“What on earth is that?”
I look up to see Miriam standing at the door, a mug in each hand. “I found a cell phone,” I tell her. “Under the mattress.”
“Oh, my.” She bites her lip. “I didn’t know he had one.”
It’s an old-fashioned flip phone. The kind you can buy at any discount department or electronics store. “Any idea where it came from?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Too many Amish youngsters are using the phones these days.”
“Do you mind if I take it back to the station with me?” I ask. “I’d like to find out who he talked to.”
“I have no use for a phone. But since it belonged to Noah, I’d appreciate it if you brought it back.”
“Of course I will,” I assure her.
* * *
Back at the police station, I take the phone directly to my office and flip it open. The first thing I notice is that while it has the capability to send and receive texts, Noah Fisher didn’t utilize either. I page through the recent calls, sent and received, and I immediately notice nearly all the calls were to or from a local number, right here in Painters Mill.
Bingo.
If Noah Fisher were still alive and suspected of committing a crime, I’d have to secure a search warrant before looking through his cell phone to collect information. Since Noah is deceased and I received express permission from his mother, I’m free to use whatever information I find.
Picking up my desk phone, I dial the number in question. A girl’s voice picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
Young, I think. Teenager. Possibly pre-teen. “Hi,” I begin. “I’m trying to figure out if I dialed the correct number.” I recite the number back to her. “Who’s this?”
“Chloe,” she replies uncertainly. “Who are you trying to reach?”
“What’s your last name, Chloe?”
She makes a sound of annoyance. “Why are you asking me that? How did you get that phone?”
“Chloe, this is Kate Burkholder, the chief of Police in Painters Mill. Is your mom or dad there? I’d like to speak with them.”
A quick intake of breath and then the line goes dead. Either she didn’t believe me when I identified myself, or she knew exactly why I was calling and panicked. I’m betting on the latter.
My interest piqued, I enlist the help of a reverse number lookup database and enter the number. Four dollars and ninety-nine cents later, I have a name and an address: Damon Atherton.
I’ve never met Chloe but her father, Damon Atherton, is a respected pediatrician at Pomerene Hospital. I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard the name. More recently, I recall one of the nurses mentioning him the morning I brought in Baby Doe.
I spend a few minutes digging up everything I can find on Chloe Atherton. She just turned sixteen years old. She’s had her driver’s license for two months. No citations. No arrests. She’s on the Painters Mill High School track team and holds the record for the mile run. According to a recent newspaper story highlighting outstanding high school students, she’s an honor roll student with a 4.0 GPA—and aspirations for med school. Just three months ago she was awarded the People Helping People Award for her volunteer work at the local retirement home.
Is it possible this girl—Chloe—is Baby Doe’s mother? Did this young overachiever become pregnant, somehow hide the pregnancy for nine months, and give birth without anyone knowing? The scenario doesn’t seem plausible. Especially with her father being a physician. But experience tells me it’s not only possible, but it happens more often than most people realize.
Committing the Atherton address to memory, I grab my keys and head for the door.
* * *
In 2001, Ohio enacted a Safe Haven law, which basically allows any parent who feels they are unable to care for a newborn to leave the child with a peace officer or medical worker without legal ramifications. The law was adopted to keep mothers from leaving their newborn babies in places that might endanger the child.
I don’t know if Chloe Atherton is the person I’m looking for. If she is, I need to be prepared. While Baby Doe was found healthy and unharmed, the infant was not left with a peace officer or medical worker. Still, Bishop Troyer claimed someone was there the morning he discovered her on his front porch. I suspect Chloe stayed to ensure that her baby was taken in immediately. That means something; it tells me she was responsible enough—that she cared enough—to make certain the vulnerable newborn was not left alone.
Chloe probably wasn’t aware of the law’s details. She may have simply left the child at the only safe place she could think of; the only place where she believed she could remain anonymous: the Amish bishop. It doesn’t negate the fact that she didn’t follow the law, but I know the county attorney will take all of the circumstances into consideration when—or if—charges are filed.
The Athertons live in the upscale Maple Crest subdivision. It’s nearly six P.M. by the time I pull into the driveway and park behind a silver Land Rover. The house is a massive Tudor with a four-car garage, landscaping befitting a European castle, and an extravagant entrance covered with ivy. I take the curved flagstone path to the front porch and make use of the brass knocker.
I hear voices on the other side of the door. A girl calling out to someone. Laughter. The door swings open and I find myself looking at a tall, slender teenage girl with huge brown eyes, her dark hair cut into a messy bob. She’s wearing loose-fitting sweat pants and an oversize Painters Mill Panthers sweatshirt Bare feet. Toenails painted blue.
“Chloe Atherton?” I say.
She steps back as if expecting me to reach in, grab her, and drag her away. Her mouth opens, a sound of distress escaping between perfect white teeth. Her eyes widen as she takes in my uniform. She looks over her shoulder. Her fingers twitch on the doorknob, and I know she’s thinking about slamming it in my face.
“There’s no one here by that name,” she says quietly.
