Shamed

by Linda Castillo

  “What did you leave for me, you son of a bitch?” I whisper.

  I step over a rotting log, veer left toward the road. I notice something light-colored on the ground to my right. My beam illuminates a rock the size of a tire. I hear Glock moving through brush behind me, heading in the opposite direction. I keep going, seeking anything that looks out of place.

  I’ve gone about twenty yards when a speck on the ground snags my attention. I stop, set my beam on it. A tiny white scrap of what looks like tissue paper or fabric is nestled beneath a bush. I go to it, kneel for a closer look, and my heart begins to pound.

  The piece of paper is about the size of a dime. It’s actually gray in color. Darker and tattered around the edges. Burned, I realize. Wet from the drizzle. It’s the kind of thing most people wouldn’t notice. Not even a cop. Nothing more than a piece of litter. But I’ve seen these scraps of paper before. My datt was an avid hunter and put venison on our table twice a year. His rifle of choice was a muzzle-loader.

  I hit my shoulder mike. “Glock, I got something.”

  “On my way.”

  I stand, shine my beam in a circle. I find a freshly broken branch on a sapling. A tuft of grass that’s been crushed beneath a shoe or boot. Six feet away, there’s a narrow patch of earth where rain has washed away most of the leaves. Sure enough, the faint mark of a shoe imprint with a waffled sole. It’s a partial, the rear half set in an inch or so of rotting leaves.

  Brush rustles as Glock approaches. “Brass?”

  “Partial shoe imprint.” I shift my beam to the scrap of paper.

  “What the hell is that?” he asks. “Wrapper of some sort?”

  “Wadding from a muzzle-loader,” I tell him.

  He laughs. “Damn good find, Chief.”

  We kneel for a closer look. “My dad had a muzzle-loader,” I tell him. “I saw plenty of those little scraps of paper when I was a kid. Or else I wouldn’t have recognized it.”

  His eyes meet mine. “So our shooter is probably Amish.”

  “We figured as much, but this is one more indication that we’re right.” I stand, look around, and sigh. “It isn’t much, but more than what we had.”

  “I wonder if there’s any way we can use that wadding to ID the weapon,” he says.

  “Firearms guy at BCI might know.”

  He pulls an orange cone from his coat and sets it on the ground next to the scrap of paper. “Hopefully, it’ll help us stop this motherfucker.”

  * * *

  It’s ten P.M. and the Painters Mill Police Department bustles with frenetic activity. Everyone except Skid and my off-duty dispatcher is here, including Tomasetti, Sheriff Mike Rasmussen, and a trooper with the Ohio State Highway Patrol. The task force is meeting and I’m five minutes late, so I snag my legal pad off my desk and head that way.

  “Any word on the bishop?” I call out as I pass the dispatch station.

  “They won’t tell me much, Chief, since I’m not family,” says Jodie. “All she could say is that he made it through surgery, he’s on a respirator, and is in the intensive care unit in critical condition.”

  I proceed toward the meeting room, think better of it, and go back out to the reception area. “Thanks for pulling a double shift,” I tell her. “I appreciate it.”

  She beams a grin at me and I’m reminded how young she is. That she probably has better things to do. “Happy to fill in, Chief.”

  I enter the war room to find John Tomasetti standing at the head of the table, the half podium shoved aside, the mike tucked out of the way. He nods at me when I enter, his eyes lingering an instant too long.

  “The technician was able to lift a plaster of the shoe imprint out at the intersection where we believe the shooting took place,” he says. “Preliminarily, we got a men’s size thirteen. Tread matches the plaster taken at the scene of the Yoder murder and the abduction of the Helmuth girl. Lab is running a comp now, which is forthcoming, but I think it’s safe to assume we are dealing with the same individual. We believe he is a white male. He may be Amish or presenting himself as an Amish person. Judging from the shoe size, well over six feet tall.” He looks at me again. “I believe Chief Burkholder will be giving you a more detailed description.”

