“You don’t seem to have much in common with her.” I prod, hoping she’ll relax and elaborate and give me something—anything—useful.
Lori looks down and her hair falls forward, covering the sides of her face, as if she’s trying to hide behind it, and I realize this girl is painfully shy. “We just hit it off,” she tells me. “I mean, we’re both kind of outsiders, you know? Sadie because she’s Amish. Me because I’m not into the whole social clique thing.” She shrugs. “We don’t fit in, but when we’re together, that doesn’t matter.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?” I ask.
“Yesterday. Six o’clock or so. At the bridge.”
“How did she seem?”
“Same as always.” A ghost of a smile touches her mouth but vanishes quickly. “She was complaining about not having a car. She, like, wants wheels bad.”
“Why does she want a car?”
“She mainly just wants to cruise around.”
“Did she ever talk about leaving Painters Mill?”
“We’re always talking about getting out. But it’s like something we’re going to do in the future, you know? She’s got all these big plans to move to New York and design clothes.”
“Has she mentioned New York recently?”
She shakes her head adamantly. “She wouldn’t go without me.”
“Has she had any problems at home?”
She nods. “Her parents totally don’t get her.”
“Did she have an argument with them?”
“They don’t argue, exactly. But her parents have pretty much laid down the law about Sadie’s art. It’s like they don’t understand that it’s part of her, you know?” She frowns. “They think it’s worldly or something.”
I recall the needlework in Sadie’s bedroom, and I feel a pang in my gut, because I know her art isn’t condoned by her Amish peers. Like so many other things, her art is something she’ll be forced to give up when she’s baptized.
“What about the rest of the Amish community?” I ask. “Any problems she’s mentioned?”
“No.” Lori gives me a knowing look. “But she’s always talking about leaving. She’s tired of the way they live. And she’s struggling with the whole getting baptized thing.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“All the time. She says the Amish are always whispering behind her back, judging her. If she gets baptized, she’ll have to give up everything. Her cell phone. Any dream of owning a car or going to New York. She’ll have to give up her art. That sucks, you know?”
Rumspringa is the time when Amish teens are allowed to experience life without all the constraints of the Ordnung, while the adults look the other way. It’s an exciting time of personal discovery and growth before a young person commits to the church. Was Sadie so conflicted, the pressure so intense, that she fled?
“Did she ever talk about running away?” I ask.
The girl hesitates. “Sometimes.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?”
She bites her lip. “She would have told me.”
I mentally shift gears, move on to my next question. “Does Sadie have a boyfriend?”
She shakes her head. “She thinks the guys our age are jerks.”
“Let’s go back to the bridge for a moment, Lori. Have you seen any vehicles or buggies you don’t recognize? Any strangers hanging out?”
“Just the usual crowd. You know, from school.”
I push the legal pad and pen at her. “I want you to write down the names of everyone you’ve seen there over the last couple of weeks.”
She picks up the pen. “That’s a lot of names.”
“I’ve got a lot of paper.” I smile at her.
She smiles back. Putting her tongue between her teeth, she starts writing.
“So what do you and Sadie do when you’re at the bridge, anyway?” I ask conversationally.
“We drink beer and smoke.” She glances over her shoulder at Rasmussen and hastily adds, “Cigarettes, I mean.” Her gaze lands on me. “You’re not going to tell my mom, are you?”
“We’ll deal with that after we find Sadie, okay?”
The girl stares at me, as if the gravity of the situation is starting to sink in. “Do you think something bad happened to her?” she asks.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
Ten minutes later, Angi McClanahan slides into the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. Rasmussen drags in an extra chair for her mother and then takes his place at the door.
I turn on the tape recorder, recite all the obligatory information, and turn my attention to Angi. “When did you last see or hear from Sadie?”
“I guess it was the day I beat the shit out of her.” The girl’s mother snickers, but I don’t look away from Angi. She’s pleased with herself. Pleased with the temerity of her answer and the fact that she has an audience.
