Gone Missing

by Linda Castillo

  “How far along was she?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t showing yet.”

  “She confided in you?”

  Her gaze skates away from mine, and I realize she’s more hurt by the fact that her daughter didn’t confide in her than she is by the out-of-wedlock pregnancy. “I found the . . . plastic thing,” she tells me. “You know, from the drugstore.”

  “A pregnancy kit?”

  “Ja. In the trash. She’d tried to hide it, but . . .” A sigh shudders out of her. “That’s when I knew.”

  “You asked her about it?”

  “She denied it at first, but when I told her I’d found the test, she . . . confessed.”

  “Do you know who the father is?”

  My question elicits a blank stare, as if it hadn’t occurred to her to ask. But I know it had, and I realize with some surprise there’s something else going on that she considers even worse than the pregnancy.

  “Who’s the father?” I ask again.

  She transfers another number onto the columnar pad.

  “Mrs. Fisher?” I say gently. “This could be important. Who is he?”

  The woman looks down at the desktop, folds her hands in front of her. “Bonnie doesn’t know,” she whispers.

  “She had more than one partner?”

  The woman jerks her head. “I don’t understand her. I don’t understand why she does these things.”

  “Do you know the names of the men she was with?”

  Her face screws up, but she regains control before the tears come. “She would not say.”

  “Do you know how many there were?”

  She puts her face in her hands and shakes her head. “No.”

  “Do you know where she met them?”

  “She is . . . secretive about such things. She gets angry when I ask too many questions.”

  I want to say something to comfort her. But I’m so far out of my element, I can’t find the words. The things I know as a cop would be no comfort, and so I hold my silence.

  “We did not teach her to be that way. I don’t know how she knew. . . .”

  I nod, give her a moment. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us find these young men?”

  She shakes her head, as if she’s too upset to speak. When she raises her gaze to mine, her eyes are haunted. “Do you think one of the boys might have taken Bonnie?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. “But I’m going to do my best to find out.”

  Ten minutes later, I slide into the Tahoe beside Tomasetti. Neither of us speaks as he backs from the parking space. The two horses and the wagon filled with furniture are still there. Eli Fisher is helping a younger man load a cabinet into the back. He stops what he’s doing to watch us. His eyes are shadowed by the brim of his hat, so I can’t discern his expression, but he’s not smiling and he doesn’t wave.

  “Mrs. Fisher isn’t a very good liar,” Tomasetti says as he pulls onto the road. “Did you get anything?”

  “Bonnie Fisher was pregnant.” Only after the words are out do I realize I’m speaking of her in the past tense.

  He glances away from his driving and makes eye contact with me. “Who’s the father?”

  “She doesn’t know.” I pause. “Evidently, the girl didn’t know, either.”

  He cuts me a sharp look. “Maybe her disappearance is some kind of jealous-lover situation. One guy finds out about the other and the girl gets the short end of the stick.”

  “Or maybe lover boy decided he didn’t want to be a dad.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  I think about that a moment. “Two of the missing girls were involved in relationships.”

  “I don’t think that’s unusual.”

  “Undesirable relationships,” I say, clarifying. “Especially in the eyes of the Amish.”

  He nods. “Might be something we need to add to the profile.”

  I run all of that through my mind. “Do you think she’s dead?”

  “Two months is a long time to be missing, Kate.” He grimaces. “We need the names of the men she was involved with.”

  “All we can do at this point is talk to the people she knew,” I tell him. “Especially her friends.”

  As we pull away, I try to put my finger on something else that’s bothering me about our meeting with the Fishers, but I can’t pinpoint it. I glance out the window and see Eli Fisher standing at the rear of the wagon, watching us, his mouth a thin, flat line.

  “You know, Chief, that was pretty smooth, asking for one of those bread boxes.”

  I glance over at Tomasetti and see one side of his mouth twitch, and I know he’s messing with me. “How much do I owe you?” I ask.

  “I thought maybe you could buy dinner.”