  He flips a page and frowns. “We did not get DNA from the killer at the Schattenbaum farm. Both sets belong to Yoder and the Helmuth girl. The tire tread was identified, as most of you know. We believe this individual drives or has access to a pickup truck or SUV.”

  He looks at me again. “Chief Burkholder, you want to talk about that wadding you found at the scene of the Troyer shooting?”

  I speak from my place at the door. “We believe David Troyer was traveling north on Township Road 104 when he was shot. The wadding was in the woods east of the road, about ten yards in. That’s where we think the shooter stood and took his shot. The wadding is consistent with a muzzle-loader or black-powder-type rifle. For those of you not familiar with that kind of weapon, they do not use regular cartridges. According to the surgeon who removed the projectile from Troyer, the projectile was a lead ball, which is commonly used and has been sent to the BCI lab. What’s significant about the muzzle-loader is that the Amish use that type of rifle for hunting. While we can’t say for certain he’s Amish, this strengthens my belief that he is or was at some point in his life.”

  “Makes sense in light of the victim and abducted girl being Amish,” Sheriff Rasmussen puts in.

  “Unless someone wants us to believe he’s Amish,” Tomasetti adds.

  I nod in agreement and continue, summarizing my theory about the illicit adoption of an infant seven years ago and hitting the highlights of my trip to Crooked Creek. “The two people from Crooked Creek who I believe were involved, Bishop Noah Schwartz and the midwife, Sadie Stutzman, are both dead.”

  A barely discernible stir goes around the room.

  I relay the details of my being ambushed and follow up with a physical description of my attacker. “Male. Six-three. Two twenty. Dark hair. Beard, which of course could be altered if he wishes to change his appearance.” I look at my audience. “I don’t believe the timing of any of this was coincidental.”

  “You believe the bishop and midwife were targeted because of what they knew?” the trooper asks.

  “Or because of what they did,” I reply. “I think the hit-and-run that killed the bishop in Crooked Creek and the murder of Stutzman are directly related to the crimes here in Painters Mill and were perpetrated by the same individual.”

  “Why would an Amish bishop—two Amish bishops—and midwife take a baby?” Rasmussen asks.

  “No one I’ve talked to has been able to give me an answer,” I tell him. “What they have told me is that the people involved must have believed they had a good reason.”

  “Good reason?” he says. “You want to expand on that a little, Kate?”

  I frown at the sheriff, realizing he’s still miffed at me. “I’m operating on theory here, Mike. Just like you.”

  “Unlike the rest of us you’ve got some insights into the Amish mind-set. What possible scenario could prompt them to plan and execute some sort of … illegal adoption?”

  I shrug. “If they were concerned about the safety of the baby, for example. Or if, for whatever reason, the mother was unable to care for a newborn. The bishop and/or the midwife may have stepped in to help.” Even as I say the words, it feels as if I’m defending what is basically an indefensible action—regardless of the objective—and once again I’m reminded that while I have an intimate understanding of the Amish ways, my cohorts do not.

  “Can’t help but wonder why someone—the mother or father or family members—didn’t go to the police,” Rasmussen says. “I mean, if someone took their kid it seems to me that would be their first stop.”

  “We just don’t know,” I tell him. “We don’t even know if the mother is still living.”

  “Did you check deaths in the area during that time frame?” Tomasetti asks.

&n
bsp; I nod. “There’s nothing there that stands out.”

  “What about the timing of all this?” Glock asks. “Seven years is a long time.”

  “We don’t know,” I say.

  “So these murders are likely revenge-motivated,” Tomasetti says.

  “Probably.” I nod my head. “As far as the abduction of the girl, I believe we have to operate under the assumption that they wanted her back.”

  “Is there a possibility Mary Yoder was part of it seven years ago?” Tomasetti asks.

  “According to Miriam Helmuth her mother knew about it. I don’t believe she was a major player.”

  “What about Ivan Helmuth?” Tomasetti asks. “He’s been keeping a low profile.”

  “We’ve gone easy on the parents due to the circumstances,” Rasmussen adds. “I mean, the missing kid. Maybe it’s time we stepped it up.”

