ohio,” Tomasett i explains. “Happened in Sharon, Pennsylvania.”

“That’s just across the state line,” Goddard says.

“How old is the case?” I ask.

“Four years. Fifteen-year-old Amish female.” Tomasetti glances down at his notes. “Ruth Wagler. She was selling bread alongside the highway and disappeared. Body was never found.”

“Suspects?” I ask.

“Sheriff’s office looked at her boyfriend. Looked at her stepfather. But nothing panned out and no arrest was made.”

I look at Goddard. “How far is Sharon from here?”

“Forty-five minutes in traffic, and there ain’t no traffic.”

“We need to talk to the parents.” Tomasetti looks at me. “You up for a trip?”

“Yeah.” My cell phone vibrates against my hip, inducing a flash of annoyance. Expecting Auggie Brock, I glance down. Surprise slips through me when Glock’s name appears on the display.

Turning away from the two men, I answer. “I’m glad you’re not Auggie.”

“Not as glad as me.” He doesn’t laugh, and I feel some internal radar go on alert. Some instinct that tells me he’s not calling to chat. “I just took a call from the Amish bishop, Chief. Your sister and her husband are at his place. William Miller’s niece is missing.”

Something akin to an electrical shock goes through me. My surroundings fade to gray. The voices of Tomasetti and Goddard dwindle to babble. “Sadie Miller?” I ask.

“Right. Fifteen-year-old Amish female.”

His words barely register. I see Sadie as she was the day on the bridge—so defiant of society’s rules, so sure of herself, and so utterly certain the world would be hers if she just had the chance to conquer it. Simultaneously, the image of Annie King’s body tangled in the tree roots on the creek bank flashes in my mind’s eye.

“When?” I hear myself ask.

“Sometime last night.”

“Goddamn it, why are they just now calling?” I know better than to take my frustration out on Glock, but the words are out before I can stop them.

My phone beeps. I glance down and see Troyer’s name on the display. “Put out an Amber Alert,” I tell Glock. “Bring in the SHP. Call Rasmussen. Get everyone out looking. See if you can find someone with tracking dogs.”

“I got it.”

“I’ll be there in a couple of hours.” I take the incoming call with a growl of my name.

“Katie, it’s Sarah.” High-wire tension laces my sister’s voice. “Sadie is missing.”

“I just heard.” I don’t cut her any slack. “Why didn’t you call me right away?”

“We didn’t realize she was missing until this morning.”

“It’s now afternoon, Sarah. Why didn’t you call me the instant you realized she was gone?”

“It was William. . . .” I hear her breathing on the other end and I know she’s struggling to control her emotions. “He did not want to involve—”

“That’s bullshit. I’m sick of it, Sarah. Do you hear me?” I’m shouting now and keenly aware that Tomasetti and Goddard are staring at me. I know I’m not helping the situation, that I’m alienating my sister, and I struggle to check my temper. “How long has she been gone?”

“We believe she went out through her bedroom window last night.”

“Last night.” I lower my head, pinch the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger. The urge to tear into her verbally and denigrate the tenant of separation I loathe burns through me. I want to ask my sister how she could allow her belief system to endanger her young niece. Somehow, I manage to rein in my fury. “Do you think she ran away?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Katie, I’m scared. Sadie has been so rebellious and angry.”

I glance at my watch, knowing that even with my emergency lights flashing, it’ll take two hours to get back to Painters Mill. “I’m going to send Glock out to Roy and Esther’s farm. Can you meet him out there?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Sarah, I want you to speak with them and tell them to cooperate with the police. Tell them we’re their best hope of finding Sadie. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I will do my best.”

I want to say more. I want to tell her I love her, but I’m too angry. Instead, I snap my phone closed and shove all of those useless emotions into a compartment to deal with later.

“What happened?”

I turn to Tomasetti, who’s standing directly behind me, staring at me through narrowed eyes that see a hell of a lot more than I’m comfortable with.

Quickly, I recap my conversation with my sister. “The missing girl is my brother-in-law’s niece.” The words don’t begin to convey what I feel for that girl. I want to explain to him the connection Sadie and I share. The way she looks up to me. How I see in her all the good parts of myself. But there’s no time and the words dwindle on my tongue.

“Kate, is it a runaway situation, or do they suspect foul play?”

The question rattles me anew. I look at Tomasetti, struggle to get a grip. “She fits the profile of these victims,” I tell him. “Troubled. Rebellious. The age is right.”

“The timing is off,” Tomasetti says. “This is too close to the previous disappearance.”

I think of the pool of blood on the road, of Annie King’s body tangled in those roots, and I can barely bring myself to answer. “I have to go back.” I stride to the table, close my laptop without shutting it down, and slide it into its sleeve. “I need the Tahoe.”