  I glance at the clock on the dash. It’s almost 6:00 P.M. I wish I could reach out and stop time. “Is later okay?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I thought we’d drive up to Monongahela Falls and talk to the parents of the missing boy.”

  He gives me a look of feigned disappointment. “You’re not trying to weasel out of dinner, are you?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Irene and Perry Mast live on a mile-wide swath of farmland cut into national forest fifty miles north of Buck Creek. According to Goddard, the farm is over two hundred years old. During the Civil War, the house was part of the Underground Railroad, a stopping point for African slaves escaping to Canada. Now the Masts run a large hog operation and farm corn and soybeans.

  Dusk has fallen by the time Tomasetti and I turn into the narrow gravel lane. It’s bordered on both sides by vast fields of corn as high as a man’s head. I catch the telltale whiff of hog manure as we speed toward the house. Most Amish farms are neat and well managed, the kinds of idyllic places photographers like to capture for postcards or coffee-table books. That’s not the case with the Mast farm.

  The lane curves right and a sprawling brick house with peeling white paint and a rusty tin roof looms into view. Ahead, a massive barn with red paint weathered to brown greets us like a grizzled old friend. Looking through the fence rails, I see a dozen or so Hampshire hogs rooting around in mud so deep, their bellies scrape the surface.

  The farm has a depressed, overused look to it, as if the people who own it no longer have the will to maintain it. I wonder if the loss of their son nine years earlier has anything to do with it.

  Tomasetti steers the Tahoe around deep ruts and parks adjacent to the fence. “Damn place stinks,” he says as he slides out.

  “Pigs,” I tell him as I start toward the house. “Poorly managed manure pit.”

  “Great.” We share a look, and I know he’s thinking about the case we worked last winter, when three family members perished in the cesspit on their farm.

  “There’s a light in the metal building over there.”

  His voice jerks me back to the present, and I follow his finger as he points. Set back a short distance from the barn, a large windowless steel building looks out of place among the older wood structures. The sliding door stands open about three feet and dim yellow light slants through the opening.

  A narrow dirt path cut into knee-high grass takes us toward the shed. We’re fifteen feet from the door when I notice several objects the size of soccer balls in the grass. At first, I think they’re decorative rocks. I’m nearly upon them before I realize they’re severed hog heads.

  Tomasetti actually takes a step back, sends me a “What the fuck?” look.

  “They’re probably slaughtering hogs,” I explain.

  “Well, if the smell of shit isn’t bad enough, let’s just throw in a couple of severed heads.”

  “You want to wait out here?”

  He stares down at the heads in disgust. “This is going to ruin the whole baby back rib thing for me.”

  Grinning, I go through the door. “Man up, Tomasetti.”

  I grew up
on a farm where the slaughter of livestock was a routine part of life. I bore witness to the process a dozen times before I was old enough to realize how much I hated it. Sense memories, I think, and I’m surprised at how vividly those days come rushing back.

  The smell of dirt and manure and the salty copper stench of blood assaults my senses when I enter the building. A lantern hangs from a wire strung between two rafters and casts yellow light in all directions. A buggy with a missing wheel is parked a few feet away, its dual shafts angling down to the floor. Steel livestock panels lean against the wall. Next to them, an aluminum trough is tipped onto its side. A dozen or more burlap bags filled with some type of grain are stacked neatly atop a flatbed wagon, a good bit of yellow corn spilling onto the floor. Beyond, a shadowy hall leads toward the rear of the building.

  “Hello?” I call out as I scan the shadows. I notice the stairs to my right, which lead up to some type of loft. I’m about to call out a second time, when the unmistakable sound of a gunshot explodes.

  Next to me, Tomasetti drops down slightly and draws his sidearm. “Where did it come from?”

  I pull my .38. “I don’t know. The hall, maybe.”

  A guffaw of laughter draws our attention. I glance toward the hall, where I see a short Amish man with bowed legs emerge from the shadows. He wears a light blue work shirt with dark suspenders and a straw hat. A black rubber bib is tied at his waist, and he’s laughing his ass off—at us.

