Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

CHAPTER 15

The Reiglesberger family lives on a small horse property located at a hairpin curve on County Road 14. They breed Appaloosa horses and have boarding facilities for people who don’t own land. I’ve met Elaina Reiglesberger several times over the years, but just to say hello. The only things I know about her are that she gives riding lessons to kids and that she runs a therapeutic riding program for special-needs children.

I pull into the gravel lane, drive past a double-wide trailer home, and park adjacent to the horse barn, next to Rasmussen’s cruiser. It’s an old building in need of paint; the pipe pens are rusty and bent, but the place is well kept.

I exit the Tahoe as two dogs of dubious breeding bound up to me, tongues lolling. I reach down to pet them, and I’m greeted with a barrage of wet kisses. The sliding door of the barn stands open and I can see the silhouettes of several people and at least one horse in the aisle. Wiping my slobbered-up hands on my slacks, I start toward the door.

The smell of horses and manure and fresh-cut hay greet me when I step inside. Five heads turn my way, one of which is Sheriff Rasmussen’s. He’s surrounded by several young girls in riding breeches and helmets, along with a plump, competent-looking woman wearing jeans and a yellow golf shirt. The horse is a big shiny bay in cross-ties and looks as if he’s enjoying the hubbub. I suspect the bag of carrots lying on a nearby lawn chair might be part of the reason.

As my eyes adjust to the dim interior, I recognize the woman as Elaina Reiglesberger. She’s a pretty thirtysomething with shoulder-length hair that’s pulled into a ponytail and tucked into a Starbucks cap. Her shirt is covered with specks of hay. Something dark and gooey mars the right hip of her jeans. But she has a wholesome, centered look about her. She smiles at me as I approach.

“Hi, Chief Burkholder.” Muttering something about her hands, she wipes them on her jeans before offering a handshake. “Terrible about the Miller girl.” She glances at the sheriff. “You guys have any idea what happened?”

Her accent broadcasts Kentucky. She’s got a straightforward countenance and a quiet confidence that tells me she’s probably a good role model for these young riders. “We’re working on it,” I say noncommittally. “I understand someone here thinks they might have seen something.”

“Mandy, my oldest. She was riding down the road yesterday, the day Sadie Miller disappeared, and thinks she might have seen her. She didn’t think anything about it until she was watching the news and saw the story.” Elaina turns, takes one of the girls by the shoulders, and moves her toward me. “Mandy, honey, tell the chief what you saw.”

The girl is pretty, with dark brown hair and wide, guileless eyes. I guess her age to be about twelve. She’s still more interested in horses than boys, and isn’t nearly as happy as the horse to be the center of attention.

“Hi, Mandy.” I extend my hand and we shake.

“Hi.” The girl’s palm is wet with sweat, telling me to tread lightly if I’m to loosen up her memory and pry something—anything—useful out of her brain.

I run my hand down the horse’s neck. “Is this big boy yours?”

A grin overtakes her face. “That’s Paxton.”

“Hey, Paxton.” I give the horse a pat. “What do you do with him?”

“We just started barrel racing.”

“I bet that’s fun.”

“Except when she hits the barrel,” a girl who is a younger version of Mandy blurts out.

Mandy rolls her eyes. “At least I don’t fall off like you.”

“Girls.” Elaina sets her hand on the younger girl’s shoulder and starts to play with her hair. “Let the chief ask her questions.”

I turn my attention back to Mandy. “Can you tell me what you saw yesterday?”

The other girls inch closer, as if they don’t want to miss a word. Mandy swallows. “Sometimes I take Paxton down the road after we practice barrels to cool him off. I saw that Amish girl walking along the road down by that old barn, and this car drove up next to her. She walked over and started talking to someone.”

“Did you see who she was talking to?”

“No.”

“What kind of car was it?”

“It was just old and kind of gross-looking.” Her eyes dart left as she tries to recall. “Dark. Blue, I think.”

I glance at Rasmussen and see him jot something in his note pad; then I turn my attention back to Mandy. “Do you know what time that was?”

“Around seven-thirty.”

I glance through the door toward the gravel lane. “When you go down the road, do you go left or right?”

“Left. We usually ride down to the bridge.”

I’m familiar with the bridge. It’s about a half a mile down the road and spans a small stream and greenbelt that separates a soybean field from a cornfield.

“Was the driver a man or a woman?” I ask.

Her eyes slide toward her mom, who gives her an encouraging nod. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Did Sadie get into the car?” I ask.

She knows where I’m going with my line of questioning; I see it in her eyes. And for the first time, the girl looks scared. “I don’t know.”

“Did you notice which direction the car went?”

“It was still there when I left.”

I give her a smile. “You did great, Mandy. Thank you.” I turn my attention to Elaina and hand her my card. “If she remembers something later, will you give me a call? My cell number is on the back. I’m available day or night.”

The woman gives me a firm nod and lowers her voice. “God bless you guys. I hope you find that girl safe and sound.”

A few minutes later, I’m back in the Tahoe, idling past the bridge where Mandy Reiglesberger claims to have seen Sadie Miller talking to someone in a vaguely described vehicle. It’s not much to go on—not enough to go on—but it’s all I’ve got.

I’ve called Tomasetti and asked for a list of individuals in Holmes and Coshocton counties who own dark-colored cars more than three years old. But we both know extracting any useful information is a long shot. Still, I could whittle down the results to pedophiles or males convicted of a sex crime in the last five years. It’s a start.

I park on the gravel shoulder a few yards from the bridge. Looking in my rearview mirror, I see Rasmussen pull over behind me. We exit our vehicles and meet on the shoulder.

He looks toward the west, where the sun has already sunk behind a purple bank of clouds. “It’s going to be dark in half an hour.”

