“Dogs?” he asks.
“County is working on it.”
“If this guy knew Mary Yoder and those kids were coming, if he knew their routine, he may have gone inside and waited for them,” he says.
“If they were already here,” I say, “all he had to do was sneak up to the house along this fence line and make entry.”
“If he knew the victim, he’s likely local.” Tomasetti looks around as if trying to imagine the scenario. “Were they targets or did they surprise him?”
“If he targeted them, who was he after?” I murmur. “Mary Yoder? Or the girl? Both?”
Kneeling, he spreads the bag over the tire-tread imprints.
“How’s it coming along inside?” I ask.
“It’s a damn mess, Kate.” He anchors the plastic with a couple of stones, rises, and sighs. “Mary Yoder wasn’t just stabbed,” he tells me. “She was butchered. Slashed. Defensive wounds. She put up a hell of a fight.”
“You think this is personal? That he knew her?”
“Or he’s a fucking psycho or both.”
“You guys get anything?”
“Footwear imprints. Large. Definitely male. A shitload of blood. Probably hers, but if he cut himself and they can isolate a second set of DNA, it could be helpful.”
He reaches into the side pocket of his jacket. “Crime scene agent found this on the victim.” He pulls out a clear plastic bag containing a single sheet of notebook paper. “We’ve still got to log it, but I wanted you to take a look to see if it means something that might help us find the kid.”
I shine my flashlight on the bag. White notebook paper. Lined. From a spiral binding. Printed in pencil by an inept hand.
Food gained by fraud tastes sweet, but one ends up with a mouth full of gravel.
“Mean anything to you?” he asks.
“It’s from the Bible,” I say. “A proverb, I think.” I look at him. “Something to do with deception.”
“Any idea how this might fit with any of this?”
I shake my head. “No clue.”
We fall silent, look around, trying not to notice that it’s nearly dark. “Tomasetti, this woman … she was a grandmother. Amish. Who does something like that? And why take the child?”
He shakes his head. “The first thing that comes to mind is that he’s a sexual predator.” He shrugs. “Maybe he wanted the kid, the woman got in the way, and it’s no more complicated than that.”
The words are a physical pain. My mind whirrs with what I know—and all I don’t. “That level of violence. It seems like … overkill. Like he wanted her dead, not just out of the way.”
“Or he was afraid she’d identify him.”
Neither of us put into words what we’re thinking. That the same could be true for the girl.
I tell him the story about Eddie Graber.
“You think he’s capable of something like that?” he asks.
“He’s got the physical strength. A temper. Self-control issues.” I shake my head. “I don’t know him very well. I’m going to talk to them.”
I look around the property, the dilapidated house, the isolated and overgrown nature of the land.
“How did he know they’d be here?” I say, thinking aloud.
“Could be a crime of opportunity. He was in the area. Saw them.” He shrugs. “Or maybe he’s a stalker. Had his eyes on the kid for some time. Followed them. Figured this was his chance.”
“You think he lives in the area?”
“I think that’s the most likely scenario.” But he sighs. “Tough to figure what’s in the mind of someone capable of hacking an Amish grandmother to death.” His expression darkens. “We need to find that kid.”
The sense of dread I’d been feeling since I laid eyes on the body of Mary Yoder augments into a knot in my gut that’s being drawn inexorably tighter. All children are innocent, but for this to happen to a child with special needs heaps on another cruel layer of urgency.
I watch as Tomasetti sets a branch over the garbage bag to keep the wind from blowing it away. “I’m going to talk to the sheriff, check on the status of getting dogs out here.”
My cell vibrates against my hip. I check the display. My dispatcher. “Hey, Lois.”
“I got two registered sex offenders within a ten-mile radius of the Schattenbaum address, Chief. One of them is Amish.”
I pull out the small notebook I keep in the back pocket of my trousers. “Give me the Amish guy first.”
“Lester Nisley.” Computer keys click on the other end, and then she reads. “Twenty-two years old. Convicted of rape of a thirteen-year-old girl in 2015. Got out on parole last September. Current address 5819 Township Road 4.”