“Why were you fighting?” I ask.
“Because she put her hands on my boyfriend.”
“What’s his name?”
She raises her hand to look at her nails and begins to peel polish off her thumb. “I don’t remember.”
The urge to reach across the table, grab her by the collar, and slap that “I don’t give a shit” attitude off her face is powerful. Of course I don’t, since I’m pretty sure it would be considered unbecoming behavior for the chief of police.
I turn my attention to Kathleen McClanahan. “I suggest you encourage your daughter to cooperate.”
“Angi didn’t do nothing to that little Amish troublemaker. Whatever trouble Sadie Miller met with, she brought down on herself.”
“I need his name,” I say. “Right now.”
Tossing a sideways look at her mother, Angi crosses her arms over her chest. “Dave Westmoore.”
I write down the name, recalling that the parents live near Millersburg. “So you were angry because Sadie touched your boyfriend?”
“She was doing more than touching him. That slut had her hands all over him.”
“Jealousy is a powerful emotion.”
Something ugly flashes in the girl’s eyes. “I am not jealous of that bitch.”
“What would you call it?”
“Protecting my territory.”
“How far are you willing to go to protect what’s yours?”
She shoots me an incredulous look. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t do anything to her!”
“You threatened to kill her,” I say.
“I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Or maybe you planned a little revenge.”
Her mother lurches to her feet. “This is bullshit.”
I give the woman a hard look. “Sit down.”
When she does, I continue. “Your daughter was one of the last people to speak with Sadie before she disappeared. They had a physical confrontation. Angi threatened to kill her in front of witnesses, including me.”
I turn a cold look on Angi. The scratch marks on her throat are healing, but they’re still visible, so I use them to my advantage. “Where did you get those marks on your throat?”
The girl raises a hand, her fingers fluttering at her neck. “They’re old. I got them that day on the bridge.”
“How did you get them?” I repeat.
“That psycho Amish girl attacked her,” her mother interjects.
“I’d like to hear that from Angi,” I say, never taking my eyes from the teenager.
“She ain’t saying nothing without a fucking lawyer, you goddamn Nazi bitch.”
Holding Angi with my gaze, I lean back in my chair. “Thank you for your time. That’ll be all for now.”
“That was fun,” Rasmussen says.
It’s half an hour later, and Rasmussen and I are in my office. I’m sitting behind my desk, trying to resist the urge to pound my head against its surface.
“She didn’t run away,” I tell him. “Someone took her.”
My phone rings, and I put it on speaker. “What’s up, Lo
is?”
“I just took a call from Elaina Reiglesberger out on County Road 14, Chief. She claims her daughter was out riding and saw Sadie Miller get into a car yesterday.”
Hope jumps through me and then I’m on my feet and reaching for my keys. “Tell her I’m on my way.”
Rasmussen is already through the door. “Here’s to a witness with good recall.”
I’m on my way to talk to the purported witness when the call from Tomasetti comes in. “I hope you’re calling with good news,” I say in lieu of a greeting.
“I wish I was.”
“Shit, Tomasetti, you’re not going to ruin my day, are you?”
He sighs. “Coroner says Annie King sustained a fatal stab wound. She bled to death.”
Something inside me sinks, like a rock tossed into water and dropping softly onto a sandy bottom. “Goddamn it.”
It’s times like this when that voice in my head tells me I’m not cut out for police work. I’ve done this before. Receiving this kind of news shouldn’t be so hard.
Tomasetti says something else, but I don’t hear the words. I pull onto the shoulder, brake with so much force that the tires skid. For several seconds, I sit there, trying to get a grip. I want to punch something; I want to rant and rave at the unfairness of death. Because I’m terrified the same fate awaits Sadie.
“What kind of a monster does that to a fifteen-year-old girl?” I whisper.