  “Can I help you?” He barely gets the words out before breaking into laughter again, bending at the waist and slapping his knees. When he straightens, I see tears on his cheeks.

  I holster my .38 and try not to feel like an idiot. “Mr. Mast?”

  Tomasetti isn’t amused, and he doesn’t relinquish his pistol.

  “I’m Benjamin Yoder.” Chuckling, wiping at the tears with his sleeve, the man hobbles over to us. “My wife and I live next door. I’m helping Perry butcher the hogs.” He looks at Tomasetti, his eyes twinkling. “You thought the hogs were shooting back, eh?”

  Tomasetti holsters his weapon. “For Chrissake.”

  I can’t help it; I laugh—a big belly laugh that feels good coming out. Yoder joins me, and I swear I hear Tomasetti chuckle.

  After a moment, I extend my hand to Yoder. “I’m Kate Burkholder.”

  Wiping his eyes with his left hand, he pumps my hand with the other. “Hello, Kate Burkholder. That’s a good strong name.” He turns his attention to Tomasetti and the men shake.

  “We’re with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation,” Tomasetti tells him. “Are the Masts home?”

  Yoder’s expression falls somber. “You have news of Noah?”

  “Just a few routine questions,” Tomasetti tells him.

  We both know none of this is routine for the families of the missing.

  “Come this way.” Yoder limps toward the hall. “I’ll take over so he can talk to you.”

  I don’t miss the revulsion on Tomasetti’s face as we pass by a stainless-steel bin filled with severed hog hooves, and I know the slaughter room is the last place he wants to be. Of course he won’t admit it, and he falls in next to me. But I suspect it might be a while before he indulges in those baby back ribs.

  Yoder leads us down a short hall. Ahead, lantern light spills through a wide door. The stink of fresh manure and blood is stronger here. I can hear the pigs grunting and moving around in the chutes to my right, and I wonder if the animals know their fate. I’m aware of our footsteps on the concrete floor, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I’ve never been squeamish, but my stomach seesaws when we reach the room.

  Yoder enters first. Tomasetti and I stop at the doorway. The room is about twenty feet square. The air is overly warm and unpleasantly humid. But it’s the smell that unsettles me. Corrugated steel panels comprise the walls. In the center of the room, a dead hog hangs suspended by a single rear leg, a chain wrapped around the area between the hoof and hock. The chain is attached to a pulley affixed to a massive steel beam overhead. A second Amish man, presumably Perry Mast, stands next to the dead animal with a large knife—the sticking knife—in hand. There’s a drain cut into the concrete floor and blood still drips from the hog’s snout.

  “Fuck me,” Tomasetti mutters.

  “Maybe we can do this outside,” I hear myself say.

  Yoder looks at the hog approvingly. “That’s a good bleed, Perry,” he says.

  The other man doesn’t even look up. With gloved hands, he shoves the giant carcass toward a massive steaming vat. I don’t want to watch what comes next, but I can’t look away. I remember my datt and brother doing the same thing. They called it “the scalding tank.” Not bothering with gloves, Yoder jumps in to help guide the carcass toward the vat. He quickly checks an industrial-size thermometer and nods. Using the pulley and chain, they lower the carcass into the hot water.

  “Mir hen Englischer bsuch ghadde,” Yoder says when the carcass is lowered. We have non Amish visitors.

  Mast finally glances at us. “Es waarken maulvoll gat.” There’s nothing good about that.

  Yoder lowers his voice and, speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch, tells him about us drawing our sidearms. Yoder breaks into laughter again, unabashedly amused. Mast’s reaction is more subtle. If I hadn’t been watching him, I would have missed the whisper of a smile on his lips.

  He motions toward the hog. “When the hair slips easily, pull it out. I won’t be long.”

  Without looking at us, he peels off his gloves and removes his blood-spattered apron. He tosses both on the scraping table and starts toward us. Perry Mast is a tall, thin man with sagging jowls and hound-dog eyes. He wears black work trousers with a dark blue shirt, black suspenders, a black vest, and a flat-brimmed straw hat.

