Ivan and I follow. The window covering is open about a foot. Sure enough, a bullet hole big enough for me to put my finger through stares back at me. The surrounding glass is cracked, but not broken, typical of a gunshot.
I check the angle, realize it could have come from someone sitting in a vehicle on the road in front of the house. Or more likely the woods across the road.
“Where were you when this happened?” I ask.
“Kitchen table,” Miriam replies.
“I was walking in from the barn,” Ivan says.
“Were the curtains open?”
“Yes,” Miriam tells me.
Which means the shooter likely saw her, but she couldn’t see him.
“Stay away from the windows.” I start toward the kitchen. “Do not go outside until I give you the go-ahead. Do not turn on any more lanterns. I’ll be back.”
I go out the back door, slide into the Explorer, and pick up my radio mic. “Skid, what’s your twenty?”
“Township Road 14. Went around the block. I got nothing.”
“Looks like someone shot through the front window. Drive around to the back of the property. You see anyone, make the stop. I got the front.”
“Roger that.”
I zip down the lane, too fast, eyes left and right, and head east on the county road. Amish country is dark as sin at night. No porch lights or streetlamps. Just acres of fields separated by greenbelts thick with trees and the occasional stream.
The woods across the road are an ocean of impenetrable blackness. I stop in front of the Helmuth farmhouse, which puts me a hundred yards away, and I get out. Around me, the night is dead quiet. No movement. No hiss of tires or rumble of an engine. The only sounds come from the sigh of the wind through the trees and a dog barking somewhere in the distance. All the while I’m keenly aware that there’s likely someone nearby with a rifle, intent on doing harm.
My replacement .38 presses reassuringly against my hip as I look toward the house and the window through which the bullet passed. I think about the angle to the kitchen. If the projectile went into the refrigerator, the shooter likely stood exactly where I’m standing now or else just beyond in the woods.
I turn, scan the darkened forest on the other side of the fence. The vague outline of the Schattenbaum farm down the road. I speak into my lapel mike. “County?”
“I’m ten-sixty,” comes a male voice—the sheriff’s deputy, meaning he’s in the vicinity.
“Can you ten-eight-five?” I say, asking him to look for an abandoned vehicle.
“Copy that.”
Tugging out my Maglite, I shine the beam on the gravel shoulder, looking for tire tracks, footprints, or spent casings, but there’s nothing there. I cross the road, check the other side, but the gravel is undisturbed. The shooter could have parked right here, turned off his headlights, and fired from inside his vehicle.
Turning off my Maglite, I cross through the ditch and climb the tumbling-down wire fence. Chances are, the shooter made the shot and fled in a vehicle. But the woods would be an advantageous position. He would have a clear view of the house, close enough to make the shot, and yet be hidden within the cover of the trees—where he wouldn’t have to worry about being spotted by Skid.
That’s when it occurs to me he could have parked on the county road south of here and walked through these woods unseen. After taking the shot, he could have run back through the woods and reached his vehicle in two minutes.
Darkness closes around me when I enter the woods. There’s just enough light filtering through the clouds for me to avoid a collision with a tree trunk or low branch. The trees are bare, but tall and tightly packed. I do my best to tread quietly, but leaves crunch beneath my boots. Fifty feet in, I stop, listening. I can just make out the silhouette of the Helmuth farmhouse behind me. It would take a good marksman to make the shot from this distance, but I’ve no doubt it could be done.
I’m reaching for my shoulder mike to hail Skid when something rustles in the leaves. I see movement twenty yards ahead. I freeze, squint into the darkness. I can just make out the silhouette of a man. He’s stone still, looking at me. I don’t see a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he’s not armed. For an interminable second, we stare at each other.
“Police! Get your hands up!” Sliding my .38 from its holster, I start toward him. “Do not move! Get your hands up now! Slowly. Get them up.”
The man spins and runs.
I hit my lapel mike, give the code for suspicious person. “Ten-seven-eight.” Need assistance.
