Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(29)

We eat in silence. When I walked into the house twenty minutes ago I wasn’t hungry. Now I’m starving and I eat with relish. After the shower and a clean uniform, I feel human again, my mind fresh. As I down my second cup of coffee, my thoughts take me through the conversations I had overnight. The family dynamics. The one exchange that keeps coming back to me is the odd commentary between the Helmuth children, Becky and Bonnie, about their missing sister.

Mamm says Elsie was a gift.

I’ve known that since the day Bishop Troyer brought her—

When I asked them to clarify, they clammed up. Why? Later, when I asked the bishop’s wife if he was there the day Elsie was born, she told me he was not. It’s a small discrepancy, but it bothers me enough so that I’m thinking about it. And what about Elsie being the only baby in the family that Martha Hershberger didn’t deliver?

“You’re thinking about something awfully hard,” Tomasetti says as he gathers dishes and takes them to the sink.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m probably not very good company this morning.”

“Anything you want to share?”

I set down my mug, give him my full attention, the words looping in my head, a record skip I can’t seem to stop. “I think there’s something going on with the Helmuth family.”

He sips coffee, looking at me over the rim. “The parents?”

I tell him about the girls’ comments. “Bonnie, who’s ten, cut off midsentence. It was as if she knew she’d broached a subject she wasn’t supposed to discuss.”

“You think the parents are withholding information?”

“I think they’re not telling us something that may or may not be relevant to the case. I don’t know what it is or why they’d keep secrets when their child is missing. But those kids aren’t very good liars and it was quite an odd exchange.”

It’s the first time I’ve said the words aloud. As dubious as they sound, it strengthens my belief that there’s something amiss.

I tell Tomasetti about my conversations with Miriam Helmuth and, later, with the midwife, Martha Hershberger.

“She delivered all of Miriam’s babies, except for Elsie.”

“So what aren’t they telling you?” Tomasetti asks.

Between the caffeine, the food, and the shower, my brain has clicked back into place. I look at him, thinking aloud now. “The Helmuths have eight children.”

“That’s not unusual for an Amish family, though, right?”

“Two of the girls are seven years old.”

“Twins?”

I shake my head. “Miriam says no.”

“Could be Irish twins. It’s technically possible.”

My mind is already racing ahead. “Tomasetti, I took the physical description of Elsie. Brown hair. Brown eyes.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t think much about it at the time. But when I walked in to the Helmuth house and got a good look at the other children … Tomasetti, they’re strawberry blond and green-eyed. I mean, not all kids look like their parents or their siblings, right? But in light of some of the other things that have been said…” I shrug. “There’s something there.”

I pick up my cell, hit the button for the station, aware that he’s watching me with an expression that’s part skeptical and part perplexed.

Mona picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Chief.”

“Get me vital statistics on the Helmuth children,” I say. “Birth dates. Place of birth.”

“All of them?”

“All eight.” I rattle off the names from memory. “I need it yesterday.”

“Warp factor one.”

“Who’s on duty this morning?” I ask, pulling out my notebook.

“Everyone. I mean, in light of the missing kid…”

“I’m heading that way. Briefing in my office in an hour.”

“I’ll let everyone know.”

I glance down at my notebook, flip the page. “Mona, one more thing. See if you can find anything on Mary Yoder’s sister. First name is Marlene. I think she lives south of here. No city.”

“You got it.”

I end the call to find Tomasetti’s eyes still on me. A look I’m all too familiar with. “You think I’m barking up the wrong tree,” I say.

“I think if those two seven-year-old siblings were born any closer than nine months apart, the parents have some explaining to do.”

We fall silent. I see the wheels of his mind working out the timeline, putting all those messy details into some order that makes sense in terms of the crime.

“When we talked to the witness child, Annie, do you remember what she told us the man who took Elsie said?” I ask.

He nods. “‘She’s mine.’”

“I didn’t think of the statement in terms of a literal meaning,” I tell him. “Deranged individuals say all sorts of crazy things that don’t make sense.” I shrug. “Maybe I should have. Maybe it means something.”

“Like what?”

“What if, for whatever reason, this male subject thinks that girl is … his.”

“I think there’s a higher probability that the son of a bitch is a nutcase.”