Trying not to feel as if we’re wasting our time, I motion left. “I’ll go east and you go west. Let’s see what we can find.”

He nods and we start in opposite directions.

There isn’t much traffic along this deserted stretch. Two miles to the east, the road dead-ends at the county dump, which is chained off except on Saturday mornings. The asphalt is pitted and narrow, with a centerline that’s been scoured by tires and the elements. I walk the narrow shoulder, my eyes skimming the grassy bar ditch, the fence, the soybean field, and the macadam on my left. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Anything that seems out of place. Signs of a struggle. Skid marks. None of those things is indicative of a crime. But sometimes building a case is akin to putting a puzzle together. Alone, the pieces mean nothing. But when you arrange them in a meaningful way, a picture emerges.

Several minutes pass with no luck. I’m ever aware of the fading light, birdsong being replaced by a chorus of crickets in the woods. Near the bridge, I find a beer can and the ragged remnants of a paper towel. There’s a plastic Baggie that looks as if it’s been ripped to shreds by some animal. Twenty yards past the bridge, I notice horse hoof marks in the gravel. There are more in the grass, along with a pile of horse manure. I know now that this is where Mandy Reiglesberger rides.

I’m about to turn back, when I notice a single skid mark from a short, hard stop. It’s not unusual to see rubber marks on any roadway. People brake for animals. Teenagers, armed with new driver’s licenses, perform peel-outs to flaunt their horse power and show off for their friends.

These particular skid marks are fresh. My heart jigs when I spot a thin brown cigarette lying in the gravel. It’s smoked halfway down and it’s been run over at least once. Pulling a glove from a compartment on my belt, I slip it over my right hand. I’m an instant away from picking it up when I discern the scent of cloves. And I have proof—at least in my own mind—that at some point Sadie was here.

I glance over my shoulder, see the sheriff wading through knee-high grass fifty yards back. “Rasmussen! I think I found something! Bring the camera!”

Nodding, he starts toward his vehicle.

I return my attention to the skid mark. Cursing the swiftly falling darkness, I follow the direction of the skid to a disturbance in the gravel and a place where the grass has been flattened by a tire. It’s as if someone made a U-turn in the middle of the road. There’s no identifiable tread. Five feet from the skid mark, I find the one thing I didn’t want to find: a dark, irregularly shaped stain. I know immediately it’s blood.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter, staving off a crushing sense of helplessness.

“Looks like blood.”

I turn at the sound of Rasmussen’s voice.

He pulls a Mini Maglite from his belt and sets the beam on the stain. “Might not be hers.” He looks around, his eyes going to the wooded area at the bridge. “Could be from an animal that got hit. Raccoon or possum that came up from that creek.”

“Maybe.” But I don’t think that’s the case. More than likely, if an animal had been struck by a car, the carcass would be lying nearby. I motion toward the cigarette butt a few feet away. “Sadie Miller smoked clove cigarettes.”

We kneel next to the stain. There’s not enough blood to form a pool like the one in Buck Creek. This one is elongated and looks more like a smear, or a scrape.

Wishing for a magnifying glass, I lean close. I see what looks like bits of flesh that have been abraded by the rough surface. My eyes land on something in the center of the stain, sending a scatter of goose bumps over my arms. “A hair,” I hear myself say.

“Human?”

“I don’t know. It’s long. Same color and length as Sadie’s.” I straighten, look at him. “I’m going to call Tomasetti and get a CSU out here.”

He looks around. “Kate, I hate to say this, because this could turn out to be nothing. But it almost looks like a hit-and-run involving a pedestrian.”

A dozen arguments spring to mind. We’re overacting. Reading things into this that aren’t there. Chances are, a deer or dog or a fucking raccoon got hit. But considering everything we know, his theory is solid. Too damn solid.

“He ran her down,” I whisper. “And he took her.”

He tilts his head to catch my eye, then holds my gaze. “I know you have a connection to this girl. If you want me to—”

“I can handle it.” I know he’s thinking about the Slabaugh case and the fact that I used deadly force. I guard my secrets well, but he knows I’m still dealing with the aftereffects.

He nods, but his eyes are knowing. “I’ll get a roadblock set up and get some photos.”

I unclip my phone, surprised that my hands are shaking. Impatient with myself, I punch speed dial to get Tomasetti. He answers with his usual growl and I fill him in on Mandy Reigelsberger’s sighting of Sadie Miller and the scene Rasmussen and I discovered.

“You sure the hair is human?” he asks.

“I’ve never met a raccoon with long hair.” Neither of us laughs. “I was wondering if you could send a CSU.”

“I can have someone there within the hour.”

“I owe you one.”

“I’ll remind you of that next time I see you.”

I almost ask him when that will be, but I don’t want to sound needy. Maybe because, at the moment, I am. “Anything on your end?”

“We have a witness who claims Gilfillan with the Twelve Passages Church had contact with Annie King, targeted her for recruiting. Goddard brought him in for questioning.

In terms of the case, unearthing that kind of connection is huge. “You don’t sound too excited.”

“Witness is a flaky son of a bitch. Known meth user. Disgruntled because he was kicked out of the church.”

“So he’s got an ax to grind.”

“Maybe.” But his voice is uncertain. “Or maybe Mr. Meth is telling the truth and Annie King didn’t want to be recruited and things went sour. I’m working on a search warrant now.”

I think about Gilfillan in terms of Sadie’s disappearance. “Does he have an alibi for last night?”

“He claims he was home. Alone.”

The need to be there, to talk to Gilfillan myself, burns through me. Is it possible the self-proclaimed pastor is preying on Amish youths who are confused about the religious path they want to follow?

“Keep me posted,” I say.

“You know I will.”