Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(55)

The man jumps from the porch, streaks across the yard. Then I’m through the door. I level my .38 at the man.

But he’s gone.



* * *



The deputy with the Scioto County Sheriff’s Office arrives on scene in fourteen minutes. I’m sitting in the Explorer, which I’ve moved to the road’s shoulder in front of the house. I was able to preserve some of the tire-tread imprints, but not all of them, and the snow is melting quickly. The prospect of capturing plaster impressions doesn’t look good.

The deputy isn’t happy with me. For pulling into the driveway. For letting myself into the house. For touching the victim and corrupting a crime scene like some backwoods rookie. He’s not shy about letting me know. I don’t blame him, so I let him take his jabs. In my defense, I had no way of knowing what I was walking into.

“You make a habit of walking into other people’s homes when they don’t answer the damn door?” he asks.

“She was elderly. She’d recently had a stroke. I figured a welfare check was in order.”

It’s a pretty good reason to enter a residence. He’s still not pleased.

“Do you need an ambulance?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

Within minutes, another deputy arrives on scene, followed by an ambulance from Portsmouth and a fire engine from the Ironton Fire Department. I’m standing next to my Explorer on the shoulder of the road in three inches of mud when a trooper with the Ohio State Highway Patrol pulls in. In the last two hours, I’ve been questioned by three deputies and a female trooper. I’ve relayed the turn of events half a dozen times. I expect I’ll be retelling it a dozen more before I’ll be allowed to proceed with what I need to get done.

“Chief Burkholder.”

I turn to see Deputy Martin Harleson approach. He’s frowning at me, but his hand is outstretched so I shake it.

“You’ve certainly had a run of bad luck since you’ve been here in Crooked Creek,” he says.

“I’m not sure it has much to do with luck.”

I tell him everything I know about the case, my suspicions about an infant being taken from the area seven years ago. I don’t know if I can trust him, but in light of what happened to Sadie Stutzman, I don’t have a choice. I hold nothing back.

“That’s why you were asking about missing kids,” he mutters almost to himself.

I nod. “And Noah Schwartz.”

He scratches his head. “You think that hit-and-run has something to do with all this?”

“I do.”

“Holy cow.” He blinks at me. “So are we talking about a stolen baby?”

“Or an illegal adoption of sorts involving Noah Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman.”

“And now both of them are dead.”

I nod.

“Shit.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Any idea who?”

I shake my head. “A relative. Biological parent or parents.” I shrug. “Someone close to the family.”

We watch a white Suburban with SCIOTO COUNTY CORONER emblazoned on the doors pull into the driveway.

“Maybe I ought to take another look at the hit-and-run that killed Noah Schwartz,” he says after a moment.

“I’d appreciate it if you did.” I watch the technician open the rear door of the Suburban and roll a gurney out of the back. “I thought I might talk to the new bishop before I head back to Painters Mill. See if he can shed some light on any of this.”

He nods, interested now, his eyes level on mine. “You think he knows something about this?” He motions toward the house.

I give him the only answer I can. “I don’t know.”

“Look, I’ll do what I can to send you on your way, but someone in our investigations division is going to want to talk to you; they’re going to want a statement.” He motions toward my sidearm. “They’re going to need your weapon, too.”

I don’t relish the idea of being without my .38 for the remainder of the trip, especially after what just happened, but I don’t argue. I sigh. “That’s fine.”

“Hang tight, Chief Burkholder, and I’ll get things rolling.”



* * *



Bishop Melvin Chupp lives on a dirt track off of Hansgen Morgan Road near Wheelersburg. It’s a pretty piece of land with an old brick farmhouse and two big red bank barns in the back. The woman who answers the door tells me I’ll find her husband in the barn. She hands me a paper plate heaped with a dozen or so oatmeal cookies to take to him and tells me I should eat as many as I can because he “eats like a starved horse.”

Carting the plate, I take a barely-there stone path to the barn. The big sliding door stands open, so I take the ramp and go inside. The pleasant smells of horses and hay and leather greet me like old friends. “Hello?” I call out. “Bishop Chupp?”

“Who wants to know?” comes a whispered voice.

“Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”

“I like the sound of that name. Come on back.”

Balancing the paper plate of cookies in my right hand, I start toward the sound of the voice. I find the bishop in the first stall I come to. He glances at me and puts his finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

I look past him to see a goat in the throes of kidding. For an instant, the case and all its darkness and urgency fall to the wayside. I forget about the death of Sadie Stutzman, the ambush this morning, and for a short span of time, I’m living in the moment, enthralled, watching three tiny creatures enter the world.