Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(13)

“I think the Schattenbaums owned about sixty acres,” I tell them. “Ran cows for a while, so it’s fenced. Probably cross-fenced.”

Skid motions right. “Woods are pretty thick along that creek on the east side.”

“Whole damn place is overgrown,” one of the deputies pipes up. “Nooks and fuckin’ crannies.”

“Got some deep pools in that creek,” Glock adds. “Water runs swift in a couple of areas.”

“All right.” I bring my hands together and relay a description of the girl. “Name is Elsie. Seven years old. Amish. Special needs.” I motion toward the rear of the property. “Set up a loose grid. Glock, you take the east woods. Keep your eyes on the brush and water, especially any deep pools. Skid, you got the fence line. Keep your eyes west.” I look at the two deputies. “Can you guys handle the pasture?”

Both men nod.

“Keep your eyes open for blood,” I tell them. “Stay cognizant of evidence. Mark anything suspect. We’ll do a more thorough grid search when we get more guys.” I motion toward the greenbelt. “I’ll take the creek in front. Eyes open. Let’s go.”

The four men head toward the back of the property. I cut between the house and barn, head toward the woods. The grass is hip high as I pass through a microforest of saplings, most of which are taller than me. It’s a huge, overgrown area. I try not to think about how easy it would be to miss something important. Midway to the fence line, I rap my shin on a solid object, realize it’s the remains of a doghouse. From the look of things, no one has been this way for a long time. No broken branches. None of the grass is laid over.

I find a stick, use it to poke around, hopefully avoid running into something hidden. Fifty yards and I reach the fence that runs front to back along the east side of the property. Rusty barbed wire is propped up on a combination of cedar posts and steel T-posts. The fence is falling down where the wood has rotted through. I make the turn, head south toward the road.

The house is now behind me and to my right. I stick to the fence line, ducking beneath branches, glad it’s too late in the year for snakes. I hear the rush of water over rocks to my left, telling me I’m not far from the creek.

I’m thirty yards from the road when I spot a patch of disturbed grass. I stop, my pulse kicking, eyes tracking. The grass is laid over. A path, I realize. It starts at the house, weaves through a dozen trees, and leads to the fence. From there, it follows the fence line toward the road. I hesitate, taking it in, aware that if someone left the house in a hurry and didn’t want to be seen, this would be the perfect route.

That said, there are a lot of deer in the area. My datt was a hunter and I went with him often enough to know the animals are creatures of habit and use trails. Still … I move right, as to not disturb the path. When I’m close enough, I squat and lean over to check for cloven hoofprints, but there are none. This is not a deer path. Upon closer inspection, I see that the tall blades of grass are broken in places. I’m no tracker, but it looks fresh.

I’ve gone another dozen yards when I spot the shoe. It’s a girl’s sneaker. The laces are still tied. Canvas. Cheap. The kind of footwear a growing Amish girl might wear. Avoiding the path, I travel another ten feet, and a glint of red on the grass stops me cold. I know even before I move closer for a better look that it’s blood.

“Shit,” I whisper. “Shit.”

I check my duty belt for something with which to mark the location. The only thing I can come up with is a yellow sticky note. I skewer it on my stick and poke the length of wood into the ground. I move on.

I find more blood. A footprint. Adult size with visible tread. No more sticky notes; I’m going to have to rely on my initial marker and my memory. In the back of my mind, a little voice chants: Please don’t find that little girl dead.…

There’s no way to tell whose blood it is. There was a copious amount inside the house; it’s likely the killer carried it out on his clothes or shoes or both, and it transferred to the grass. It’s also possible he cut himself during the attack. Knives get bloody; they get slippery. The good news is I now have evidence to collect and send to the lab. Worst-case scenario, the blood belongs to the girl.…

I snap several photos and then traverse the ditch that parallels the road in front of the house. I step onto the asphalt. A quarter mile away, police lights flicker where the sheriff’s department has closed the road. Somewhere in the distance an ambulance sings. I walk through the ditch again and go back to the mouth of the path. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I walk slowly alongside the trail, watching. Another smear of blood on the trampled blades. I bend, study the ground, spot the heel mark. Not a child’s, but an adult’s. Large, probably male.

Tugging out my cell, I call Tomasetti. “I got blood. And a decent footprint.”

“Where are you?” he asks.

I look around. I can just make out the roof of the house through the trees. “A couple hundred yards southeast of the house, near the fence line.”

“I’ll get another agent out here. We’re running out of light.”

He’s right; dusk is fast approaching. If the clouds to the west are any indication, we’ve probably got rain on the way, too. Neither of those things bodes well for evidence collection, some of which is out-of-doors.

“You have a generator?” he asks.