Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (6 page)

“Welcome aboard, Chief Burkholder,” he says, releasing my hand.

Bates takes command of the meeting and gets right to the business at hand. “We’re pleased you’re here, Chief Burkholder. I’m sure John has already filled you in on the situation.”

I nod. “I understand there’s now a third person missing.”

“We just got the call from local law enforcement in Buck Creek,” Bates says. “I know you’re anxious to get started, so we’ll keep this brief.”

McNinch motions to the woman, who has remained seated throughout the introductions but hasn’t taken her eyes off me since I walked in. “This is Paige Wilson, my assistant. She’s got a couple of forms for you to sign, Chief Burkholder. We’ve got to keep all of this on the up-and-up with Uncle Sam.”

“Call me Kate.”

Nodding, he motions to the forms on the table. “We pay a small stipend, plus mileage, expenses.”

The forms are in typical government triplicate. The pages that require a signature are marked with red flags. Everyone’s in a hurry, so I give the forms a cursory read-through and scribble my name.

When I’ve finished, Bates says, “I’ve wanted to meet you since Tomasetti assisted with the Slaughterhouse Murders. Hell of a case for a small town.”

“It was a tough one.” The very thought of that investigation and all its gnarly implications still makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Agent Tomasetti was a tremendous help to the entire department.”

“He tells us you used to be Amish,” McNinch says.

That’s always the thing everyone wants to know. They don’t care about my résumé or law-enforcement background or my degree in criminal justice. They don’t ask about my solve rate from when I was a detective in Columbus. They want to know if I was Amish; if I wore homemade dresses and rode in a horse-drawn buggy and lived my life without electricity and cars. “I grew up Amish,” I say simply.

In my peripheral vision, I see the woman lean slightly to one side, and I wonder if she’s checking to see if I’m wearing practical shoes.

“I understand you’re also fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch,” McNinch says.

I nod. “That’s particularly beneficial, especially with regard to breaking down some of the cultural barriers.”

“So far we’re batting zero in the way of garnering much useful information,” Bates says.

“Local law enforcement isn’t getting much from the Amish families,” Tomasetti adds, clarifying the matter.

“Unfortunately, that’s not unusual,” I tell them. “There’s a certain level of distrust between the Amish and the government, particularly law enforcement. We ran into that when we had a rash of hate crimes last December.” I don’t look at Tomasetti as I speak. I’m afraid if I do, somehow these men will know that we’re more than colleagues, more than friends. “The Amish are also slow in making contact with us because of their tenet of remaining separate. But there are also cultural issues. Religious issues.” I think of the chasm that stretches between me and my siblings. I don’t mention the fact that sometimes even if you’re born into the plain life, you can still be an outsider. “Generally speaking, once we convince the family we have only their best interest at heart, they’ll open up, especially if the safety of a loved one is in question.”

“Excellent.” Bates slides a folder across the table toward me. “We’re still putting things together, Kate, so the file is sparse.”

Intrigued, I open the file and find myself staring down at three missing-person reports. Bates was right: The information is hit-or-miss. The missing consist of three females between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, all of whom are Amish.

“We think their being Amish is the key element here,” McNinch says.

“Do you think this is a serial thing?” I ask. “And this is some kind of escalation?”

Tomasetti nods. “Maybe.”

“What we can’t figure is motive,” Bates says.

“No ransom demand,” Tomasetti puts in.

“Yet,” Bates adds.

“Anything come to mind off the top of your head?” McNinch asks.

I look up from the reports and make eye contact with him. “I’m sure you’ve already considered this, but the first thing that comes to mind is that these are sexual in nature.” I think of the Plank murder case and all of the dark places the investigation took me. “It could be fetish-related. An individual with an Amish fetish acting out some fantasy. His motivation has more to do with the victims’ being Amish than anything else.”

“I didn’t know such a thing existed,” McNinch comments.

“We’re running queries through NCIC and VICAP,” Tomasetti says. “We’re still waiting for results.”

“There’s also the hate angle,” I tell them. “It’s happened in Painters Mill. I know of cases in other towns, too.”

“I guess hate crimes don’t have to make sense.” Bates scratches his head. “But the Amish? Seems like they’d make pretty good neighbors.”

“Some people don’t like the religion and see them as fanatical or cultlike. Some don’t like them because the horse and buggies hold up traffic.” I shrug. “You name it and there’s probably some nutcase out there who thinks it.”

“Have you ever dealt with any kidnappings with regard to the Amish?” McNinch asks.

I shake my head. “Suspects?”

Bates shakes his head. “Nada.”

“Anything at any of the scenes?” I ask.

“We don’t have a scene,” Tomasetti replies. “These kids disappeared without a trace. We don’t know where the actual kidnappings—if, in fact, that’s what we’re dealing with—took place.”

I look down at the file. The part of me that is a cop is intrigued by the puzzle. I want to know what happened and why. I want to find the person responsible, go head-to-head with whoever it is. I want to stop him. Bring him to justice. But the more human part of me—the part of me that is Amish and knows the culture with such intimacy—is outraged by what has been done and frightened by the possibilities. “What about the victims? Aside from being Amish, do they share any other common threads?”

“Not that we’ve found, but we’re still gathering information,” McNinch says.

“Analyst is looking at everything now,” Tomasetti adds. “Once we arrive on-scene, we’ll talk to the families. That’s where you come in.”

I nod. “That’s where we’re going to get the brunt of our information. The families. Friends.”

“We haven’t been able to get our hands on photos,” Bates adds.

“Most Amish won’t have photos of their children,” I tell him.

He stares at me blankly, and I realize he’s probably not an Ohio native. “Most Amish don’t like to have their photos taken,” I tell him. “They feel it’s a vain display of pride. Some of the more conservative have biblical beliefs that keep them from having any kind of likeness done.”

