Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(19)

Both men shake their heads.

Over the next minutes, I take both men through the same questions I posed to the Grabers, but they’ve nothing to add. By the time I’m finished, Glock has exited the house and joins us.

“If you think of anything that might be important, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.” I hand the elder man my card.

Neither man says anything, so I nod at Glock and we head back to the Explorer.

“Not very repentant for a religious guy,” Glock says as we drive down the lane.

“In the eyes of the Swartzentruber Amish, he did nothing wrong.”

“A thirteen-year-old kid?”

I shrug. “As disgusting as that is, I don’t like him for the Helmuth girl.”

“Yeah.” Glock sighs. “I’d still like to beat his ass.”





CHAPTER 5


Four hours missing

A missing endangered child is the kind of scenario in which a cop needs to be in a dozen places at once. Searching. Talking to family, witnesses, and suspects. Extracting evidence at the crime scene. Doing something—whatever it takes—to find a child in imminent danger and bring her home. Every minute that passes is another minute lost, and that torturous clock never stops ticking closer to a potentially devastating outcome.

Glock and I spent half an hour talking to registered sex offender Gene Fitch. He’s an unlikable individual and a drunken slob to boot, but he had a solid alibi.

I’ve called upon every law enforcement resource available, including BCI, the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, and the Ohio State Highway Patrol. I’ve mobilized every member of my own department. The Amber alert has gone out. Tip line has been activated. No one is going home tonight. We’re four hours in, and it’s as if she’s disappeared from the face of the earth.

It’s excruciating to know an innocent little girl is out there, frightened and alone and in the kind of danger no child should ever have to face. I don’t know what’s worse, thinking of her being brutalized—or imagining her little body lying somewhere and growing cold.

I’m consciously trying not to become too entangled in my own emotions when a call comes in from Tomasetti. Dread punches me squarely in the gut, and I brace. Please don’t have bad news.…

“I’m on my way to the Helmuth place,” he begins. “I’m with a colleague. She’s trained to interview young children. I thought we might have another go at the five-year-old.”

“I can be there in a few minutes.”

“Hang on a sec.” I hear him speaking to someone on the other end, and then he comes back on. “She’s wondering if you can bring a toy for the girl. Something a kid her age will like and be comforted by.”

“I know just the thing.”



* * *



I make it to the Carriage Stop Country Store on the traffic circle just as the manager is locking up for the night. Some fast talking gets me in the door and to the toy aisle. I was never a doll lover as a child; much to my mamm’s chagrin, I was a tomboy and more likely to be playing ice hockey or riding the plow horse. Still, I manage to find an Amish-made doll I think a five-year-old girl will like.

In keeping with the Amish tradition of avoiding any type of graven image, it’s faceless and made of nude-colored fabric. She’s wearing a royal-blue dress, a black apron, and a black bonnet, with smooth nubs for hands and feet. I deflect questions from the clerk about the murder and missing girl as she rings up the sale. I put it on my card and then I’m through the door and back in the Explorer.

I pass six buggies as I near the Helmuth farm, Amish men armed with flashlights or lanterns and the resolve to find one of their own. At the mouth of the lane, I raise my hand in greeting to two boys on horseback. It’s unusual to see so many out after dark, when most Amish families are winding down for the night or already in bed. These men have organized search parties. More than likely, the women are cooking and cleaning for the Helmuth family. As is always the case, the Amish community has rallied to support those in crisis.

The farm glows with lantern light. The windows. The front porch. Even the barn is lit up. There are four more buggies, the horses still hitched, parked in the gravel off the back door. Tomasetti’s Tahoe sits adjacent to a chicken coop, the headlights on, engine running. I park behind the Tahoe and start toward it. I’m midway there when Tomasetti and his passenger get out. He’s wearing his usual creased trousers, button-down shirt, and suit jacket with the tie I bought him for Christmas last year. He looks tired, rumpled, and grim.

“Agent Tomasetti.” I extend my hand, cross to him, and we shake.

“Chief Burkholder.”

I turn my attention to the woman standing next to him and offer my hand. She’s petite, about fifty years of age, with silver hair cut into a sleek bob. She’s wearing the usual agent attire. Khaki slacks. Button-down shirt. Practical shoes. A navy windbreaker embellished with the BCI logo. She’s soft-spoken and self-assured, without the in-your-face demeanor I see in so many law enforcement pros.

“Mackenzie Upshaw.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “Everyone calls me Mackie.”

She’s no-nonsense and to-the-point. No makeup. No frills. Discerning blue eyes beneath thick black brows.

“Agent Tomasetti was just filling me in on the case,” she tells me. “I wanted to get your take before we speak to the child.”