“Don’t be afraid,” I tell her. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“You have the wrong house.” She starts to close the door.
I put my hand out and stop her. “No, I don’t.”
“What do you want?”
“I just want to talk. That’s all.”
She glances over her shoulder again, and I realize her most pressing concern is her father. “Just go away,” she whispers. “Please.”
“Honey?” comes a male voice from somewhere inside the house. “Hey, the sweet potato fries are burning.”
I look past her to see Dr. Damon Atherton approach. He’s still in his work clothes. Custom trousers. Lavender pinstripe button-down shirt. Tie askew. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Big Rolex strapped to his wrist. He’s probably just arrived home from the hospital after a busy day.
He looks perplexed by my presence. Slightly annoyed that dinnertime with his daughter has been interrupted. “Can I help you?”
I show him my badge and identify myself.
His gaze switches from me to his daughter and then back to me. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine, sir,” I tell him. “If you have a minute, I’d like to talk to you.”
He blinks at me, surprised, but invites me inside. “Of course. Come in.”
I enter a tiled foyer with an impossibly high ceiling and gleaming walnut floors. Overhead, a crystal chandelier dangles like a giant diamond earring. To my right, a console table holds a massive vase. I can smell the fresh-cut flowers from where I stand.
“You’ll have to excuse the boxes,” he tells me.
For the first time I notice several corrugated boxes stacked against the wall ahead. “You’re moving?” I ask.
“I just accepted a chief-of-pediatrics position in Phoenix.”
“Big change.”
He grins. “Nicer weather.”
I smile at his daughter. “Are you excited or bummed?”
She attempts to smile, but doesn’t quite manage. “I’m ready.”
&nb
sp; “She’s a trouper,” he says affectionately.
“When’s the big move?” I ask.
“Two days and counting.” Smiling, he puts his arm around his daughter’s shoulder and hugs her against him. “We can’t wait.”
Silence falls, a thin ribbon of tension slicing through it. “We were just making dinner,” Atherton says. “I’ve got grilled chicken breast and some burned sweet potato fries.” He smiles, but I can tell he’s perplexed by my presence and growing concerned. “Still trying to get the hang of cooking, since it’s just the two of us now.”
“You’re divorced?” I ask.
A shadow passes over his features. “My wife, Jane, passed away last year.”
I wince. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“We’re doing okay now.” He hugs his daughter again. “Aren’t we, honey?”
The girl tries to match his smile, but fails, and ends up looking at the floor. “Yeah.”
“I won’t keep you,” I tell him. “I know you were involved with Baby Doe at the hospital and I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d stop in and update you on my progress finding the baby’s mother.”
“Ah. Of course.” But I can tell he isn’t sure why an update warrants a personal visit from the chief of police as opposed to a phone call or email. “We can sit in the living room if you’d like, Chief Burkholder.” He looks at his daughter. “Honey, you want to bring the three of us some of that coffee I just made?”
The girl has barely taken her eyes off me since I walked in. “Sure, Dad.” Reluctance rings clear in her voice, telling me the last thing she wants to do is leave me alone with her father.
“None for me, thank you,” I say quickly.
He ushers me to a spacious living room where a fire crackles in a stone hearth. “I take it you’ve found the mother?” he asks.
“Not yet, but I’m working on a few leads,” I say vaguely.
“I heard she’s Amish. Is that true?”
“I thought so at first, but now I’m not so sure.”
Chloe returns with coffee. She hands one of the mugs to her father and sets the other on the coffee table in front of me. I don’t know if her father notices, but her hands are shaking.
“The social worker seemed confident that she’d be able to find a foster family in the next couple of days,” I tell him. “She’s looking for a couple or a family to permanently adopt her.”
“It sounds like a happy ending for everyone.”
I acknowledge the statement with a nod. “We’re still hoping Baby Doe’s mother will come forward.”
He shakes his head. “I suppose these young mothers just don’t know about the Safe Haven law.”
I look at Chloe, including her in the conversation. “That’s the law that was enacted to protect new mothers from prosecution, if they’re unable to care for their baby and drop it off in a safe place.”
“It protects both the mother and the baby.” Atherton’s brows go together. “Since this particular mother didn’t relinquish her baby to a doctor or police officer, she could be in trouble. Will she be charged?”
I hadn’t wanted the conversation to go in that direction; the last thing I want to do is frighten Chloe. “That’ll be up to the county attorney, but I don’t think so. I suspect this girl is young. Maybe even a minor. I think she may have recently suffered a devastating, personal loss and felt she couldn’t deal with a new baby all alone.” I look at Chloe. “Bottom line is, she did the right thing. She took her baby to a safe place. I think she even waited and made sure someone took in the baby. As chief, I’ll do everything in my power to help her.”
Chloe looks away, but I tilt my head, catch her gaze, and maintain eye contact. Her face is flushed, her forehead shiny with perspiration. “I know it sounds odd, considering the circumstances, but I think we’re dealing with a courageous young woman. I think she cared for the well-being of her child, but needed some time to pull herself together and put all of this into perspective. I believe she’s going to do the right thing and come forward.”
