“You have a description of the girl?”
“They didn’t have a photo.” He pulls a note pad from his back pocket, flips it open. “Fifteen years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A hundred and fifteen pounds. Five feet five inches.” He grimaces. “I seen her a time or two. Pretty little thing.”
A picture of her forms in my mind. I see a plain, slender girl with work-rough hands. Trusting. At 115 pounds, she would be easy to overpower. Easy to control. I pull out my own pad and jot down the information. “Do you know what she was wearing?”
“Blue dress with a white apron. Black shoes. One of them bonnet things on her head.”
“Prayer kapp,” I tell him.
He gives me a “Yeah, what ever” look.
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
“To tell you the truth, Chief Burkholder, the parents weren’t very forthcoming about the girl’s personal business. They kind of clammed up when I asked, and I got the impression they were uncomfortable talking to me.” He grimaces. “I was thinking we could run out there so you could have a go at them.”
“Sure,” I tell him.
“CSU is on the way.”
We turn at the sound of Tomasetti’s voice. He’s striding toward us. “Should be here in an hour or so.”
“I think we need to speak with the parents,” I tell him.
“Sounds like a good place to start.” He glances at Goddard. “Do you have the manpower to protect the scene?”
“I’ll tell my deputy to stay put until your crime-scene guy gets here.” He starts toward the young officer.
Tomasetti and I head toward the Tahoe. “What do you think?” I ask as we climb in.
He grimaces. “I think that blood is a bad fucking sign.”
I agree, but I don’t say the words.
Ten minutes later, we turn onto a winding gravel lane bounded on both sides by cornfields, the shoulder-high stalks shimmering like some massive green mirage in the afternoon sun. A tangle of raspberry bushes grows along the wire fence on the north side. White dust billows from the tires of Sheriff Goddard’s cruiser in front of us, tiny stones pinging against the grille of the Tahoe.
A quarter mile in, the track opens to a large gravel area. Two hulking red barns trimmed in white loom into view. Ahead, I see several smaller outbuildings, an old outhouse, and a rusty metal shed. On my left, a white farmhouse with tall, narrow windows and a green tin roof looks out over the land. I wonder about all the things the house has witnessed over the years and I know this place, like so many others in this part of the country, has stories to tell.
Beyond, several huge maple trees shade a manicured yard teeming with blooming peonies and tufts of pampas grass with spires as tall as a man. A scarecrow wearing a straw hat and suspenders stands guard over a garden abundant with strawberries and green beans. An Amish girl in a tan dress stops hoeing to watch us.
I recall reading, when I was in college, that sense memories can be a powerful trigger of flashbacks. The sight of this farm, combined with the smell of cattle and horses and that of summer foliage, elicits an intense sense of déjà vu. This farm is uncannily similar to the one I grew up on, and for the span of several seconds I’m transported back to the past. I see my mamm, a clothespin between her teeth, hanging trousers and dresses on the clothesline. Looking at the field behind the barn, I imagine my brother Jacob driving our team of Percheron geldings while my datt and the neighbor boy cut and bundle hay. I remember the frustration of being stuck in the house, scrubbing floors, when I desperately wanted to be outside on the back of one of those horses.
They were happy, innocent times, and though that part of my life was far from perfect, the memories evoke an uneasy sense of longing. It’s not that I want to be Amish again or that I want to recapture my youth or a past I know is forever gone. But invariably when I remember those days, I can’t help but think of all the things I left unfinished. Mostly my childhood, which was cut short long before its time. So many things I left unsaid, most of it to my family. But if I’ve learned anything in my thirty-three years, it is that no matter how badly you want a redo, life never makes such allowances.
I think of Annie King and I wonder if she was content living here with her family. If she found comfort in being part of this tight-knit community. Or was she like me? Perpetually discontent and pining for things she could never have. I wonder where she is at this very moment. If she’s frightened and wishing she was back here with her brothers and sisters and the monotony of farm life. I wonder if years from now she’ll look back and, like me, wish she’d done things differently.
“Looks like they’ve got company.” Tomasetti’s voice snaps me out of my fugue.
Two Amish men in blue work shirts, straw hats, and dark trousers with suspenders stand at the barn door, watching us. “They’re probably neighbors,” I tell him. “Here to help with the search or care for the livestock while the family deals with this.”
I follow his gaze. A few yards away, two Amish girls are trying to wrestle a large dog into a beat-up washtub. The girls are about ten years old. They’re wearing plain green dresses, their mouse brown hair pulled into buns at their napes. Their feet are bare and dirty, and the dresses haven’t fared much better. The simplicity and innocence of the sight makes me smile.
All children are innocent, but Amish children possess a particular kind of innocence. They believe the world is a good place, that their parents never make mistakes, that everyone they meet is their friend, and that if you pray hard enough, God will answer your prayers. It’s particularly shattering for an Amish child when she realizes none of those things are true.
Tomasetti and I watch the girls for a moment, each of us caught in our thoughts. That’s when it strikes me that these girls are about the same age his own would have been had their lives not been cut short by a career criminal who thought he’d make an example of a cop who crossed him. That was three years ago, and I know Tomasetti is still clawing his way out of that bottomless pit of despair. Most days, I think, he succeeds. But sometimes when I look into his eyes, I see the dark place in which he resides.
He cuts me a sideways look. “I think the dog is going to win.”
“My money’s on the girls.” I smile at him.
“Are you telling me I shouldn’t underestimate the determination of an Amish girl?”
“Especially when she’s got her sister to help her. Dog doesn’t stand a chance. One way or another, he’s going to get that bath.”
He parks adjacent to a rail fence next to the sheriff’s cruiser and kills the engine. Neither of us speaks as we take the sidewalk to the porch and wait for Sheriff Goddard.
“Damn, it’s humid.” Before he can knock, the door swings open. I find myself looking down at a little boy whose head comes up to about waist level. He’s blond-haired and blue-eyed, with blunt-cut bangs that are crooked from a recent trim. His small nose is covered with a smattering of freckles.
“Hello there, little guy,” Sheriff Goddard says. “Is your mom or dad home?”
The little boy squeals and runs back into the house.
“You’ve got a way with kids,” Tomasetti says.
The sheriff glances sideways at us. “Same situation with women.” He looks at me. “No offense.”
I withhold a smile. “None taken.”
He’s barely gotten the words out when an Amish man enters the mudroom and crosses to the door. He’s tall—well over six feet—with muscled shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch, divulging the fact that, despite his fitness, he’s a well-fed man. He’s blond and has a brown beard that reaches halfway down his belly, telling me he’s married. I guess him to be in his mid-forties. Dressed in black trousers, suspenders, and a vest over a white shirt, he is an imposing figure.