Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(43)
“Might be best if they don’t know you’re down there,” he says. “Especially if you want to keep it low-key.”
“I do.”
“In that case I’ll try to keep it under my hat,” he says dryly. “Look, I’ve got to run. Keep me posted on how it’s going. And if it’s not too much to ask, stay the hell out of trouble.”
* * *
Any time a cop pokes around in an outside jurisdiction, it’s prudent to check in with local law enforcement to let them know you’re in town so I make my first stop in Portsmouth. The Scioto County Sheriff’s Office is housed in a newish redbrick building that also accommodates the county jail and communications center. I called ahead, hoping to meet with the sheriff, but he wasn’t available, so I spoke with one of the deputies that regularly patrols the Crooked Creek area. I briefed him on the case, some of which he was already familiar with. I asked him to check for reports—official or unofficial—of a missing child six to eight years earlier. He said it didn’t ring a bell, but he’d only been with the department a couple of years. He promised to take a look and let me know.
Deputy Martin Harleson meets me inside the reception area with a hearty handshake and welcoming smile. After introductions are made, the duty deputy buzzes us through the secure door and Harleson shepherds me to a small meeting room equipped with a table and chairs, a coffee station, sink, and vending machines.
I lay out the fundamentals of the case. “We believe he may be Amish and has connections to Crooked Creek. I wanted to let you guys know I was in town.”
“Any way I can help?” He asks the question sincerely enough, but I see the curiosity in his eyes. Cops are a nosy lot, me included. We like to be in the thick of things, especially when it includes murder.
“Do you know who replaced Noah Schwartz, the Amish bishop who was killed?”
He shakes his head. “No idea.”
“Do you have the names of any of the ministers?” I ask. “Or preachers? Elders?”
“We don’t deal with the Amish much here in Portsmouth. Most of them live to the east of us. They own a lot of the farms down by the river. A lot of buggies on the road in that area. Bishop Schwartz was the first fatality. Hit-and-run. Let me tell you, it was the worst damn thing I ever saw.”
The term “hit-and-run” gives me pause. “What happened?”
“Driver hit the buggy from behind. Had to be doing fifty. Killed Schwartz instantly.” Sighing, he scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I don’t think those Amish people realize how vulnerable they are in those buggies.”
“You guys make an arrest?” I ask, troubled not only because Schwartz is one of the people who was involved in the case, but because I’m not a fan of coincidence.
“We didn’t have much to work with. There were no witnesses. Nothing left behind. Not even a fuckin’ skid mark.”
I stare at him, aware that my pulse is up. “The driver made no attempt to stop?”
“We assumed he was probably under the influence. Drugs or alcohol or both.” Grimacing he shakes his head. “Welcome to the opioid epidemic.”
“Where did it happen?”
“River Road area. We call it The Bend. East where the road runs along the river, then doglegs north. Kids go out there all the time to drag-race and raise hell.”
“The bishop lived in the area?”
“He actually lived to the east a ways.”
“Any idea what he was doing there?”
“No one ever said.” He cocks his head. “Why the interest?”
“I think the bishop knew the family in Painters Mill.” I shrug, trying to keep it nonchalant. “Did you have a chance to double-check on any missing infants reported six to eight years ago?”
“I did a cross search, expanded the date criteria to four to ten years, and there’s nothing there. Had a missing baby five years ago, but it was a domestic thing and resolved within twenty-four hours. Two-year-old boy went missing nine years ago. Deputy found him in a pond, drowned. That’s all I got.”
He shifts, looking a little miffed because he knows I’m not telling him everything. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re interested in missing minor children?”
“The Helmuth family has relatives down here.” I shrug. “Since most kidnappings of minor children are perpetrated by a family member or someone known to the family, I thought I’d sniff around.”
His eyes narrow on mine. “You think some Amish person from Crooked Creek took that little girl?” He makes no effort to conceal the incredulity in his voice. “Most of the Amish down here are Old Order. Painters Mill is four hours away. That would be a difficult trip to make by buggy.”
“They hire drivers when they need to travel a distance not practical to cover by buggy.”
“You know a lot about the Amish.”
“I was born Amish,” I tell him. “I left the fold when I was eighteen.”
“Oh. That’s interesting.” He offers a sheepish grin. “So you know Penn Dutch and all that?”
“I do.”
“Huh.” He scratches his head, looking amused. “Never met an ex-Amish chief of police.”
I smile back, knowing the revelation would earn me some leeway. “I thought talking to some of the Helmuths’ relatives might be helpful.”