Less than five miles away.…
“What about the other guy?”
“Gene Fitch. Fifty-seven years old. Convicted of rape of a nine-year-old girl in 1992. On parole since 2016. Home address 9345 County Highway 83, Painters Mill.”
… rape of a nine-year-old girl …
“Anything on Eddie Graber?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Thanks, Lois.”
“Only thanks I need, Chief, is for that little girl to get home safe and sound.”
“Amen to that.”
CHAPTER 4
Two hours missing
A few minutes later I’m in the Explorer with Glock in the passenger seat, and we’re northbound on Ohio 83. I left Tomasetti with the tire and footwear marks and relinquished the collection of evidence to the capable hands of BCI. Both of those things freed me up to do exactly what I need to be doing: looking for Elsie Helmuth.
“So what’s the story on Eddie Graber?” Glock asks.
I tell him about the near drowning. “It left him with some emotional issues. Impulse control. A temper.”
“Bad combination.”
“Yeah.”
The Graber farm is just two minutes from the Helmuth place. I take the long gravel lane up a rise, past a couple of derelict barns and a good-size garden. The house is brick and set behind three evenly spaced maple trees. I see Big Eddie’s father standing in front of yet another barn, running a currycomb over a nice-looking Standardbred gelding, so I pull up to him and shut down the engine.
Glock and I exit the vehicle and start toward him.
“Guder Ohvet.” Good evening. I hold out my badge as I approach.
Edward Graber is a large man. Six-three. Two fifty. I guess him to be about forty years of age. He’s a widower, having lost his wife a couple of years ago to pancreatic cancer. They have one son, Eddie, and the two live alone here on the farm.
The Amish man nods, his eyes moving from me to Glock. “Been hearing lots of police sirens,” he says. “What’s going on over there? Are Miriam and Ivan okay?”
“Is your son home, Mr. Graber?”
“What do you want with Eddie?” he asks.
“There was an incident over at the Schattenbaum place earlier. I need to ask him some questions. Is he here?”
A brief hesitation and then he brings two fingers to his mouth and whistles. It’s an odd way to summon a young man, but it works. A few seconds later, Big Eddie appears at the barn door.
“Big Eddie” Graber is just sixteen years old, but he’s already as large as his father. Not exactly overweight, but … meaty. Strong-looking. He’s wearing a straw hat. A black coat. Work trousers with suspenders. Greasy brown hair brushes the collar of his coat. Leather gloves cover hands the size of dinner plates.
“Hi, Eddie,” I say by way of greeting.
“Hey,” the boy mutters, and then slogs over to us, looking at the ground, at the barn, anywhere except at me. Like many teenagers his age, he’s got acne on both cheeks. He looks uncomfortable. Probably because I was there the day he got in a fight at the Butterhorn Bakery. Or else he has something to hide.…
“Can you tell me where you’ve been all day today?” I ask.
The boy’s eyes slide from me to his datt and then back to me.
“Here.”
“All day?”
“Ja.”
The elder Graber narrows his gaze on me. “What’s this all about, Chief Burkholder? Why are you asking about my son’s whereabouts?”
I don’t answer, wait, let the pressure build to see how they handle it.
“I been here,” Big Eddie says defensively. “Helping Datt shore up the loft there in the barn. We’re going to pick up hay tomorrow.”
“Did you leave this property at any time?” I ask.
“I took a walk down to the pond to see the ducks.”
“Alone?”
“Ja.”
“Did you see any of the Helmuth family today?”
“No.”
I look from man to boy. “Do either of you have access to a vehicle?”
“We are Amisch,” the elder Graber tells me. “No.”
I look at his son. “When’s the last time you were at the Schattenbaum place?”
“I dunno.” His brows go together, as if he’s struggling to remember. “A couple months maybe.”
“When’s the last time you saw Mary Yoder?”
“The old lady?” He looks at his datt, then back at me. “I don’t remember. A few months?”
“When did you last see Elsie Helmuth?”
