“Don’t beat yourself up for being human,” I tell him.
“That’s the problem, Kate. I wasn’t human. I didn’t feel shock or sadness or remorse because a girl was dead. Sometimes I didn’t even feel outrage. It was a game. All I felt was this driving need to catch the son of a bitch who’d done it. Not because of some noble desire for justice, but because I knew I was better than him and I wanted to prove it.”
“That’s a protective mechanism built into all of us.”
“Now I know what’s it’s like to hear someone tell you everyone you’ve ever loved is dead.”
I cross to him. Before I realize I’m going to touch him, I set my palm against his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
Setting his hand over mine, he brushes his mouth across my palm, then pulls it away from his face. “Let’s go catch this motherfucker,” he says, and we start down the path.
An hour later, the township road swarms with sheriff’s deputies, state Highway Patrol officers, and paramedics. The red and blue lights of half a dozen emergency vehicles flicker off the treetops. The area has been cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The state Highway Patrol has set up roadblocks, barring all through traffic from the bridge. Two ambulances from Trumbull Memorial Hospital are parked outside the secure area, their diesel engines rumbling in the predawn light.
Rain slashes down from a low sky as three technicians from the Trumbull County coroner’s office struggle to carry the body up the incline of the bar ditch. Tomasetti snagged us a couple of county-issue slickers from one of the Goddard’s deputies, but we were already wet, and though the temperature hovers in the sixties, I feel the cold all the way to my bones.
I’m standing at the rear of the ambulance when the gurney is brought up. I can see the outline of the body within the black zippered bag.
“Any idea who she is?” Tomasetti asks.
“No ID,” replies one of the technicians. He’s about thirty years old, with a goatee and wire-rimmed glasses. “We preserved as much of the scene as possible, but the bank got pretty trampled.”
“Cause of death?” Tomasetti asks.
“No visible injuries.” The technician grimaces. “Tough to tell with the water, though. We won’t know until the autopsy.”
“How long will that be?” Tomasetti asks.
“Well, we’re not backlogged. Maybe tomorrow morning.”
Tomasetti passes him his card. “Keep us in the loop, will you?”
“You got it,” he says, and they load the body into the rear of the ambulance.
A fist of outrage unfurls in my gut as I watch the vehicle pull away. “I was hoping this would have a better end.”
Tomasetti sighs. “The case isn’t exactly coming together, is it?”
“Chief Burkholder. Agent Tomasetti.”
We turn as Sheriff Goddard approaches. He’s wearing a yellow slicker and holding two McDonald’s to-go cups of coffee. I’m unduly thankful when he shoves one at me.
“Is it Annie King?” I ask.
“No one recognized her.” The sheriff shakes his head. “And we don’t have a photo.”
I tell him about the Amish-print dress, the lack of nail polish and jewelry. “I think she might be Amish.”
Goddard’s expression darkens. “It’s probably her. Timing’s right. Damn it.” He heaves a grievous sigh. “We’re going to have to bring in the parents to identify her.”
“Who’s the Amish bishop for this church district?” I ask.
Both men look at me.
“Even though we’re only bringing in the parents to identify the body, if it’s her, the bishop should be there,” I say.
Goddard nods. “That’d be Old Abe Hertzler. He and his wife live out on River Road.” He lowers his voice, gives a single grim nod. “I’ll go get him. Can you two oversee things here? We can meet up at the hospital in Warren in a couple of hours. That’s where our morgue facilities are.”
Notifying next of kin is a responsibility no cop relishes. I would venture to say it’s one of the most difficult aspects of being a chief of police. Regardless of the manner of death, whether it’s a traffic accident, a drowning, or the result of foul play, breaking the news to a loved one can affect a cop profoundly.
Goddard starts to turn away, but I stop him. “I’ll do it.”
He casts me a slightly incredulous look. “Aw, Chief Burkholder, I can’t put that on you.”
“It might help that I used to be Amish,” I tell him.
I’m aware that Tomasetti’s watching me, but I don’t look at him. I’m not sure I’m succeeding with the “I’m not affected” persona I’m striving to project. “That’s why I’m here,” I add.
I don’t mention the fact that most Amish are not only suspicious of the English but also of Amish who are from a different area. Not to mention those who have been excommunicated, like me.
The relief on his face is palpable. “To tell you the truth, I’m a little out of my element when it comes to the Amish,” he says sheepishly.
“She knows the territory,” Tomasetti puts in.
“Where can we find the bishop?” I ask.
The sheriff gives us directions to the bishop’s house, which is only a few miles to the south. “I’ll see you at the morgue in a couple of hours.”
CHAPTER 11
“Are you sure you’re up to this?”
Tomasetti doesn’t ask the question until we’re turning into the gravel lane of the farm where Bishop Abraham Hertzler, aka “Old Abe,” and his wife, Ruth, reside.
“I’m sure.” I don’t look at him as I reply, because I know he’s far too astute to miss the trepidation that’s plastered all over my face. “I’ll do a better job than Goddard.”
“I could have just run over you with the Tahoe.”
I can’t help it; I laugh and glance over at him. “You’re not trying to subtly tell me I’m a glutton for punishment, are you?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
But I know he won’t try to talk me out of it; he knows I’m right.
The eastern horizon is awash with Easter-egg pastels as he parks adjacent a ramshackle barn, next to an old horse-drawn manure spreader. We exit the Tahoe without speaking. I notice the yellow glow of lantern light in the window, telling me the Hertzlers are awake. We’re midway to the porch when the door swings open.
An old Amish woman with a braided rug draped over her arm looks at us through bottle cap–lensed glasses. She’s wearing a plain black dress with a white apron. Her silver hair is pulled severely away from her face and covered with the requisite prayer kapp. “Who goes there?” she asks in a gravelly voice.
“Mrs. Hertzler?” I call out.
“I can’t see you. Who are you?”
“I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder and this is Agent Tomasetti with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation.” We reach the porch and show her our identification. “We’re assisting the police department in their search for Annie King.”
The woman squints at our IDs. Her eyes are rheumy and huge behind the lenses of her glasses. But I see within their depths a sharp mind and a foreboding that wasn’t there before. The police don’t show up at your back door at 6:00 A.M. for idle chitchat.
“Is the bishop home, Mrs. Hertzler?”
“Was der schinner is letz?” What in the world is wrong? She asks the question as she opens the door wider and ushers us inside.
Tomasetti and I step into a small kitchen. I see a homemade wooden table for two, rustic shelves mounted on the wall, an old-fashioned potbellied stove. The smell of coffee and scrapple laces the air. A bent old man, as thin as his wife is plump, sits hunched over a cup of steaming coffee. He’s clad wholly in black, the shock of white beard and hair contrasting severely against his jacket. Their dress tells me they are conservative Amish, and I wonder if they’ll agree to ride in the Tahoe, or if we’ll have to follow their buggy to the King farm, which will add hours to the identification process.