Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

CHAPTER 14

I’m at the police station, standing in the hall outside the conference room with Sheriff Rasmussen. Inside, it’s a full house.

Angi McClanahan and her mother sit together at the table, eyeing us like a couple of pissed-off cats. Matt Butler and his father, Andy, sit one chair away from the McClanahans. Andy looks impatient and put out as he thumbs his BlackBerry. His son, Matt, is hunched over his own device, texting and grinning with equal fervor. On the opposite side of the table, Lori Westfall sits alone, trying to look tough. Despite the too-tight jeans, black eyeliner, and pierced eyebrow, she’s not doing a very good job.

“We need to split them up,” I say to the sheriff. “Talk to each of them separately. We can use my office. Let the rest of them stew in here.”

He nods. “Which one is the friend?”

I indicate Lori Westfall. “I don’t know how close they are, but she was with Sadie that day at the bridge.”

“Any idea where her parents are?” Rasmussen asks. “They should be here for this.”

I shake my head. “When I called her mother and told her I needed to speak with her daughter, she didn’t seem too interested. I think she dropped her off and went back to work.”

“Nice.” He sighs. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll tell us the Miller girl is at some tat shop in Wooster, getting her goddamn eyebrow pierced.”

We both know the outcome of this isn’t going to be as cut-and-dried.

When I step inside, the room goes silent and all eyes land on me. Rasmussen hangs back, giving me the floor. “I know everyone is busy, but I appreciate your coming.”

“Like we had a choice,” Angi McClanahan mutters.

Ignoring her, I turn my attention to Matt Butler, who’s so embroiled in texting that the building could be crumbling around him and he wouldn’t notice until a chunk of concrete hit him in the head. “The first thing I’m going to ask you to do,” I say, “is put away the cell phones. That includes you, Matt.”

The boy looks up, blinking, as if he’s been awakened from a dream, then powers down. His father tosses his BlackBerry and it clatters onto the table in front of him, letting me know in no uncertain terms that he’s an important man and doesn’t appreciate being pulled away from his day.

Too bad.

“What’s this all about, Chief Burkholder?” he asks.

“She’s got it out for our kids.” Kathleen McClanahan casts me a spiteful look. “They’re easier to bully than us adults.”

I don’t take the bait. “We have a missing teenager in Painters Mill. Fifteen-year-old Sadie Miller. She’s Amish and disappeared sometime last night.” I watch the reactions of each person as I relay the news, paying particular attention to Lori Westfall and Angi McClanahan.

Andy Butler looks appropriately appalled. “My God, I had no idea.”

Lori Westfall goes stone-still, her eyes looking everywhere except at me. I try to read her body language, her facial expressions, but she’s so stiff and unnatural, I can’t. Does she know something? Or is she as shocked and frightened as the rest of us and simply doesn’t know how to absorb the information?

Kathleen McClanahan doesn’t react. When I look at her daughter, Angi, some of the toughness falls away. Before her eyes skate away from mine, I see a flash of guilt, and I wonder about its source. Does she have a guilty conscience because she fought with Sadie? Or does she have another reason to blame herself? It wouldn’t be the first time bullying took an ominous turn.

I scan the group. “I need to know right now if any of you know where she is.”

“Is it possible she ran away?” Andy asks me.

“Anything is possible at this point,” I tell him.

He looks at the other two teens in the room as if they have the answers, not his son.

I remain silent, waiting, watching.

At the door, Rasmussen remains unobtrusive. But his eyes are watchful and sharp, and I’m glad he’s here to help me gauge reactions.

When no one speaks, I turn my attention to Lori Westfall. “You’re first,” I tell her. “Come with me.”

“Wh—where are you taking me?” she asks in a tremulous voice.

Without replying, I start toward my office.

Once inside, I slide behind my desk and extract a legal pad, pen, and an antiquated tape recorder from the drawer. Lori lowers herself into the visitor chair across from me, nearly jumping out of her skin when Rasmussen closes the door and leans against it.

I turn on the tape recorder and recite the date, time, and the names of all present. Then I turn my attention to the girl. “Why don’t you start by telling me about your relationship with Sadie.”

The girl stares at me as if I’ve come at her with a knife. “She’s my best friend,” she mumbles.

My interest surges. I knew the girls were friends, but I didn’t realize they were best friends. That’s unusual, since Sadie is Amish. It’s been a while since I was fifteen, but one thing I know will never change is that best friends tell each other everything.

“How did you meet her?” I ask.