  Tomasetti nods in agreement. “We can pick up Ivan first thing in the morning, bring him in for formal questioning. Apply some pressure. See if he can tell us something we don’t already know.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Rasmussen says.

  “Bear in mind they have children,” I say. “They’re in crisis. You might want to—”

  “I got it covered, Kate.”

  I nod, let it go.

  Rasmussen isn’t finished. “Look, I know they’re your people, Kate, but come on. This couple … they’re brought a newborn baby in the middle of the night and they didn’t question it? Didn’t tell anyone?”

  “According to Miriam Helmuth, they did question—”

  “They did nothing about it,” he snaps. “That’s my point. I don’t understand how you can defend that.”

  I take a breath, bank a rise of temper. “Look, all I can say is that most Amish trust their bishop implicitly. In most cases, whether they agree or not, his word is final.” I look out across the group, trying to gauge their receptivity. “Yes, the Amish are insular. They prefer to handle problems themselves. They’re more apt to rely on each other or their community rather than law enforcement, certainly some government child welfare agency. But it’s not done for deceitful purposes.”

  “That remains to be seen,” the sheriff says. “Potentially, we’re talking about a federal crime.”

  “We get it, Mike,” Tomasetti growls. “Let’s move on.”

  I don’t respond. Mainly, because he’s right and I’m on the losing end of a battle I don’t want to fight. If my premise is correct, what those two bishops and the midwife did is not only indefensible, but criminal. That the Helmuths did nothing makes them an accessory. It doesn’t matter that the issue is probably a hell of a lot more complicated than any of us realize.

  I close my notebook and look out over the group. “We’re hoping that as David Troyer recovers, he’ll be able to give us a name. As it stands now he’s in extremely critical condition and on a respirator.”

  I nod at Tomasetti to let him know he has the floor.

  He stands. “I spoke with Sheriff Dan Pallant down in Scioto County at length earlier. He’s on board with the task force and taking a second look at the hit-skip that killed Noah Schwartz as well as the murder of Stutzman.” He gives me his deadpan expression. “Chief Burkholder and I are going to head down that way first thing in the morning.”

  “Do you think the Helmuth girl is being held in Scioto County?” Rasmussen asks.

  “We don’t know,” Tomasetti says. “But in light of everything we now know, I think there’s a possibility we’ll find some answers there.”

  The sheriff shifts in his chair. “Look, I’m not going to get into the whole jurisdictional thing, but I’d like County involved in that, too, John.”

  “You’re welcome to come along or send a deputy, Mike. The reason Chief Burkholder got drafted for this is because she knows the Amish, and she’s already made some contacts down there.” He shrugs, nonchalant, then looks at me. “You game, Chief?”

  I nod.

  Sheriff Rasmussen sighs. “Look, just keep me updated.”

  “Bet on it,” Tomasetti says, and the meeting is adjourned.

  CHAPTER 20

  Seventy-nine hours missing

  Miriam Helmuth sat at the kitchen table by the light of the lantern and sobbed. When she had no tears left, she bowed her head and prayed. She knew God listened. She knew He heard. That oftentimes His ways were simply not understood. Tonight, she couldn’t shake the sense that the God she loved with all her might had abandoned her.

  Please return her to me O Lord God.

  It was the first time she’d been alone all day. The first time she didn’t have to put on a brave face. The police had left half an hour ago. The last of her Amish brethren had gone home. The children were finally sleeping. Ivan, unable to bear the waiting, had saddled the plow horse for the second time that day. He’d been gone for hours with no food or water.

  For the thousandth time she wondered about her sweet Elsie. Was she warm and dry? Had she been fed? Was she crying and afraid and missing her family? She thought about the shattered glasses found in the bishop’s buggy and she couldn’t help but wonder if someone had hurt her—or worse. The not knowing tore at Miriam like some clawed animal trapped in her chest and trying to dig its way out.

  “Lord, I put my hope in You, for Your love never fails.” She uttered the words on a sob, in a voice hoarse with exhaustion. “I need you, God. I can’t handle this on my own.”