“I hope so,” says the doctor.
I didn’t expect Chloe to admit to anything tonight. But if she is Baby Doe’s mother—and I suspect she is—I wanted her to know that while the situation is serious, the repercussions may not be as dire as she’d anticipated.
Rising, I extend my hand to Dr. Atherton. “Thank you for your time.”
“Thanks for the update, Chief Burkholder.”
I smile at Chloe and offer my hand. “Good luck in Phoenix.”
“Thanks,” she mutters.
But her hand is cold and limp within mine.
* * *
After a long day, I’m looking forward to spending some quality time with Tomasetti at the farm, but thoughts of Baby Doe have been tugging at my brain all day; a little hand reaching out and touching me with tiny, soft fingertips. I know she’s being well cared for at the hospital. Still, the thought of her being brought into the world, unwanted and abandoned, plucks at my heartstrings. Since the hospital is on my way home, I opt to make a quick stop to see how she’s doing.
It’s fully dark when I park adjacent to the ER entrance and make my way to the nursery. The ward is brightly lit, cheery, and bustling with activity. I see new mothers and fathers in homey birthing rooms as I pass. The mewling cries of newborns as they’re taken to and from the nursery.
I’m on my way to the nurse’s station when I spot the RN who was on duty when I brought in Baby Doe. She spots me and smiles. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away.”
I smile back. “I thought I’d stop in to see how she’s doing.”
“I was just heading that way for a peek if you’d like to walk with me.” Her practical shoes squeak against the floor as we walk to the nursery. “She’s got a lot of fans here at the hospital.”
“The police station, too.”
“I hear the chief is particularly fond.” Another hearty grin. “To tell you the truth, we’re having a tough time keeping our hands off her. There’s just something about her.” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just between us, I think she’s the cutest baby on the floor.”
We’re chuckling as we make our way to the viewing window. Inside, a dozen clear plastic bassinettes are arranged in three rows. There are six newborns; three girls tightly swathed and wearing pink knit hats and three boys, their little heads snugged in blue hats. Each infant has a name tag and a number affixed to their bassinette. Baby Doe is nearest the viewing window, a pale little face nestled in a yellow blanket. I get a twinge in my chest when I see that she’s the only baby without a name, just a number.
“It’s usually a little more crowded in there, but most of our babies are with mom at the moment,” she tells me. “We encourage all our new moms to keep their newborns in their rooms while they’re here, and send the babies to the nursery only when they want to sleep or take a shower.”
For several minutes we stand outside the glass, watching the babies. Some are sleeping. Others are awake and looking around. The infant farthest from us is red faced and crying his heart out. I think of the new mothers and fathers standing here to ooh and ahh, and the babies being taken to mom’s room for nursing and coddling, and it makes me sad that there’s no one to do any of those things for Baby Doe.
“How is she doing?” I ask.
“She’s eating and healthy. Once they find a foster home for her, she’ll be ready to leave the hospital.”
I make a mental note to contact the social worker first thing in the morning to find out what the status is on Baby Doe’s foster family.
“This must be the happiest floor in the hospital,” I say.
“Isn’t that the truth? Who doesn’t love babies?”
The question, intended to be flippant, makes me think of my own life. I feel like an outsider here. A foreigner looking into a world to which I don’t belong—a world to which I may never belong. A part of me has always believed that having children is something other w
omen do, a ritual other families partake in. I don’t let myself think of it often. When I do, it’s with some level of discomfort because I’m seriously behind the curve. I know that at some point, I’ll need to confront the question of having a family, and the reality that Tomasetti and I are going to have to make a decision or else the decision will be made for us.
The nurse puts her face close to the glass and makes nonsensical baby noises. “Have you found her mama yet?” she asks.
“I’ve got a few leads I’m following up on.”
She sighs, wistful. “I raised five, but I swear if I wasn’t so old I’d take her myself.”
“Thanks for taking such good care of her.” I pull my car keys from my pocket.
“See you tomorrow, Chief.”
As I walk away, I wonder how she knew I’d be back the next day.
* * *
I arrived at the farm to find that Tomasetti caught three decent-size bass earlier and cleaned them for dinner. Over fresh fish, we shared half a bottle of chardonnay and exchanged stories about our day. He’s working on a missing person case up in Geauga County, the outlook of which doesn’t look good for the missing man. Painters Mill has been quiet, so over raspberry sherbet, I updated him on the Baby Doe case. It was nearly midnight when we went to bed.
I’m wakened from a fitful slumber by the cheep of my cell phone. Only half awake, I snatch it up and squint down at the lighted face. Painters Mill PD.
“Hey, Mona,” I grumble to my third-shift dispatcher.
“Chief, I just took a call from Damon Atherton. His daughter is missing. He’s worried she’s going to hurt herself.”
The words bring me bolt upright. “She’s suicidal?”
“I guess they had some kind of an argument. She got upset. When he went to check on her, she was gone.”
Rising, I pad to my closet, swing open the door. “Where is Dr. Atherton now?”
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