“We met at the bridge. Last summer.”

“So you’ve known her for about a year?”

She nods.

“How is it that you became friends, when she’s Amish?”

“Most of the time, Sadie doesn’t seem very Amish.” The girl offers a pensive smile that reflects true affection. “She wears jeans and smokes and cusses. Sometimes I forget she’s different.”

“You don’t seem to have much in common with her.” I prod, hoping she’ll relax and elaborate and give me something—anything—useful.

Lori looks down and her hair falls forward, covering the sides of her face, as if she’s trying to hide behind it, and I realize this girl is painfully shy. “We just hit it off,” she tells me. “I mean, we’re both kind of outsiders, you know? Sadie because she’s Amish. Me because I’m not into the whole social clique thing.” She shrugs. “We don’t fit in, but when we’re together, that doesn’t matter.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?” I ask.

“Yesterday. Six o’clock or so. At the bridge.”

“How did she seem?”

“Same as always.” A ghost of a smile touches her mouth but vanishes quickly. “She was complaining about not having a car. She, like, wants wheels bad.”

“Why does she want a car?”

“She mainly just wants to cruise around.”

“Did she ever talk about leaving Painters Mill?”

“We’re always talking about getting out. But it’s like something we’re going to do in the future, you know? She’s got all these big plans to move to New York and design clothes.”

“Has she mentioned New York recently?”

She shakes her head adamantly. “She wouldn’t go without me.”

“Has she had any problems at home?”

She nods. “Her parents totally don’t get her.”

“Did she have an argument with them?”

“They don’t argue, exactly. But her parents have pretty much laid down the law about Sadie’s art. It’s like they don’t understand that it’s part of her, you know?” She frowns. “They think it’s worldly or something.”

I recall the needlework in Sadie’s bedroom, and I feel a pang in my gut, because I know her art isn’t condoned by her Amish peers. Like so many other things, her art is something she’ll be forced to give up when she’s baptized.

“What about the rest of the Amish community?” I ask. “Any problems she’s mentioned?”

“No.” Lori gives me a knowing look. “But she’s always talking about leaving. She’s tired of the way they live. And she’s struggling with the whole getting baptized thing.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“All the time. She says the Amish are always whispering behind her back, judging her. If she gets baptized, she’ll have to give up everything. Her cell phone. Any dream of owning a car or going to New York. She’ll have to give up her art. That sucks, you know?”

Rumspringa is the time when Amish teens are allowed to experience life without all the constraints of the Ordnung, while the adults look the other way. It’s an exciting time of personal discovery and growth before a young person commits to the church. Was Sadie so conflicted, the pressure so intense, that she fled?

“Did she ever talk about running away?” I ask.

The girl hesitates. “Sometimes.”

“Do you think that’s what happened?”

She bites her lip. “She would have told me.”

I mentally shift gears, move on to my next question. “Does Sadie have a boyfriend?”

She shakes her head. “She thinks the guys our age are jerks.”

“Let’s go back to the bridge for a moment, Lori. Have you seen any vehicles or buggies you don’t recognize? Any strangers hanging out?”

“Just the usual crowd. You know, from school.”

I push the legal pad and pen at her. “I want you to write down the names of everyone you’ve seen there over the last couple of weeks.”

She picks up the pen. “That’s a lot of names.”

“I’ve got a lot of paper.” I smile at her.

She smiles back. Putting her tongue between her teeth, she starts writing.

“So what do you and Sadie do when you’re at the bridge, anyway?” I ask conversationally.

“We drink beer and smoke.” She glances over her shoulder at Rasmussen and hastily adds, “Cigarettes, I mean.” Her gaze lands on me. “You’re not going to tell my mom, are you?”

“We’ll deal with that after we find Sadie, okay?”

The girl stares at me, as if the gravity of the situation is starting to sink in. “Do you think something bad happened to her?” she asks.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

Ten minutes later, Angi McClanahan slides into the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. Rasmussen drags in an extra chair for her mother and then takes his place at the door.

I turn on the tape recorder, recite all the obligatory information, and turn my attention to Angi. “When did you last see or hear from Sadie?”

“I guess it was the day I beat the shit out of her.” The girl’s mother snickers, but I don’t look away from Angi. She’s pleased with herself. Pleased with the temerity of her answer and the fact that she has an audience.

“Why were you fighting?” I ask.

“Because she put her hands on my boyfriend.”

“What’s his name?”

She raises her hand to look at her nails and begins to peel polish off her thumb. “I don’t remember.”