  Even as she said the words, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was being punished for what they’d done all those years ago. If this was God’s way of telling her they’d taken the wrong path.

  “Please forgive me my sin, Heavenly Father, for I didn’t know—”

  The shattering of glass followed by an odd thwack! tore her from her prayer. Miriam got to her feet, looked around, her heart beating hard against her ribs.

  “Ivan?” she called out.

  She strode to the mudroom, but her husband wasn’t there. She went back through the kitchen to the hall, glanced up the stairs to the landing where the children sometimes sat when they couldn’t sleep, but the stairs were bare.

  Where had the odd sound come from? What had broken?

  Miriam went back to the kitchen and looked around. The sight of the hole in the refrigerator froze her in place. She didn’t know much about guns, but her datt had been a hunter; she’d been around enough shooting to recognize a bullet hole when she saw it. The realization slammed into her like a jagged block of ice.

  Frightened, she ran to the living room. The curtains were open, darkness peering in. A hole the size of her thumb marred the glass. And she knew he’d finally come for them.

  Spurred by panic, Miriam bolted to the stairs, ascended them with the speed of a woman half her age. At the top, she darted left, tore down the hall, threw open the first door and dashed to the beds. Bonnie and Irma slept soundly, snoring softly.

  “Miriam?”

  Gasping, she spun, saw her husband silhouetted against the door, still wearing his coat. She rushed to him, went through the door, closed it behind her. “Someone shot through the window,” she said.

  “What?” His eyes widened. “When?”

  “Just now.”

  Even in the dim light of the gas lamp, she saw his face pale. “The children—”

  Not waiting for him to finish, Miriam hurried to the next room. Her legs went weak with relief when she found her two sons sleeping and completely unaware.

  Ivan met her in the hall, his eyes frightened and large. “The girls are fine,” he said. “Sleeping.”

  “It’s him,” she whispered. “He’s come for us.”

  Ivan stared at her, saying nothing. He didn’t have to. He knew, just as she did.

  “Lock the doors and windows.” He started toward the stairs.

  Miriam choked out a sob, set her hand over her mouth. “Go to the phone,” she whispered. “Call Chief Burkholder.”

  * * *

  I’m on my way home for a shower and a f
ew hours of sleep when the call comes in. I’m expecting Tomasetti; uneasiness ripples through me when I recognize the number of the prepaid cell I left with the Helmuths.

  “Chief Burkholder!” Ivan. I can tell by the breathless cadence of his voice that something’s happened.

  “Someone shot into the house,” he says. “We need you to come.”

  “Is anyone hurt?” I ask.

  “No, but we’re afraid. The children!”

  “I’m on my way,” I tell him. “Stay inside. Stay away from the windows.”

  I make a U-turn. The engine groans as I crank the speedometer to sixty and blow back through town. I call Skid. “I got shots fired at the Helmuth place.”

  “Holy shit. Chief, I’m there. Goat Head Road. Didn’t see a damn thing.”

  “I’m ten-seven-six,” I say, letting him know I’m en route. “Drive the block. I’ll meet you.”

  “Roger that.”

  I pick up my radio. “I’ve got a ten-forty-three-A,” I say, giving the ten code for shots fired. I recite the address. “Ten-seven-six. Expedite.”

  It takes me three minutes to reach the Helmuth farm. I barrel up the lane fast, slide to a halt a few yards from the back door, and I hit the ground running. Ivan stands on the porch, a lantern thrust in front of him.

  “Get inside,” I tell him as I take the steps two at a time to the porch.

  He leads me through the mudroom and into the kitchen. Lantern light reveals terror on their faces. I spot the hole in the refrigerator door before Ivan can point it out.

  While a stray shot is always dangerous, in Painters Mill most often it’s from a hunter. In light of recent events, I don’t believe that’s the case this time.

  “How long ago did this happen?” I ask.

  “Less than five minutes. There’s a hole in the front window.” Miriam is already striding that way.