Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(11)

“Da Deivel,” she mumbles.

“Can you tell me what he looked like, sweetie?”

“I can’t remember,” she whispers, not looking at me. “Just a man.”

I pull a lollipop from my pocket. Hearing the wrapper crinkle, she turns her head and eyes the candy.

“It’s strawberry.” I offer it to her.

An almost-smile, and then the girl reaches for the lollipop.

“What was the man wearing?” I ask matter-of-factly.

The process is excruciatingly slow, and again, I feel precious time slipping away. Minutes I can’t get back. Minutes in which a little girl is in grave and immediate danger. I feel the tension coming off these parents. My own tension wrapped tight around my chest. And I remind myself: This has to be done. No other way to move forward.

When Annie doesn’t respond, I try another tactic. “How about if we play a game?”

The little girl turns, looks at me with one eye, the other obscured by the fabric of her mamm’s apron.

“I’ll guess what he looks like and you tell me if I’m right or wrong.”

Nodding, she slides the lollipop into her mouth.

“Was his hair blond, like yours? Or brown, like mine?”

“Like yours,” she says in a small voice.

“Okay.” I pretend to think for a moment. “Was his skin the color of mine? Or was it the color of chocolate pudding?”

The mention of pudding elicits the whisper of a smile. “Yours.”

I pull out my notebook and write. White male. Brn. “Did he have a beard like your datt?”

“I didn’t see.”

“Was he Plain or English?”

“Plain.”

It isn’t the answer I expected. In the back of my mind I wonder how reliable she is as a witness. Usually by the time a child is five years old, they are considered relatively dependable. That said, I’m no expert on the child interview process. There are techniques and procedures and protections in place. In light of a missing sibling, I don’t have time to wait.

“Good job.” I say the words with a little too much enthusiasm. “Were his eyes blue like your mamm’s or brown like your datt’s?”

The child looks up at her mother, lets her eyes slide to her father’s face. In the end her brows knit and she shakes her head.

“Was he old? Like Bishop Troyer? Or young, like your mamm?”

“Kind of in the middle.”

“Was he tall or short?”

“Tall. Grohs.” Big.

“Fat or skinny?”

The girl shakes her head. “Just big.”

“So you and Elsie and Grossmammi were gathering walnuts.” I switch to Deitsch to keep her mind moving, so she doesn’t clam up. “What happened next?”

“Grossmammi went in the house to look at Mrs. Schattenbaum’s kitchen. We heard something break and then yelling so me and Elsie went in to find her.”

“What did you see when you went inside?”

“Grossmammi was on the floor. She was all bloody. Like when Datt takes the cows to make meat. She was making noises. Elsie tried to help her. Then the man came.”

“He came into the kitchen?”

“Ja.” Her nose is running now, her upper lip covered with snot. She doesn’t seem to notice. Lower, her foot begins to jiggle. “I thought he was going to help Grossmammi. But he grabbed Elsie. Real rough like. And she got scared.”

“Did he say anything?”

“I…” She takes the lollipop out of her mouth. Her eyes fill with tears. “I got scared and ran.”

“What about Elsie?” I ask. “Did she say anything?”

“All she did was scream.”





CHAPTER 3


One hour missing

The Schattenbaum place is teeming with activity when I pull into the driveway. I see a Holmes County Sheriff’s Department vehicle. An Ohio State Highway Patrol Dodge Charger. Two Painters Mill cruisers tell me my own department has arrived on scene. While I want all available law enforcement looking for the little girl, I’m cognizant that any evidence left behind needs to be protected and preserved. Not an easy feat when there are a dozen cops tromping all over it.

An hour has passed since Mary Yoder was killed and Elsie Helmuth disappeared, and already the hounds of desperation are nipping at my heels. I park behind Tomasetti’s Tahoe and call my dispatcher.

“I need you to get me the names and addresses of all registered sex offenders in Painters Mill and all of Holmes County,” I say. “If the offender has an Amish-sounding name, flag it. Let me know if any of them live in close proximity to the Schattenbaum place. Start with a five-mile radius and expand from there.”

I hear her typing in the background, noting everything. “Got it.”

“Run Ivan and Miriam Helmuth through LEADS. Run Mary Yoder as well as her deceased husband. Check Edward Graber, too. See if anything comes back.” LEADS is the acronym for the Law Enforcement Automated Data System, which is operated by the Ohio State Highway Patrol and stores information such as criminal records and outstanding warrants.

“Okay.”

“Did you call Doc Coblentz?” I ask, referring to the Holmes County coroner.

“He’s on his way.”