The urge to reach across the table, grab her by the collar, and slap that “I don’t give a shit” attitude off her face is powerful. Of course I don’t, since I’m pretty sure it would be considered unbecoming behavior for the chief of police.

I turn my attention to Kathleen McClanahan. “I suggest you encourage your daughter to cooperate.”

“Angi didn’t do nothing to that little Amish troublemaker. Whatever trouble Sadie Miller met with, she brought down on herself.”

“I need his name,” I say. “Right now.”

Tossing a sideways look at her mother, Angi crosses her arms over her chest. “Dave Westmoore.”

I write down the name, recalling that the parents live near Millersburg. “So you were angry because Sadie touched your boyfriend?”

“She was doing more than touching him. That slut had her hands all over him.”

“Jealousy is a powerful emotion.”

Something ugly flashes in the girl’s eyes. “I am not jealous of that bitch.”

“What would you call it?”

“Protecting my territory.”

“How far are you willing to go to protect what’s yours?”

She shoots me an incredulous look. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t do anything to her!”

“You threatened to kill her,” I say.

“I didn’t mean it literally.”

“Or maybe you planned a little revenge.”

Her mother lurches to her feet. “This is bullshit.”

I give the woman a hard look. “Sit down.”

When she does, I continue. “Your daughter was one of the last people to speak with Sadie before she disappeared. They had a physical confrontation. Angi threatened to kill her in front of witnesses, including me.”

I turn a cold look on Angi. The scratch marks on her throat are healing, but they’re still visible, so I use them to my advantage. “Where did you get those marks on your throat?”

The girl raises a hand, her fingers fluttering at her neck. “They’re old. I got them that day on the bridge.”

“How did you get them?” I repeat.

“That psycho Amish girl attacked her,” her mother interjects.

“I’d like to hear that from Angi,” I say, never taking my eyes from the teenager.

“She ain’t saying nothing without a fucking lawyer, you goddamn Nazi bitch.”

Holding Angi with my gaze, I lean back in my chair. “Thank you for your time. That’ll be all for now.”

“That was fun,” Rasmussen says.

It’s half an hour later, and Rasmussen and I are in my office. I’m sitting behind my desk, trying to resist the urge to pound my head against its surface.

“She didn’t run away,” I tell him. “Someone took her.”

My phone rings, and I put it on speaker. “What’s up, Lois?”

“I just took a call from Elaina Reiglesberger out on County Road 14, Chief. She claims her daughter was out riding and saw Sadie Miller get into a car yesterday.”

Hope jumps through me and then I’m on my feet and reaching for my keys. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

Rasmussen is already through the door. “Here’s to a witness with good recall.”

I’m on my way to talk to the purported witness when the call from Tomasetti comes in. “I hope you’re calling with good news,” I say in lieu of a greeting.

“I wish I was.”

“Shit, Tomasetti, you’re not going to ruin my day, are you?”

He sighs. “Coroner says Annie King sustained a fatal stab wound. She bled to death.”

Something inside me sinks, like a rock tossed into water and dropping softly onto a sandy bottom. “Goddamn it.”

It’s times like this when that voice in my head tells me I’m not cut out for police work. I’ve done this before. Receiving this kind of news shouldn’t be so hard.

Tomasetti says something else, but I don’t hear the words. I pull onto the shoulder, brake with so much force that the tires skid. For several seconds, I sit there, trying to get a grip. I want to punch something; I want to rant and rave at the unfairness of death. Because I’m terrified the same fate awaits Sadie.

“What kind of a monster does that to a fifteen-year-old girl?” I whisper.

He knows I don’t mean the question literally; it doesn’t require an answer. What he also understands is that I need to find the person responsible and stop him. “Sooner or later, he’ll fuck up,” he tells me. “They always do. When that happens, we’ll get him.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks; then he says, “Anything on your end?”

I take a deep breath, and slowly the world around me settles back into place. My window is down and I hear a dove cooing from the fence outside. A small herd of Hereford cattle graze in the pasture beyond. The sun slants through the windshield, warm on my face, and I remind myself that no matter what happens, life goes on. Life always goes on.

“We might have a witness.” I tell him about the girl riding her horse. “I’m on my way to talk to her now.”

“A break would be nice.” He pauses. “You okay?”

“Better,” I tell him. “Thanks.”

“If I can get things tied up here, I’ll head your way.”

“I’d like that.” I start to tell him I miss him, but he ends the call before I get the words out.