“The little retarded kid?”
I grit my teeth. “The seven-year-old little girl,” I say.
The elder Graber steps in. “Why are you asking my son these things?”
I don’t look away from Big Eddie. “Answer the question.”
For the first time he looks upset, a combination of confusion and frustration. A drop of sweat rolls down the side of his face, just in front of his ear. I think about his temper; I think about the missing little girl, and I push harder. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Eddie?”
The boy’s face reddens. “I … I don’t lie!”
“Why are you sweating?” I ask.
“My son has no reason to lie to you or anyone else,” Edward says. “He’s a good boy.”
“Was he here all day?” I ask the elder Graber.
“Just like he said.”
I look at the boy. “Would you mind taking off your gloves?”
“Huh? My gloves?” But he’s already tugging at the fingertip of his glove, pulling it off.
“Show me your hands,” I say. “Both sides.”
He does as he’s told. His hands are large and strong, with dirty, chewed-off nails and a plethora of calluses. A two-inch-long half-moon-shaped slice mars the heel of his hand.
Next to me, Glock shifts.
“How’d you cut yourself?” I ask.
Eddie lets his hand drop, shoves it into his pocket. “I caught it on barbed wire.”
“Weren’t you wearing your gloves?” I ask.
“I took them off,” he mumbles.
“When did you do it?”
“This morning.”
“Looks like you might need stitches,” Glock says. “Any reason you didn’t get it taken care of?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” The boy casts an uneasy look at his father. “Why is she looking at my hands, Datt? What did I do?”
“Chief Burkholder, my son … he’s engshtlich.” Upset. “I saw him cut his hand. He was handling a big coil of wire and it slipped. He’s telling the truth.”
I turn my attention to the boy. He stares back, sputtering now. His hands clenched into fists. Temper, I think, so I press on.
“You get along with the Helmuths?” I ask him.
“I like them just fine.”
I look at the elder man. “Do you mind if we take a quick look in the house, Mr. Graber?” I do not have the right to search the home of any individual without a search warrant issued by a judge. But if he gives me permission, I can have a look free and clear. Better yet, anything I find can be used to build a case against him.
“I don’t understand,” Edward says. “What are you looking for?”
“There was an incident at the Schattenbaum place this afternoon, Mr. Graber. Mary Yoder was killed. Elsie Helmuth is missing. As you can imagine, everyone is extremely concerned. I need to take a look in your house. Just to eliminate you and your son from the equation. Are you okay with that?”
A hard silence falls, thick and echoing. Edward Graber stares at me as if the news has rendered him speechless. His mouth opens, lips trembling, but he doesn’t make a sound.
Standing next to him, the younger man begins to shake. He’s clutching the gloves, slapping them against his thigh as if he wants to hit something. I think about his temper. His lack of self-control.
“You think my son did that?” Edward asks, his voice shaking.
“I think I’d like to get back out there and look for that little girl.” I look from father to son and back to the elder man. “It would be a big help if I could just have a look-see in your house and then I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Go ahead,” Graber says. “But I don’t like these questions.”
“Neither do I.”
I send Glock to the barn. I head toward the house. I hear father and son behind me, but I don’t wait for them. I go through the back door, enter a narrow porch that’s been enclosed and is being used as a mudroom. Boots lined up on the floor to my right. I pick up a rubber boot, check it for blood, check the tread. The size, which is thirteen. I look at the coats hung on wood dowels. Dry and clean. No blood.
The kitchen is a mess, but it’s the kind of mess that’s the result of two men living in close quarters without a woman. I tug open a couple of drawers. The only knives I see are cheap steak knives. I go to the living room. No sign of anything out of place. No footprints. Nothing that looks as if it would belong to a little girl.
There’s a single bedroom at the rear of the house. Large. A full-size bed. Faded Amish quilt. No closet. I look under the bed. Nothing. I check the bathroom. It’s filthy, but again, it’s normal wear and tear. I check the hamper. No bloody clothes or towels. I make eye contact with Edward and then take the steps to the second level.