“Stop! Halt! Police!” I sprint after him, dodging trees, plowing through bushes and saplings. All the while I shout into my lapel mike. “Ten-eighty! Subject is on foot! Southbound, approaching County Road 79. Male. Dark coat.”
I’m no slouch when it comes to running, but the man is faster and putting space between us at an astounding rate. I skirt a brush pile. Brambles claw at my coat and trousers. Branches whip my face. I fling myself over a fallen log, splash through a shallow creek. I’m thirty yards from the road when I see the flash of a dome light.
“Police!” I scream. “Stop!”
An engine roars. I hear the screech of tires. I see the glint of a vehicle through the trees. Moving fast.
I hit my shoulder mike. “Subject is in a vehicle,” I say, breaths puffing. “Eastbound. No headlights.”
My police radio lights up with a dozen codes and voices. Word of a possibly armed suspect has garnered the attention of every law enforcement agency in the county. The sheriff’s department. The Ohio State Highway Patrol. My own department. Still, Holmes County is large—a labyrinth of highways, back roads, dirt roads, and plenty of woods.
I burst onto the road, my breaths labored; I see the red flash of taillights to my left. I sprint another twenty yards, trying to keep him in sight, see which direction he goes next. But the vehicle disappears into the night like a ghost.
CHAPTER 21
Eighty-seven hours missing
When you’re a cop and working a missing-child case, the last thing you want to do is give up hope. The expectation of a positive outcome is the thing that drives you forward when you’re exhausted beyond your limit, uncertain of your path, and besieged by bad news and dead ends at every turn. The longer the case drags on, the more difficult that precious hope is to hang on to, no matter how tight your grip. But cops are realists; when the time comes to give it up, your focus turns to finding the son of a bitch responsible, bringing him to justice—or maybe just bringing a small body home to rest.
I didn’t get much sleep last night. I spent most of it with the Helmuths and on the roads surrounding the farm. The sheriff’s department searched for the shooter and, later, collected what little evidence they could find, which boiled down to a single tire-tread mark that may or may not have been from the perpetrator’s vehicle. There was no brass. No sign anyone had been in the woods with a rifle at all. Still, in light of the threat, I’ve permanently stationed one officer at the Helmuth farm twenty-four seven. I’m working with a skeleton crew to begin with; I don’t know how I’ll sustain the manpower. I’ll find a way.
Tomasetti and I are on our way to Crooked Creek. We’ve spent most of the drive talking about the case, the players involved, their motives, brainstorming the possibilities and different scenarios.
Our first stop is the Scioto County Sheriff’s Department. It’s nine A.M. when Sheriff Dan Pallant ushers us through the secure door and into the same interview room where I met with the deputy two days ago.
Pallant is a middle-aged African American man with a quick smile and a booming voice. He’s neatly dressed in khaki slacks and a navy pullover. A salt-and-pepper goatee covers his chin. A slightly receding hairline and heavy-framed eyeglasses lend him a studious countenance. He’s cordial, but once the niceties are out of the way, he’s ready to get down to business.
“I pulled some files after speaking with you last night, Agent Tomasetti.” He sets a stack of folders on the table,
opens the one on top. “The hit-and-run that killed Noah Schwartz. We originally wrote it up as a hit-skip, possibly involving an intoxicated driver. I went through every report and email and piece of paper in the file, and there’s nothing there to indicate otherwise. No skid marks, no tire-tread imprints, no CCTV cameras in the vicinity, no witnesses, and no suspect. Only interesting thing I ran across was a homeowner who claimed to see a light-colored pickup truck in the vicinity a few minutes before it happened.”
Tomasetti inclines his head at me. “Pickup truck fits with the type of vehicle that left the tire-tread imprint we took at the Schattenbaum place.”
“Dick Howard on Goat Head Road says he saw a light-colored pickup truck—white or tan—in the area around the time Mary Yoder was murdered and the girl taken,” I say.
Tomasetti looks at Pallant. “Any more description on the truck? Long bed? Crew cab? Anything like that?”
The sheriff shakes his head. “Deputy talked to the homeowner again last night and got nothing. I’m sure you know we got a lot of pickup trucks in this part of Ohio and Kentucky.”
