Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(41)

“Oh, hey, Chief.”

“Dig up everything you can find on Noah Schwartz. I think he lived in Crooked Creek, Ohio. Scioto County. No middle. He was an Amish bishop. I believe he’s deceased.”

She’s already reaching for a legal pad, jotting everything down. “Got it.”

I slide messages from my slot and head toward my office. “Run him through LEADS. Check for warrants,” I say over my shoulder. “Get me a list of midwives in Crooked Creek and Scioto County. I think there are some registries out there.” Even as I bark out the requests, I realize that because we’re dealing with the Amish—many of whom stay off the governmental grid—the information may be hit-or-miss.

“Chief, you still interested in Marlene Byler?” she calls out.

I turn and go back to her station to find her holding out a purple folder. “There’s not much out there. I mean, with her being Amish and all. Just a newspaper story and an obituary,” she tells me. “That’s how I found her. Mary Yoder is listed in the obit.”

I take the folder. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a great detective’s mind?”

She grins. “All the time.”

In my office, I boot up my computer, pour a cup of day-old coffee, and open the file on Marlene Byler. Her obituary is on top, so I read.

Marlene Byler, 29, of Crooked Creek died unexpectedly on March 17, 1990. She was born in Scioto County on May 11, 1961. She was a homemaker and member of the Old Order Amish Church. She is survived by her sister Mary Yoder of Painters Mill.

I go to the next page. It’s an article from the Scioto County Times Record newspaper dated two days after her death twenty-nine years ago.

SCIOTO COUNTY WOMAN JUMPS TO HER DEATH

Sheriff Kris McGuire tells the Scioto County Times Record 29-year-old Marlene Byler died after jumping from the Sciotoville Bridge into the Ohio River about 5 P.M. Thursday. McGuire said her death is being investigated as an apparent suicide. According to the sheriff’s department spokesman, an autopsy will determine if Byler died from the impact, drowned, or died from a combination of factors.



I read the article twice. It’s a troubling, unusual story. Not only was Marlene Byler Amish, but she was evidently distraught enough to jump to her death. Is any of it related to the murder of Mary Yoder or the abduction of Elsie Helmuth? What secrets did she take with her to her grave?

Shoving the questions aside for now, I cruise out to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children website, seeking information on infant abductions in Scioto County seven years earlier. There’s nothing there. I spend an hour scouring every law enforcement and missing-person database I can think of—all to no avail.

At the same time, Mona ferrets through various internet sites for information on Noah Schwartz, the bishop. The only thing she finds is a single piece on the buggy accident that took his life two weeks earlier and an obituary in The Budget.

“Here’s the list of registered midwives for Scioto County.” She passes me a printout from one of the national registries. “None listed for Crooked Creek, Chief. Several from Scioto County.”

I take the list. “You got your Google hat with you?”

She grins. “Never leave home without it.”

“I’m looking for information on a newborn that went missing seven years ago, give or take. If you strike out in Scioto County, expand your search to contiguous counties. Look at everything, not just law enforcement databases—but blogs and social media sites, too.”

“I’m all over it.”

For three hours Mona and I probe every crevice of the internet, searching for even the most obscure mention of a missing child, first in Crooked Creek, and then Scioto and surrounding counties. A couple of cases meet our general criteria, but further investigation proves it couldn’t have been Elsie. Either the case was solved or the baby was male or the parents were of Asian or African American descent.

At ten P.M., I hit a wall. The words and images on the screen begin to blur. The last thing any cop wants to do when a child is missing is walk away because of something as inconsequential as sleep. But there comes a point when exhaustion becomes an impediment to productivity. I’ve reached that point.

Elsie Helmuth has been missing for thirty excruciating hours. Every tick of the clock lessens her chance of survival. But it’s time to call it a day. Go home. Sleep. Start fresh in the morning. Right.

Tomasetti calls at midnight. “DNA from the blood found in the yard of the Schattenbaum farm belongs to Elsie Helmuth,” he says without preamble.

I close my eyes, relieved he can’t see the shiver that goes through me. “Damn it.”

“As far as we know she could have gotten a bloody nose in a scuffle,” he offers, “or fallen and cut herself. Something like that.”

Or else the crazy fucker cut her.…

Neither of us utter the words, but we’re thinking it.

“I hate this,” I say.

He sighs. “Yeah.”

“What about the notes I gave you?” I ask. “Anything come back? Prints? The paper or notebook manufacturer?”

“We got zilch. No prints. No DNA.” A buzz of silence. “Kate, you sound wiped out.”

I laugh, but it rings tired and phony. I tell him about my conversations with Bishop Troyer and Miriam Helmuth.