Tomasetti reaches into his pocket and retrieves the keys, hands them to me. “I’ll ride with Goddard to Sharon. Pick up another vehicle later.”

I take the keys. Tomasetti frowns when he sees my hand shaking.

Goddard comes up beside me. His hand on my shoulder is unexpectedly reassuring. “Let us know if you find something that links this one to the others, Chief.”

Tomasetti unplugs the power cord of my laptop and hands it to me. “Be careful.”

I stop what I’m doing and look at him. More than anything at that moment, I want to feel his arms around me. I want to know he’s going to be there—not only in terms of the case but for me, too.

I loop the strap of my laptop case over my shoulder. “I’ll call you when I know something.”

And then I’m through the door and rushing toward the Tahoe.

There are a thousand reasons why a cop should never work a case in which he or she has a personal connection. Ask any veteran and they will tell you that a cop who is personally motivated will fuck things up faster and more thoroughly than any rookie. When the stakes are high—when someone you care about is at risk—everything changes. I want to believe I can handle it, muscle my way through, conventional wisdom be damned. But already I can feel the gnarly beast of emotional involvement riding my back, goading me into territory in which I have no business venturing. I know going into this that I’m at a disadvantage. I’m vulnerable to making snap decisions and taking risks I might not normally take. It would be smarter to hand this case off to someone else. Only there is no one else.

It takes me just under two hours to reach Painters Mill. I employed emergency lights and siren and hit ninety miles per hour once I reached the highway. Still, those two hours seemed more like days and a thousand terrible thoughts ran through my head the entire time. I don’t know for a fact that Sadie Miller has been kidnapped. As far as any of us know, she could have made good on her promise to leave the Amish way and taken off for greener pastures. But I know all too well how quickly a runaway situation can become a missing-person case.

Or a homicide.

It’s early evening by the time I pull into the gravel lane of the Miller farm. I park the Tahoe in the long shadow cast by the house, ever aware that the day is drawing to a close. I see Bishop Troyer’s buggy parked by the barn, the old Standardbred horse tethered to a tie post near the main door. Glock’s cruiser is a few yards away. A Crown Vic from the sheriff’s office sits at a haphazard angle behind Glock’s car. There’s another buggy I don’t recognize next to the bishop’s.

I’ve known the Millers since I was a teenager. They’re a conservative Amish family, and there were many times growing up when they didn’t approve of the choices I made or the things I did. Back then, I thrived on that kind of controversy. I thumbed my nose at the rules, and I didn’t give a good damn that they looked at me as if I were something that needed to be mucked out of a stall with a pitchfork.

As an adult, I know they’ll never approve of the decisions I made that put me on the path to where I am now. But this isn’t about me or a past that’s long gone. I hope their disdain for me doesn’t affect the level of cooperation my department receives with regard to Sadie.

My legs are stiff from the drive, but I hit the ground running and head toward the back porch. I’m hoping Sadie has been found and I made the drive for nothing. I’m hoping for the chance to scold her and then throw my arms around her and tell her how glad I am to see her. But when the door swings open and Sarah and her sister-in-law rush out, my hopes are dashed. Both women wear light blue dresses with white aprons, white head coverings, dark-colored hose, and practical shoes. Their faces are blotchy from crying and their eyes are haunted.

One look at my sister and the anger I felt toward her earlier evaporates.

“Oh, Katie.” Her voice breaks on my name.

I go to her and try not to feel awkward as I put my arms around her. She smells of clean clothes and summertime, the way my mamm used to smell, and for a split second I find myself longing for all the hugs I never received. I can feel my sister shaking within my embrace. “Any news?” I ask, easing her to arm’s length.

She shakes her head. “No.”

I turn my attention to Sadie’s mother. Esther Miller is a stout woman with a round, freckled face and a port-wine birthmark the size of a quarter on the left side of her nose. Her brown hair is streaked with silver and pulled into a severe bun at her nape. When we were teenagers, she was funny and opinionated and had a rebellious attitude that appealed greatly to my own sense of dissent. We spent many an afternoon at Miller’s Pond, smoking cigarettes and talking about things we shouldn’t have been talking about, most of which revolved around boys and makeup and all the mysteries that lay ahead—edgy stuff for a couple of Amish girls. Then came the day she walked up on me as I was making out with Jimmie Bates, and that was the end of my first friendship. Esther told her mamm and, of course, her mamm told mine. It was my first brush with betrayal, and it hurt. In the end, Esther’s mother forbade her to see me, and we never spoke again.

As I look into my former friend’s eyes and offer my hand, I find myself searching for the young rebel I’d once known so intimately, the girl who could put me in stitches no matter how dark my mood. But time has erased all traces of that girl. Instead, I see a stern, frightened woman whose eyes are filled with mistrust. “Katie, thank you for coming,” she says. “Come in.”

