Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(6)

I reach the back of the house. No movement inside. No sign any one has been here. I go to the porch, spot a single footprint in the dust. The door stands ajar. The hinges squeak when I push it open the rest of the way.

I smell blood an instant before I see it. An ocean of shocking red covers the floor. Spatter on the cabinets. The sink. The wall. Adrenaline burns a path across my gut. I slide my .38 from its holster. A female lies on the floor. She’s Amish. Blue dress. White kapp. Older. Not moving. There’s no weapon in sight. All I can think is that this was no accident or suicide, and I may not be alone.

“Shit. Shit.” I hit my radio. “Ten-thirty-five-C. Ten-seven-eight.” They are the codes for homicide and need assistance.

I train my weapon on the doorway that leads to the next room. “Painters Mill Police! Get your hands up and get out here! Right now!” I hear stress in my voice. My senses are jacked and overloaded. My adrenaline in the red zone. Hands shaking.

“Get out here! Now! Keep your fucking hands where I can see them! Do it now!”

Keeping my eyes on the door, I go to the woman, kneel, and I get my first good look at her face. I’ve met her at some point. My brain kicks out a name: Mary Yoder. She lives with her daughter and son-in-law, Miriam and Ivan Helmuth, at the farm down the road. I bought a cake from her last fall.

“Damn.” Even before I press my index finger to her carotid, I know she’s gone. Her skin is still warm to the touch, her eyes open and glazed. Mouth open and full of what looks like vomit.

I rise and sidle to the doorway, peer into the living room. It’s dark; curtains drawn. Shadows ebb and flow. Lots of blind spots. I yank the mini Maglite from my belt. I listen, but my heart pounds a hard tattoo against my ribs. I shine the beam around the room. The front door is closed. No sign of anyone. No movement or sound.

“Chief?”

I spin, see a Holmes County deputy come through the back door. He does a double take upon spotting the victim. “Holy shit,” he mutters.

“Place isn’t cleared,” I tell him. “Victim is deceased.”

“Fuck me.” Drawing his sidearm, he sidesteps the blood, moves past me, into the living room.

“Holmes County Sheriff’s Department!” The voice comes from outside an instant before the front door flies open. A second deputy enters, shotgun at the ready.

“House isn’t cleared,” I tell him. “Deceased female in the kitchen.”

Sunlight slants in through the door, allowing us to see. The men exchange looks. The first deputy strides to a casement doorway, peers into an adjoining room. “Clear!”

The other deputy calls for additional units. Together, they start up the stairs to the second level.

I go back to the kitchen, stop in the doorway, bank a swift rise of revulsion. I’ve seen a lot of bad scenes in the years I’ve been a cop. Traffic accidents. Knife fights. Serious beatings. Even murder. I can honestly say I’ve never seen so much blood from a single victim. What in the name of God happened?

“Chief?”

I look up to see Mona come through the back door. She spots the victim and freezes. After a moment she blinks, shakes her head as if waking from a bad dream. A tremor passes through her body.

My newest deputy is no shrinking violet, but she’s not ready for this.

“Mona.” I say her name firmly. “Get out. I got this.”

Without making eye contact with me, she backs away onto the porch, bends at the hip, and throws up in the bushes.

That same queasy response bubbles in my own gut; no matter how many times you see it, there’s something inherently repellent about blood. The sight of death, especially a violent one. I shove it back, refuse to acknowledge it.

“Where’s the girl?” I ask Mona.

“She’s with a deputy, in the backseat of his cruiser.” Hands on her hips, she spits, and then looks at me. “Chief, kid says a man took her sister.”

The words land a solid punch to my gut, adding yet another awful dimension to an already horrific situation. “Did you get names?”

“Helmuth.”

“I know the family,” I say. “They live down the road.”

“What do you think happened?”

I shake my head. “Hard to tell. Looks like she was … stabbed.”

Butchered, a little voice whispers.

We’re both thinking it, but we don’t utter the word.

I hit my lapel mike and hail Dispatch. “Possible ten-thirty-one-D,” I say, using the ten code for kidnapping in progress.

I look at Mona. “We need to look around, talk to the parents,” I tell her. “Confirm if the girl is missing.”

If we were dealing solely with a likely homicide, my first priorities would be to protect the scene, limit access, set up a perimeter, canvass the area, and get started on developing a suspect. The possibility of a kidnapped minor child changes everything. The living always take precedence over the dead.

“Did the little girl say anything else?” I ask.

“Couldn’t get much out of her, Chief. She’s pretty shaken up.”

I take a final look at the victim, suppress a shudder. “Let’s go talk to her.”





CHAPTER 2


I find the girl huddled in the backseat of a Holmes County Sheriff’s Department cruiser. Someone has draped a Mylar blanket across her legs, given her a bottle of water, and a teddy bear to hold. Some cops, my small department included, carry a stuffed animal or two in the trunks of our official vehicles for situations exactly like this one, when we want to keep a child as calm and comforted as possible.