“What?” I ask as I buckle up.
He cranks the key and the engine rumbles to life. “The blood is human.”
“Damn.” We both assumed that would be the case. Still, the news is like a hammer blow. “Is it hers?”
“They don’t know yet. Lab’s backed up. They should have blood type tomorrow. DNA is going to take a few days.” He puts the Tahoe in gear and pulls onto the street behind Goddard.
“That was a lot of blood,” I say, thinking aloud. “If it’s Annie’s, she’s seriously injured.”
Or worse.
The unspoken words hover like the smell of cordite after a gunshot. Neither of us dares say them aloud.
CHAPTER 7
Half an hour later, Tomasetti, Bud Goddard, and I are standing in the reception area of the Trumbull County sheriff’s office with three uniformed deputies, a state trooper, and a single officer from the Buck Creek PD. Tomasetti and I were introduced upon our arrival as “state agents here to assist,” which is usually well received by even the most territorial of law-enforcement agencies. We do a lot more than assist, but then, that’s cops for you.
The sheriff’s department is typical of most county-funded offices: small, cramped, and cheaply furnished, but functional. However, the computers look relatively new and the dispatch and phone system are state-of-the-art. I figure if Goddard is as good at policing as he is at politicking, the county is in pretty good hands.
We convene in an interview room, which is past the rest room, at the rear of the offices. The space is small and windowless, with barely enough room for the rectangular table, which looks like a donation from someone’s garage, and a hodgepodge of folding and task chairs. A laminate podium with the seal of the great state of Ohio affixed to the facade demarks the head of the table. Goddard stands behind it, looking down at his notes. Behind him, a whiteboard as well as a terrain and road map of northeastern Ohio are tacked to the wall. Three red circles indicate the locations where the missing teens were last seen.
Tomasetti and I sit together on one side of the table. Across from us are the three deputies, one of whom is a female. Though she wears a sheriff’s department uniform, she’s armed with a steno pad instead of a Glock, and I realize with dismay that she’s here only to take notes. The trooper and city cop sit one chair down from Tomasetti and me.
Goddard clears his throat. “This is an informal briefing to bring everyone up to speed on a developing missing-person case.” He recites the names and agencies of everyone in the room. “Trooper Harris, who’s with the state Highway Patrol, and Officer Gilmore, a member of the local PD are here to assist the Trumbull County sheriff’s department, as well.”
He turns to the whiteboard and writes: “Missing” with a double underscore. Below that: “Annie King, fifteen, missing thirty-six hours—Buck Creek. Bonnie Fisher, sixteen, missing two months—Rocky Fork. Leah Stuckey, sixteen, missing one year—Hope Falls.”
“That’s what we got so far, folks, and it ain’t much,” he begins. “Three missing females. All three are Amish. All three are teenagers. Annie King is the only missing person from Trumbull County, but Agents Tomasetti and Burkholder believe these three incidents are related. At this point, we do not have a suspect. No motive. No body. So we’re not exactly sure what we’re dealing with.”
“The CSU got back to me on the blood,” Tomasetti interjects. “It’s human.”
“Shit.” Goddard grimaces. “Hers?”
“Lab should have the type by tomorrow.” Tomasetti looks at Goddard. “We’ll need to get her blood type from the family, if they have it.”
“I’ll check,” Goddard replies.
Nodding, Tomasetti continues. “DNA is going to take a few days. Lab is backlogged.”
“There’s a surprise for you.” Sighing, the sheriff looks down at his notes. “We now have a crime scene, which is being processed now by a CSU from the state. We also have the King girl’s cell phone number. Agent Tomasetti is working on gaining access to phone records and getting a triangulation going.”
Goddard looks at Tomasetti. “Any idea how long that’ll take?”
“We should know something tomorrow.”
“Keep us posted.”
No one mentions the possibility that Annie King might not have that kind of time.
I catch Goddard’s eye. “Do you have an address for the other families? I’d like to speak with the parents.”
“Got the Fishers’ address right here.” He leans down and hands a sheet of paper to one of the deputies, who passes it to me. I glance at the type; it contains an address for Fisher’s Branch Creek Joinery in Rocky Fork.
“What were the circumstances of Bonnie Fisher’s disappearance?” I ask.
He looks down at his notes. “Took her bicycle to work one morning at the joinery the family runs, but she never made it there. Bicycle was found a mile from the house.
I nod. “What about the Stuckey family?”
The chief grimaces. “They were killed in a buggy accident a couple of months ago.”
“They have kids?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No one survived the accident.”
Disappointment presses into me with insistent fingers. When someone goes missing, the family is almost always the best source of information. That’s particularly true if the missing person is Amish, because most are so family-oriented. Of course, Goddard will have copies of interviews, but nothing contained in the file will be as helpful as a one-on-one with the family.
As if sensing my frustration, he adds, “I’ll get you copies of everything, Chief Burkholder.”
I nod my thanks, hoping the investigating department was thorough.
“Persons of interest.” Goddard recaps our meeting with Justin Treece. “We don’t have anything solid on this kid, but as most of you know, he’s got a violent temper and didn’t have any qualms about beating the hell out of his own mother.”
He gestures toward the papers stacked in front of each of us. “Julie pulled a list of registered sex offenders for Trumbull County. We got sixty-eight perverts in the county. She broke it down by the ages of the victims. That narrows it down to twenty-nine offenders, which is a starting point.”
“Damn big starting point,” one of the deputies says.
Tomasetti speaks up. “I’m running some VICAP queries to see if there are other cold cases that might be related.” He scratches a note on the pad in front of him. “I started with the northeastern part of the state and will fan out from there.”
“Keep us posted.” Goddard nods. “And if the nature of this case ain’t bad enough, I think I got one more wrench to throw into the mix.” He directs his attention to the older deputy sitting across from me. “You remember old Red Gibbons?”
The deputy guffaws. “That sumbitch is kind of hard to forget.”
Laughter erupts from around the table. It seems everyone in the room is familiar with the aforementioned Red Gibbons.
Goddard directs his attention to Tomasetti and me. “Red was sheriff before me. One of the more colorful characters to grace the office.” He glances at the deputy. “He retired, what, about six years ago?”
The deputy nods. “Thereabouts.”
“Red’s been following the development of these cold cases.” All semblance of humor disappears. “He called me this morning and told me about another kid went missing nine years ago in Monongahela Falls. Dot on the map up near Painesville.
“Eigh teen-year-old Amish kid by the name of Noah Mast. I pulled the file. From all indications the kid walked away from the farm and no one heard from him again.”
“I remember the case,” another deputy says. “Everyone thought he was a runaway.”