I follow her through a narrow mudroom, past an old wringer washing machine, a row of muck boots lined up neatly on the floor, and three flat-brimmed straw hats hung on wooden dowels set into the wall. We go through a doorway and enter a large kitchen that smells of sausage and yeast bread. Sheriff Rasmussen sits at the table, talking to Roy Miller, Sadie’s father. He looks up when I enter, and I think I see relief in his expression.

“Chief Burkholder.” Rising, Rasmussen crosses to me and extends his hand. “Welcome back.”

I give his hand a firm shake. “Where’s Glock?”

“He’s talking to the bishop.”

“Chief.”

I turn at the sound of Glock’s voice and see him and Bishop Troyer enter the kitchen. Bowing my head slightly in respect, I greet the bishop first in Pennsylvania Dutch. Then I focus on Glock and Rasmussen. “Bring me up to speed.”

The sheriff responds first. “The parents think Sadie slipped out of her bedroom window sometime last night after seven. When Mr. Miller went into her room this morning at four-thirty, she was gone.”

“Have you talked to neighbors?” I’m aware that the bishop and Esther and Roy Miller are watching me, and I glance their way, letting them know they should jump in with any additional information.

“We interviewed neighbors on both sides,” Glock replies. “No one saw anything.”

I look at Esther. “Are any of her clothes missing?”

The Amish woman shakes her head. “I checked her room. There is nothing missing.”

“Is it possible she had some English clothes stashed somewhere?” I ask.

“Sadie would not,” Esther tells me. “She is modest.”

The last time I saw Sadie, she was wearing painted-on jeans and a shirt tight enough to squeeze the air from her lungs. I wonder how these parents could be so out of touch. But I know that’s not fair. Amish or English, plenty of teens partake in behavior their parents will never comprehend.

“Sadie was wearing English clothes the day I brought her home,” I say.

Roy Miller looks down at the floor.

Esther stares at me as if I’m purposefully adding to their anguish. “We don’t allow English clothes in this house,” she tells me.

I turn my attention to Glock. “Amber Alert is out?”

“About two hours ago.” He glances at his watch. “State Highway Patrol has been notified. We called everyone we could think of, Chief. Skid’s putting together some volunteers to search the greenbelt to the north. T.J. and Pickles are canvassing.”

“We got dogs coming in from Coshocton County,” Rasmussen adds.

I catch both men’s eyes and gesture toward the next room. As inconspicuously as possible, I sidle into the living area and they follow. When we’re out of earshot of the parents and Bishop Troyer, I lower my voice. “We found the body of the missing girl in Buck Creek.”

“Aw shit,” Rasmussen mutters. “Homicide?”

“The coroner hasn’t made an official ruling yet, but we think so.”

Glock narrows his gaze. “You think this is related?”

Considering the outcome of Annie King’s disappearance, that’s the one scenario I don’t want to consider. I’m still hopeful Sadie left of her own accord and we’re dealing with a runaway situation instead.

I sigh. “I think we need to treat this as a missing endangered.”

“Painters Mill is farther away than the towns where other girls went missing,” Rasmussen says.

“Maybe he’s expanding his area,” Glock offers.

“Did Sadie’s parents mention any problems at home?” I ask them. “A recent argument or disagreement? Anything like that?”

Rasmussen shakes his head. “They said everything was fine.”

“What about a boyfriend?” I ask.

“They say no.”

The parents are always the last to know. Tomasetti’s words float through my mind. I hate it, but he’s right.

“The parents probably don’t have a clue,” I say quietly, and I realize the two men are looking at me as if I’m the proverbial expert on out-of-control teenage Amish girls.

“Sadie was considering leaving the Amish way of life,” I explain. “It might be that she’s with a boy her parents don’t know about. Or maybe she took off to teach all of us idiots a lesson.”

“We need to talk to her friends,” Rasmussen says.

“I’ve got some names we can start with.” I look at Glock. “Pick up Angi McClanahan. Matt Butler. And Lori Westfall. Take them to the station. Parents, too. No one’s in trouble, but I want to talk to them.”

“I’m all over it.” Glock starts toward the door.

Rasmussen and I fall silent, both of us caught in our own thoughts. “I’m going to talk to the mother,” I tell him. “Take a look at Sadie’s room.”

“You want some help?

“Might be better if I do it alone.”

“Gotcha.”

Roy and Esther glance up from their places at the table when I return to the kitchen. They look broken, sitting in their chairs with their hollow eyes and restless, unoccupied hands. It’s only been a few days since I last saw them, but they look as if they’ve aged ten years. Roy is a tall, thin man with a long red beard that reaches to his belly. He’s wearing black work trousers with a blue shirt and suspenders.