He knows I don’t mean the question literally; it doesn’t require an answer. What he also understands is that I need to find the person responsible and stop him. “Sooner or later, he’ll fuck up,” he tells me. “They always do. When that happens, we’ll get him.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks; then he says, “Anything on your end?”
I take a deep breath, and slowly the world around me settles back into place. My window is down and I hear a dove cooing from the fence outside. A small herd of Hereford cattle graze in the pasture beyond. The sun slants through the windshield, warm on my face, and I remind myself that no matter what happens, life goes on. Life always goes on.
“We might have a witness.” I tell him about the girl riding her horse. “I’m on my way to talk to her now.”
“A break would be nice.” He pauses. “You okay?”
“Better,” I tell him. “Thanks.”
“If I can get things tied up here, I’ll head your way.”
“I’d like that.” I start to tell him I miss him, but he ends the call before I get the words out.
CHAPTER 15
The Reiglesberger family lives on a small horse property located at a hairpin curve on County Road 14. They breed Appaloosa horses and have boarding facilities for people who don’t own land. I’ve met Elaina Reiglesberger several times over the years, but just to say hello. The only things I know about her are that she gives riding lessons to kids and that she runs a therapeutic riding program for special-needs children.
I pull into the gravel lane, drive past a double-wide trailer home, and park adjacent to the horse barn, next to Rasmussen’s cruiser. It’s an old building in need of paint; the pipe pens are rusty and bent, but the place is well kept.
I exit the Tahoe as two dogs of dubious breeding bound up to me, tongues lolling. I reach down to pet them, and I’m greeted with a barrage of wet kisses. The sliding door of the barn stands open and I can see the silhouettes of several people and at least one horse in the aisle. Wiping my slobbered-up hands on my slacks, I start toward the door.
The smell of horses and manure and fresh-cut hay greet me when I step inside. Five heads turn my way, one of which is Sheriff Rasmussen’s. He’s surrounded by several young girls in riding breeches and helmets, along with a plump, competent-looking woman wearing jeans and a yellow golf shirt. The horse is a big shiny bay in cross-ties and looks as if he’s enjoying the hubbub. I suspect the bag of carrots lying on a nearby lawn chair might be part of the reason.
As my eyes adjust to the dim interior, I recognize the woman as Elaina Reiglesberger. She’s a pretty thirtysomething with shoulder-length hair that’s pulled into a ponytail and tucked into a Starbucks cap. Her shirt is covered with specks of hay. Something dark and gooey mars the right hip of her jeans. But she has a wholesome, centered look about her. She smiles at me as I approach.
“Hi, Chief Burkholder.” Muttering something about her hands, she wipes them on her jeans before offering a handshake. “Terrible about the Miller girl.” She glances at the sheriff. “You guys have any idea what happened?”
Her accent broadcasts Kentucky. She’s got a straightforward countenance and a quiet confidence that tells me she’s probably a good role model for these young riders. “We’re working on it,” I say noncommittally. “I understand someone here thinks they might have seen something.”
“Mandy, my oldest. She was riding down the road yesterday, the day Sadie Miller disappeared, and thinks she might have seen her. She didn’t think anything about it until she was watching the news and saw the story.” Elaina turns, takes one of the girls by the shoulders, and moves her toward me. “Mandy, honey, tell the chief what you saw.”
The girl is pretty, with dark brown hair and wide, guileless eyes. I guess her age to be about twelve. She’s still more interested in horses than boys, and isn’t nearly as happy as the horse to be the center of attention.
“Hi, Mandy.” I extend my hand and we shake.
“Hi.” The girl’s palm is wet with sweat, telling me to tread lightly if I’m to loosen up her memory and pry something—anything—useful out of her brain.
I run my hand down the horse’s neck. “Is this big boy yours?”
A grin overtakes her face. “That’s Paxton.”
“Hey, Paxton.” I give the horse a pat. “What do you do with him?”
“We just started barrel racing.”