“I’ll get the ROs of all vehicles matching that description, starting in Scioto County, expand from there, and see if anything pops,” Tomasetti says.
The sheriff rattles off the contiguous counties. “Adams. Pike. Lawrence. Jackson.” He pauses, rubs his palm across his chin. “Might check Greenup County in Kentucky, too.”
Tomasetti thumbs the information into his phone.
“I had my night clerk make you guys copies of everything.” Pallant shoves a green folder across the table to us.
“Anything new on the Stutzman case?” I ask.
“We don’t have much.” Pallant slides a second folder toward us, then opens the official file in front of him and looks down at it. “Initially, we investigated the incident as a probable home invasion–robbery. Some scumbag looking for money or drugs or guns. Sadie was eighty-three years old. Ninety-two pounds. She would have been seen as an easy target.”
He makes a sound of disgust. “There were no signs of forced entry. That means she either left the door unlocked or she knew him.” He looks down at the file, flips the page. “There were signs of a struggle, but some of that occurred when Chief Burkholder was attacked later. Overall, the place wasn’t too torn up.”
“Prints?” I ask.
He smiles. “Just yours.”
“Autopsy complete?” Tomasetti asks.
“Coroner hasn’t officially ruled on cause or manner yet, but her skull sure as hell didn’t get bashed in without help.”
I curb a rise of outrage at the thought of such a brutal attack on an elderly woman.
The sheriff’s chair groans when he leans back. “I appreciate your sending the BCI crime scene unit,” he says to Tomasetti. “As you can imagine our department is strapped, so it was a big help. Your guy photographed and videotaped everything. Dusted for prints. Tried to get plaster on the tire treads, but snow melted too fast. He did, however, get a shoe imprint.”
“Men’s size thirteen?” I ask.
The sheriff’s eyes narrow on mine. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You guys have anyone in mind?” Tomasetti asks.
Pallant shakes his head. “We’re looking at the usual suspects. Talked to a few of them. Ruled out a couple of guys who had alibis. Right now we’re eyeing a small-time dope dealer lives down the street from the Stutzman residence. He’s a piece of shit. Violent felon. We picked him up, mainly just to sweat him a little. I got nothing and can’t hold him, but seriously I don’t think he’s involved.”
He divides his attention between the two of us. “In light of your case, I might be right.” He taps the folder with his index finger. “That’s everything we got on Stutzman.”
I open the folder, page through the police report, an incident report, and several dozen crime scene photos. “The house was searched?” I ask.
“I had a couple of deputies go in and look around. The woman was somewhat of a hoarder. The place was so damn messy, we couldn’t tell if it had been ransacked. We basically looked for drawers that had been left open. Stuff like that. Old Sadie didn’t have much of value, so our search was basically inconclusive.”
I recall walking into the house through the back door. Every conceivable surface had been cluttered. “So you were unable to tell if anything had been taken?” I ask.
The sheriff nods. “Nothing obvious.” Frowning, he scratches his head. “You know, we made an effort to contact family, but she doesn’t have any living relatives.”
“Did she have a will?” I ask.
“Don’t think so,” he replies. “Whatever’s left will go through probate. Without any relatives, chances are that little house’ll get auctioned off to pay for funeral expenses.”
And the house will likely join the dozens of others that have been abandoned and forgotten. It’s a sad, depressing thought.
Leaning forward, the sheriff goes to the final two folders, slides one across to me and opens the original. “That brings us to Marlene Byler. Had to dig into the archives for this one.”
I open the file to find a short stack of bad copies from what looks like microfiche—police reports, an autopsy report, witness statements. The print is scratchy, dark, and difficult to read.
Tilting his head back, the sheriff squints at the paper through his bifocals. “Twenty-nine years ago, twenty-nine-year-old Marlene Byler jumped from Sciotoville Bridge, killing herself. Death was ruled a suicide. Cause of death drowning. Witness said she had a baby with her. Sheriff’s department searched the river, but the infant’s body was never found.”
