Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(9)

Annie and I have just stepped into the kitchen when the screen door slams. Footsteps pound and then Ivan Helmuth enters the room. “She’s not in the barn,” he says breathlessly.

I hear shoes in the hallway and then Miriam enters the kitchen. “Elsie’s not upstairs. She’s not in the cellar. Why are you looking for her? What’s happened? Where’s Mamm?”

“Elsie’s missing.” Ivan’s voice breaks. “Mary is … gone.”

“Gone? But … what do you mean? You don’t know where she is? Ivan, Mamm is with the children. They were—” The Amish woman’s gaze lands on Annie; her eyes go wide when she spots the blood. “Mein Gott.” She rushes to the child, falls to her knees, and takes the girl into her arms. “Are you hurt? How did you get that blood on you?” she asks in Deitsch.

“Da Deivel,” the little girl whispers.

Miriam pales; even her lips go white. “What is she saying?” She pushes her daughter to arm’s length to get a better look at her. “Whose blood is this? Where did it come from?”

As she clutches the little girl, the Amish woman’s eyes dart to her husband, then me, her voice rising with each word she utters. “Chief Burkholder? What’s happened?”

“Mrs. Helmuth, I need to speak to you and your husband privately.” I let my eyes slide to the little girl.

Taking the girl by her hand, the Amish woman rushes from the kitchen, goes to the base of the stairs, and calls out. “Irma!”

A girl of ten or eleven clatters down the steps, but slows upon spotting us, her eyes flicking from her mother to me and back. “What’s wrong?”

“Take Annie. Get her cleaned up.”

The girl’s eyes widen when she sees the blood. “Oh!”

“Go on now. Get her washed up. Quick.”

When the children are gone and we’re seated, I tell them everything.

“Mamm passed? But…” Miriam leans forward, covers her face with her hands, and begins to rock. “Elsie. Gone? Mein Gott. It’s too much. I can’t believe it.”

Ivan looks at me. “Who would do this terrible thing?”

“Did your mother-in-law have any enemies?” I ask. “Any disagreements or arguments with anyone?”

The couple exchange looks, as if the answer lies in the other person’s face. “No,” Ivan says after a moment.

“Maybe it was something that didn’t seem important at the time?” I press, trying to get them to work through the shock of grief and fear for their daughter and think.

“No.” The Amish man shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Has anything unusual happened to Annie or Elsie recently? Any strange incidents? Maybe while you were in town? Shopping? Running errands? Maybe someone said something that struck you as odd?”

He shakes his head adamantly. “No.”

“Any problems with family members? Or neighbors? Any arguments or bad blood? Money disputes?”

“No,” he tells me. “Nothing like that.”

“Have you had any workers here at the farm? Day laborers? Repairmen?”

“I do everything myself,” Ivan says.

I give the questions a moment to settle, and shift gears. “How many children do you have?”

Miriam raises her head, fear and misery boiling in her expression. “Eight.”

“Any problems with any of them?”

“Of course not,” Miriam snaps. “We are Amisch.” As if that explains everything. In a way, it does.

“Have you noticed any strangers in the area? Any cars or buggies you didn’t recognize? Anyone on the road? On your property?”

Ivan gives another head shake. “No.”

“I just want my baby.” Miriam begins to cry. “She must be so frightened.” She raises her gaze, her eyes beseeching. “Please, Chief Burkholder. Elsie is … special. Sweet and innocent. She won’t understand what’s happening.”

The word “special” gives me pause. “Elsie is special needs?” I ask.

“She’s a slow learner. We took her to the clinic and she was diag nosed with Cohen syndrome when she was four. Please, we’ve got to find her. She’s so sweet. So innocent.”

Cohen syndrome is a rare gene disorder that’s slightly more common among the Amish owing to marriage patterns and a smaller gene pool. It carries with it a host of problems, including delayed physical development and intellectual disability.

I set my hand on the Amish woman’s arm. “Do you have a photo of Elsie?”

“We do not take photos of the children.”

“Can you tell me what she looks like? What was she wearing?”

She describes the girl—seven years old, blue dress, brown hair and eyes. Slightly overweight. Thick, round eyeglasses. I jot everything in my notebook. All the while I feel as if I’m being pulled in a dozen different directions. The urge to get back to the scene is powerful. The need to work the case eats at me. I need to look at the evidence. Find it. Churn it. Answer the questions pounding my brain. No one does something like what was done to Mary Yoder without some perceived reason, without leaving something behind. It’s my job to find it—and fast.

More than anything, I want to find the girl. That need is tempered by the knowledge that the information-gathering phase of the investigation—speaking with family and friends and possible witnesses—is critical. The majority of homicide victims know their killers. Most kidnappings are committed by family members. If either of those statistics is true in this instance, the most vital information I receive will come from the people closest to Elsie: her family, right here and now.