“I bet that’s fun.”
“Except when she hits the barrel,” a girl who is a younger version of Mandy blurts out.
Mandy rolls her eyes. “At least I don’t fall off like you.”
“Girls.” Elaina sets her hand on the younger girl’s shoulder and starts to play with her hair. “Let the chief ask her questions.”
I turn my attention back to Mandy. “Can you tell me what you saw yesterday?”
The other girls inch closer, as if they don’t want to miss a word. Mandy swallows. “Sometimes I take Paxton down the road after we practice barrels to cool him off. I saw that Amish girl walking along the road down by that old barn, and this car drove up next to her. She walked over and started talking to someone.”
“Did you see who she was talking to?”
“No.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“It was just old and kind of gross-looking.” Her eyes dart left as she tries to recall. “Dark. Blue, I think.”
I glance at Rasmussen and see him jot something in his note pad; then I turn my attention back to Mandy. “Do you know what time that was?”
“Around seven-thirty.”
I glance through the door toward the gravel lane. “When you go down the road, do you go left or right?”
“Left. We usually ride down to the bridge.”
I’m familiar with the bridge. It’s about a half a mile down the road and spans a small stream and greenbelt that separates a soybean field from a cornfield.
“Was the driver a man or a woman?” I ask.
Her eyes slide toward her mom, who gives her an encouraging nod. “I couldn’t tell.”
“Did Sadie get into the car?” I ask.
She knows where I’m going with my line of questioning; I see it in her eyes. And for the first time, the girl looks scared. “I don’t know.”
“Did you notice which direction the car went?”
“It was still there when I left.”
I give her a smile. “You did great, Mandy. Thank you.” I turn my attention to Elaina and hand her my card. “If she remembers something later, will you give me a call? My cell numbe
r is on the back. I’m available day or night.”
The woman gives me a firm nod and lowers her voice. “God bless you guys. I hope you find that girl safe and sound.”
A few minutes later, I’m back in the Tahoe, idling past the bridge where Mandy Reiglesberger claims to have seen Sadie Miller talking to someone in a vaguely described vehicle. It’s not much to go on—not enough to go on—but it’s all I’ve got.
I’ve called Tomasetti and asked for a list of individuals in Holmes and Coshocton counties who own dark-colored cars more than three years old. But we both know extracting any useful information is a long shot. Still, I could whittle down the results to pedophiles or males convicted of a sex crime in the last five years. It’s a start.
I park on the gravel shoulder a few yards from the bridge. Looking in my rearview mirror, I see Rasmussen pull over behind me. We exit our vehicles and meet on the shoulder.
He looks toward the west, where the sun has already sunk behind a purple bank of clouds. “It’s going to be dark in half an hour.”
Trying not to feel as if we’re wasting our time, I motion left. “I’ll go east and you go west. Let’s see what we can find.”
He nods and we start in opposite directions.
There isn’t much traffic along this deserted stretch. Two miles to the east, the road dead-ends at the county dump, which is chained off except on Saturday mornings. The asphalt is pitted and narrow, with a centerline that’s been scoured by tires and the elements. I walk the narrow shoulder, my eyes skimming the grassy bar ditch, the fence, the soybean field, and the macadam on my left. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Anything that seems out of place. Signs of a struggle. Skid marks. None of those things is indicative of a crime. But sometimes building a case is akin to putting a puzzle together. Alone, the pieces mean nothing. But when you arrange them in a meaningful way, a picture emerges.
Several minutes pass with no luck. I’m ever aware of the fading light, birdsong being replaced by a chorus of crickets in the woods. Near the bridge, I find a beer can and the ragged remnants of a paper towel. There’s a plastic Baggie that looks as if it’s been ripped to shreds by some animal. Twenty yards past the bridge, I notice horse hoof marks in the gravel. There are more in the grass, along with a pile of horse manure. I know now that this is where Mandy Reiglesberger rides.
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