He looks from Tomasetti to me. “Do you think that case has something to do with what happened up there in Painters Mill?”
“Marlene is the sister of the woman who was murdered,” I tell him.
“A lot of tragedy for one family,” he says.
We fall silent. Everything that’s been said, the information that’s been passed along to us running through my head. I find myself thinking about Sadie Stutzman. A tiny old woman, using a shovel to build a levee because she didn’t quite have a grip on reality. No children. No family to bury her. Her only legacy is a mystery she’ll likely take to the grave.
“Sheriff Pallant, would it be possible for us to go back to the Stutzman home and take a look around?” I ask.
“The scene’s been processed. Crime scene guys have come and gone. We’ve got everything we’re going to get.” He leans back in the chair and crosses his arms, dividing his attention between the two of us. “You mind telling me what you’re looking for exactly?”
I give him the rundown of Sadie Stutzman’s involvement in the Elsie Helmuth case. “We’re hoping she kept something—letters or a diary—that might help us fill in the blanks.”
“A lot of damn blanks.” He heaves the sigh of a man with a heavy weight on his shoulders. “Abduction of a kid adds a whole new sense of urgency.”
He jots a set of numbers onto a sticky note and passes it to me. “Deputy put a combination lock on the back door to keep out the thieves. I heard some of the Amish are going to go out there tomorrow and clean up the place. You need to let me know if you find anything pertinent to either case.”
“You got it,” Tomasetti tells him.
* * *
The sun plays hide-and-seek behind cumulus clouds the color of charcoal when we pull into the driveway of the house where Sadie Stutzman lived. The woman has been gone for only a day and a half, but already the place looks abandoned, sitting in its pretty spot by the river.
“This was probably a nice area once upon a time,” Tomasetti says as we get out.
“Welcome to the intersection of rust belt and opioid epidemic,” I mutter as I close the door.
We move to the front of the Explorer and look around. A blue jay screeches at us from a buckeye tree behind the house. The driveway is filled with ruts from the tires of official vehicles—the sheriff’s department, first responders, the coroner. T
he yellow caution tape that’s strung around the front porch flutters in a breeze coming off the water. It’s cold and humid and I find myself thinking about my final conversation with Sadie Stutzman.
They killed him, you know.
“Everyone thought she was crazy.” I look at Tomasetti. “She was astute enough to know the bishop had been murdered. She knew someone was coming for her.”
He tilts his head, gives me a thoughtful look, waits for me to continue.
I look around, feel the uncomfortable press of loneliness, of isolation. “I talked to her the day before she was killed. Maybe I should have—”
“You did your best,” he cuts in. “You talked to her. You listened. You offered her protection. Aside from camping out in her backyard, there wasn’t much else you could have done.”
I nod, knowing he’s right. The knowledge does little to loosen the knot of conscience in my gut. “She knew more than she let on. She would have eventually opened up and talked to me.”
“That may be why he killed her.” Frowning, he motions toward the back of the house. “Let’s go inside and see if she left us anything.”
We make our way around to the back of the house. The horse and goats are gone, the pen gates left open. A few yards away, the wheelbarrow she’d been using lies on its side, next to a pile of dirt and the shovel.
We climb the steps to the porch. Bending, Tomasetti works at the combination lock. I look out across the yard toward the river, thinking about the old woman, hearing her voice, her words.
I knew something wasn’t right.
Everyone did. Kept their mouths shut like good Amish. Such a terrible thing. Sin piled atop of sin.
The lock snicks open. Shooting me a half smile, Tomasetti pushes open the door and we go inside.
The kitchen looks much the same as the last time I was here. Cluttered. Slightly dirty. Several of the drawers stand open, as if someone looked inside, found nothing of interest, and didn’t bother closing them properly. Muddy shoe prints mottle the floor. Dozens of people have been in the house since Sadie was killed. Deputies. First responders. Crime scene technicians. The coroner. The stink of garbage hangs in the air, mingling with the unpleasant pall of mildew and a house that’s been closed up for too long.
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