“I’d like to see Sadie’s room,” I tell them.

For a moment, they stare at me as if I’m speaking in some language they don’t understand. Then Esther looks at her husband. “We could show her,” she says.

Impatience coils inside me. The Amish are a patriarchal society. The men make the rules and usually have the final say in matters. While most wives have a voice and their opinions are generally respected, they usually submit to their husbands’ wishes.

I direct my attention to Roy. “It’s important,” I tell him. “There might be something there that will help us find her.”

After a moment, he nods. “Show her the room.”

Esther rises and motions toward the hall. “Come this way.”

The steep, narrow stairs creak beneath our feet as I follow her to the second level of the house. Sadie’s room is at the end of the hall. It’s a small space with a twin bed, a night table, and a pine chest with four drawers. A white kapp and a black sweater hang from a single dowel on the wall above the bed. A window covered with gauzy curtains peers out over the front yard.

The room is cozy and neat. It might have been the bedroom of any typical Amish girl, but all semblances of plain end with the vast display of needlework. A green-and-white quilt utilizing several types of fabric that alter the texture in interesting ways covers the bed. Contrasting pillows, fabric layered with lace, and even a crocheted coverlet are piled against the headboard. The walls are white, but there’s nothing plain about them, because they’re plastered from floor to ceiling with fabric wall hangings. I see dark purple velvet layered with pink lace; red and purple fabrics sewn together with the avant-garde eye of an artisan—colors that are frowned upon by the Amish. Yet her parents allow her this small expression of individualism.

“Sadie loves to sew.” Esther says the words as if her daughter’s needlework requires justification. “She’s been doing the needlework since she was six years old.”

I can’t stop looking at the yards and yards of fabric, so painstakingly designed and sewn by the hands of a young girl with a passion her parents haven’t been able to eradicate or contain. In the back of my mind, I’m remembering my conversation with Sadie that day on the bridge. I’m drawn to all the things I shouldn’t be. Music and . . . art. I want to . . . read books and watch movies and see places I’ve never seen. I want to go to college and . . . I’m going to design clothes. I’m so good with the needle and thread. . . .

“She’s right,” I whisper.

Esther tilts her head. “What?”

“She’s very talented.”

Esther looks embarrassed as she crosses to the bed and picks up a pink-and-red pillow. “Perhaps we should not have allowed her so much individual expression.”

“Sometimes this kind of passion can’t be quelled.”

She looks unbearably sad, standing there holding the pillow. “We don’t approve of the colors. Sadie takes too much pride in her quilting. She’s willful. She can be disrespectful.” Yet she brings the pillow to her face and breathes in the scent of the daughter she misses so desperately.

The words, the reproach they contain, conjure an Amish proverb my mamm told me many times as a girl, especially when she was trying to get a recalcitrant me to do my chores. “Pride in your work puts joy in your day,” I whisper.

Tears spring into Esther’s eyes. She puts the pillow against her face as if to hide her tears and looks at me over the top of it. “She is a special girl with a good heart. A big heart.” She chokes out a laugh. “Perhaps too big.”

“I’ll do my best to find her.”

She sinks to her knees, as if her legs no longer have the strength to support her. Tears run unchecked down her cheeks as she lowers her face into her hands and begins to sob.

I give her shoulder a squeeze and then turn my attention to the room. There’s not much to search; the bedroom of a teenage Amish girl bears little resemblance to those of their English counterparts. I begin with the night table, finding a copy of Es Nei Teshtament, a Bible that’s written in both Pennsylvania Dutch and English. In the next drawer, I find a plain hairbrush and comb, a candle, a carved wooden bear.

Finding nothing of interest, I move on to the chest. The top drawer is filled with Walmart cotton bras and panties. There are also old-fashioned bloomers, a winter head covering in need of mending. I move to the next drawer and find several hand-sewn Amish dresses. In the bottom drawer, I find a pair of blue jeans tucked into the back, where no one would notice them unless she was looking.

Standing, I step back and look around, spot the sweater hanging on the dowel set into the wall. I check the pockets but come up empty-handed. I kneel and look beneath the bed, check the insides of the sneakers and leather shoes.

“Come on, Sadie,” I mutter as I cross to the bed.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for. The name of a boyfriend written in a notebook. A cell phone number or address scribbled on a scrap of paper. A letter with some helpful information. A diary. I lift the mattress and run my hand along the box spring. My fingers brush against paper. I pull out a Cosmopolitan magazine and stare down at the busty model in a low-cut red dress on the cover. The smile that emerges feels sad on my face.

“Where are you?” I whisper.

And I tuck the magazine back into its hiding place.