“We’ve brought in the state Highway Patrol,” Bates says. “They wanted photos, but all we could give them were physical descriptions.”

“If the parents will cooperate, we may be able to get a sketch done,” I offer as an alternative. But everyone knows a sketch takes time and isn’t as helpful as a photo.

“Say the word and we’ll get someone down there,” Bates says.

Tomasetti glances at his watch, and I know he’s sending his superiors a not-so-subtle message to hurry this along so we can get on the road.

“Has local law enforcement talked to the parents?” I ask.

Tomasetti nods. “I talked to the sheriff. He didn’t get much. Apparently, the parents are as baffled as we are.”

McNinch scrubs a hand over his head. “No reflection on small-town law enforcement, but I suspect these people are out of their league. You know, small departments with minimal resources. They’re under-staffed. The sheriff sold vacuum cleaners before he took the job, for Chrissake. No offense, Kate, but the majority of these guys just don’t have the experience for this kind of investigation.”

“None taken.” I smile at him. “Just FYI, I’ve never sold vacuum cleaners.”

McNinch chuckles. “Then you’re not out of your depth.”

I hope not,
a small voice inside me whispers.

Fifteen minutes later, Tomasetti and I are on the road in his Tahoe, heading east on the Ohio Turnpike toward Buck Creek, Ohio, where the most recent disappearance took place. The town is located near the Mosquito Creek Wilderness area in the northeastern part of the state. It’s about an hour from the Richfield office, through pretty countryside dotted with small towns, farms, and miles of tall hardwood forest. Tomasetti drives well over the speed limit, which takes a bite out of the drive time. At Newton Falls, we cut north on Interstate 5 and pass through Cortland, then take a less-traveled state highway toward Buck Creek.

Fifteen minutes later, a sign welcomes us:
THE HUNTING CAPITAL OF OHIO, POPULATION 1,200
. The first thing I notice about the town are the trees. Ancient buckeyes, maples, and elms line the main drag, their massive trunks nearly obscuring the buildings from view. We pass a manufacturing park where Erie Overhead Door and Whittle Plastics share a gravel lot that’s jam-packed with cars and trucks. The downtown area is quaint, with redbrick storefronts, hanging pots over-flowing with petunias, and an old-fashioned cobblestone street. We pass half a dozen antiques shops, two sporting-goods stores, a bank that looks like something out of the Bonnie and Clyde era, and
The Early Bird
newspaper.

We turn left at the traffic light, pass a massive Lutheran church and the Buck Creek High School, home of the Fighting Panthers, and then we’re on a twisty two-lane road, heading out of town. Trees encroach onto the shoulders of the road, the canopies blocking the sun, so that only the occasional shaft of light flashes across the windshield. It’s cooler here, perhaps because of our proximity to the lake, and Tomasetti flicks off the air conditioning. I’m in the process of opening my window when his cell erupts.

He thumbs a button, then growls his name into his Bluetooth. “Where?” he snaps after a moment. Then: “We’re on the way.”

He ends the call, then shoots me a look. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” he asks.

“Let’s start with the good,” I reply.

“I just took a call from the sheriff. We have our first scene.”

“That is good news.” Other than catching someone red-handed, or finding the missing, having a scene from which to extract evidence is the best news we could receive at this point. “What’s the bad news?”

“There’s blood. According to the sheriff, a lot of it.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Anything else?”

“Locals are there, looking around. I’m going to get a CSU down here.”

“How far?”

“A couple of miles from here.”

“That’s one of the things I like about small towns,” I tell him. “Never far to the scene of the crime.”

A mile down the road, we turn onto a narrow asphalt track. A quarter mile in, a Trumbull County sheriff’s cruiser with its emergency lights flashing is parked on the gravel shoulder. Two additional cruisers straddle the road at haphazard angles, blocking both lanes. A uniformed deputy drops orange caution cones to divert traffic. Another strings yellow crime-scene tape, using the trees that grow alongside the road and the tops of the cones to cordon off the area.

Tomasetti stops a good distance from the scene and pulls onto the gravel shoulder. We exit simultaneously and head toward the nearest cruiser.

The air is cool and clean and filled with a cacophony of birdsong. We’re in the midst of a forest that turns midday into twilight. The thick underbrush forms a seemingly impenetrable wall on both sides of the roadway. The area is shadowed and humid and has the feel of some vast wilderness—or a place where something bad could happen and no one would ever know. Aside from the occasional crackle of a police radio, it’s so quiet, I can hear the buzz of insects.

“I’m sorry, folks, but the road’s closed.”

I look up to see a large man in plainclothes striding toward us, his expression grim. He’s about forty years old, with a military buzz cut and a handlebar mustache that looks touched up to cover the gray. He’s wearing khaki trousers, a white shirt with the underarms sweated through, and a leather shoulder holster with a nice-looking Taurus .380 sticking out of its leather sheath. He looks more like the Hollywood version of a private detective than a county sheriff, and I get the impression he’s a hit with the ladies—a fact that doesn’t elude him.

He motions in the direction from which we came. “You’re going to have to turn around and take the township road.”

His voice trails off when Tomasetti holds up his identification. “We’re with BCI.”

The man’s expression softens and I see a flash of relief. “I thought you two looked kind of official.” Chortling, he sticks out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Bud Goddard.”

Tomasetti makes the introductions, and I show my temporary ID, which was issued to me just this morning.

Goddard pumps my hand with a little too much enthusiasm, and I know he’s genuinely glad we’re here. “You’re that Amish police chief nabbed that serial killer a few years back.” His voice is as deep and melodic as that of a bass opera singer.

“Formerly Amish,” I tell him. “Agent Tomasetti thought I might be able to lend a hand.”