There are two bedrooms upstairs. The first has a twin-size bed. A ratty blanket. A horse saddle on the floor. Another pair of boots. No closet. Nothing under the bed. The second room is littered with boxes. A woman’s dress hangs from a dowel on the wall. A kapp, strings hanging down. Mrs. Graber’s things, I think, and I take the steps back to the first level.
Edward and his son stand in the kitchen. The older man looks perturbed. Big Eddie looks on the verge of tears. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” he whines.
I ignore him. “Is there a basement?” I ask.
The older man shakes his head. “No.”
I take a moment to make eye contact with both of them. “I’m going to have a deputy take a look around the pasture and field. Is that all right with you?”
“That’s fine,” says the elder.
“I appreciate your cooperation,” I say, and then I’m through the door.
Glock meets me at the Explorer. “Anything interesting in the barn?” I ask.
“Just a girlie magazine up in the loft, Chief.”
Rolling my eyes, I put the vehicle in gear and start down the lane.
* * *
I’ve just made the turn onto Township Road 4 when my cell chirps. I tug it out of my pocket, glance at the display. T.J. “Chief, I’m out here at Dick Howard’s place on Township Road 14 and Goat Head Road. Dick says he saw a pickup truck he didn’t recognize drive past his place right about the time the kid went missing.”
My interest surges. That intersection is just down the road from the Schattenbaum place. “Make or model?”
“No and no. Said he glanced out the kitchen window when he was fixing a sandwich and didn’t pay much attention.”
I think about the tire tread marks. “Full-size pickup?”
“Yeah.”
“Color?”
“Light. White or tan.”
“Did he get a look at the driver?”
&nbs
p; “No, ma’am.”
“Tell him to call if he remembers anything else. Glock and I are talking to RSOs. Keep at it.”
“You got it.”
I tell Glock about the call. “We’re on our way to see Lester Nisley,” I say. “He’s an RSO and Swartzentruber. Still on parole.”
“Sounds promising.”
“We’ll see.”
Lester Nisley lives with his parents on a hog farm four miles south of the Schattenbaum place. The smell of manure hits me as I make the turn into the lane. Next to me, Glock mutters something unseemly and rolls up his window.
Most Swartzentruber Amish don’t use gravel for their lanes, and the Nisleys are no exception. We bump down a rough dirt road fraught with ruts. A quarter mile in, the lane opens to a turnaround situated between a clapboard farmhouse and two barns. The one to my right is a low-slung hog barn. Farther back is an old white bank barn with its front sliding door standing open. The house is to my left; it’s a plain farmhouse with no flowers or shutters or landscaping. An enormous garden encompasses most of the side yard. A dozen or so pairs of trousers hang from a clothesline. A weathered outhouse is situated just off the backyard.
“I feel like I’ve just gone back in time a hundred years,” Glock says as we get out.
“Some Swartzentrubers are more Old Order than others,” I tell him, but I’m thinking about the tire-tread marks found in front of the Schattenbaum place. “Keep your eyes open for any sign of a vehicle, tire tread, oil stains, whatever.”
Movement at the door of the hog barn snags my attention. I see a man silhouetted against lantern light inside. He’s wearing a flat-brimmed hat, standing in the doorway, watching us.
We start that way.
A second man has come up beside him. A younger version of the older man. Neither of them speaks or makes an effort to greet or welcome us. Instead they stand there, legs cocked, and watch us approach. The second man is slighter of build; his beard is of the barely-there variety, his bowl-cut blond hair sticking out from beneath his flat-brimmed straw hat. Father and son, I think.
I’ve seen the elder Nisley around town, but I don’t recall ever speaking to him. His expression reflects a standoffishness I’m no stranger to. One that tells me I’m an outsider and he hasn’t yet decided if I’m welcome on his property. He’s got angular features, an unkempt beard hanging off the lower half of his face. A thin mouth. A toothpick moving up and down as he works it against his teeth with his tongue. Neither of them looks terribly concerned about the police showing up at eight o’clock in the evening.
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