  “I am Perry Mast,” he says by way of greeting.

  Tomasetti and I introduce ourselves, letting him know we’re with BCI. Neither of us offers our hand.

  “Is this about my son?” he asks.

  The question is clearly devoid of hope. And I wonder how many times during the last nine years he asked other law-enforcement officials the same question. I wonder how many times their answers tore the last remnants of hope from his heart.

  “I’m sorry, no. There’s a girl who’s missing,” I tell him. “An Amish girl. Annie King.”

  “Ja.” He closes his eyes briefly. “I heard.”

  Tomasetti motions toward the door. “Is your wife home, Mr. Mast? We’d like to speak with her, as well.”

  Mast looks as if he’s going to refuse; then his shoulders slump and he seems to resign himself to unavoidable unpleasantness. “This way,” he says, and leads us through the door.

  A few minutes later, Perry Mast, Tomasetti, and I are sitting at the table in their small, cluttered kitchen. The interior of the house isn’t much neater than the exterior. Dozens of jars of canned fruits and vegetables cover every available surface on the avocado green countertops. A hand-painted bread box—perhaps from the Branch Creek Joinery—encloses a crusty loaf of bread. A well-seasoned cast-iron skillet sits atop the big potbellied stove. The open cabinets expose stacks of mismatched dishes—blue Melmac and chipped pieces of stoneware—and sealed jars of honey with chunks of honeycomb inside. Homemade window treatments dash the final vestiges of daylight, giving the kitchen a cavelike countenance. A kerosene-powered refrigerator wheezes and groans. The lingering sulfur stink of manure has me thinking twice about coffee.

  Irene Mast stands at the counter, running water into an old-fashioned percolator. She’s a substantial woman, barely over five feet tall, with thinning silver hair and a bald spot at her crown. She wears a light blue dress with a white apron and low-heeled, practical shoes. The ties of her kapp dangle down her back. She hasn’t said a word since we were introduced a few minutes ago, but she immediately set about making coffee and bringing out a tin of peanut-butter cookies.

  “I understand you’re a deacon, Mr. Mast,” I say.

  The man looks
down at the plate in front of him, gives a single, solemn nod.

  “It is a heavy burden,” Irene tells me.

  “We’d like to talk to you about your son, Noah,” Tomasetti begins.

  The woman’s back stiffens at the mention of her son, but when she turns to us, her expression is serene. “It’s been nine years now.” She doesn’t look at us as she pours coffee into cups.

  That’s when I notice the fourth place setting: a plate and silverware, a cup for coffee, a plastic tumbler for milk.

  “Nine years is a long time,” I say.

  Irene sets a plate with two cookies on it in front of me. “At first, we hoped, you know. We prayed a lot. But after so much time . . . we’ve come to believe he is with God.”

  “Do you believe he left of his own accord?” I ask. “Or do you think something bad happened to him?”

  The Amish man looks down at the plate in front of him. He’s got blood spatter on his shirt, a red smear on the back of his neck. He didn’t wash his hands when he came in.

  “Noah got into some trouble,” Perry says. “The way young men do sometimes.”

  “What kind of trouble?” I ask.

  “The drinking, you know. The listening to music. And he liked . . . the girls.”

  “He confessed his sins before the bishop,” Irene adds.

  In the eyes of the Amish, confessing your sins is the equivalent of a “Get out of jail free” card. No matter how heinous the offense, if you confess, you are forgiven.

  “The English police say Noah wanted to leave the plain life,” Perry says after a moment. “I don’t know who told them that. We don’t believe it. We never did.”

  “Noah loved being Amish.” Emotion flashes in Irene’s eyes. “He was a humble boy with a kind and generous heart.”

  “What do you think happened to him?” Tomasetti asks.

  Perry shakes his head. “We don’t know. The things the Englischers say . . .” His voice trails off, as if he’s long since tired of saying the words.

  I skimmed the file that had been amassed on Noah before leaving the sheriff’s office. A missing-person report was filed. People were interviewed, searches conducted. The cops—and most of the Amish, too—believed the boy ran away.