Beyond, a wide tiled hall is lined with doors. We don’t have to ask which rooms belong to the victims. Two Lake County sheriff’s deputies and a state Highway Patrol trooper stand outside rooms 308 and 312, dr inking coffee and talking quietly, eyeing us with the territorial glares of a pack of dogs. Another local cop sits in a plastic chair, reading a magazine.
Since the crimes were committed in rural Lake County, the case falls under the jurisdiction of the sheriff’s office. But Tomasetti and I have been part of this investigation since the task force was formed. I don’t think there will be a problem with our sitting in on the interview.
All eyes fall on us as we approach. I recognize two of the deputies from the scene at the Mast farm earlier. Their expressions aren’t hostile, but they’re not friendly, either, and I’m reminded they’ve lost a fellow officer today.
Tomasetti slides his badge from his pocket, and I do the same. The deputy I don’t recognize steps forward and extends his hand. “I’m Ralph Tannin with the Lake County sheriff’s office.”
He introduces the other men, one of whom is with the Monongahela Falls PD, and then addresses me. “We want to thank you for what you did, Chief Burkholder.”
“I was at the right place at the right time,” I tell him.
“No one could have imagined what was going on out there at that farm.” He rocks back on his heels. “Goddamn middle age Amish couple.”
“You talk to any of them yet?” Tomasetti asks.
“The doc’s with the Fisher girl now.” Tannin indicates the room directly behind him.
“You guys find anything else at the scene?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Just those two skulls. But we’ve got a lot more to search.”
The door behind him opens. I look up and see a tall, thin man emerge. He’s wearing a white lab coat over SpongeBob scrubs and glasses with small square lenses. He’s young, maybe thirty, with a five o’clock shadow and circles the size of plums beneath his eyes, telling me he’s been on duty for quite some time. His badge tells me his name is Dr. Barton.
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
The doctor looks at me over the tops of his glasses. She’s “dehydrated, exhausted, traumatized. But she’s going to be okay.” He glances at Tannin. “Are her parents on the way?”
The deputy nods. “They got a driver and should be here within the hour.”
“Good,” the physician says. “She needs them.”
“Can we talk to her?” Tomasetti asks.
Barton gives a reluctant nod. “She’s been sedated, so she can get some rest to night. Keep it short and try not to upset her too much.”
“What about Ruth Wagler?” I ask.
Dr. Barton shakes his head. “She’s not going to be talking to anyone for a while.”
Tomasetti jabs a thumb at Noah Mast’s room a few feet away. “We need to talk to him, too.”
“I’m going to examine him now,” the doctor replies. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem. Same rules apply. Don’t upset him and keep it short.” With that, he walks away and disappears into Noah Mast’s room.
Tannin looks at me. “I understand you spent some time with this girl in the tunnel.”
“Just a minute or so before I went for help,” I tell him. “And I stayed with the hostages while the locksmith cut off the shackles.”
“Did I hear right when someone told me you used to be Amish?” he asks.
I smile, but the expression feels tired on my face. “You heard right.”
“I’m not opposed to your taking her statement.” He looks from the deputy to Tomasetti and back to me. “She might be more comfortable if you ask the questions to night.”
“I’m game,” I tell him.
He motions toward the door and the three of us walk into Bonnie Fisher’s room. She looks small and pale and vulnerable lying in the hospital bed with an IV hooked up to her arm. It’s a vast improvement over the wild-eyed, desperate girl I discovered in the tunnel. Her hair is still damp, and I suspect a nurse must have helped her shower after leaving the ER. The only physical signs that betray the ordeal she went through in the tunnel are the sores on her mouth and the purple bruises on both wrists.
But while the girl’s physical wounds are minimal, I suspect the damage to her psyche is significantly worse. Bonnie Fisher now possesses the face of a victim. There’s a shadow in her eyes that denotes a certain loss of innocence, and I know she no longer believes the world is a safe place or that people are fundamentally good.
“Hey.” She offers a tremulous smile when she sees me and lifts her hand. “It’s you.”
“Call me Katie.” I give her hand a squeeze. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I just took a shot of tequila,” she tells me. “Less the burning throat.”
“The doctor told us he sedated you. He said it would help you sleep.”
“I’m afraid to go to sleep.” She looks out the window at the rain and darkness beyond and a shiver moves through her body. “I’m afraid when I wake up, I’ll be back in that place.”
“You’re not going back into the tunnel. You’re here and you’re safe. Okay?”
She nods.
“Did the doctor tell you that your parents are on their way?”
“The nurse told me. I can’t wait to see them.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I want my mamm.”
“I know, honey.” I reach out and squeeze her arm. “Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”
She looks beyond me at Tomasetti and Tannin, but her gaze drops away quickly. “I guess.”
I pull up the chair next to the bed and tug out my notebook. “Bonnie, we need to know how you got into the tunnel. Can you tell us about that?”
She reacts to the question as if trying to avoid a physical blow, sinking more deeply into the bed, pulling the sheet and blanket up to her chin. “It seems like a long time ago.”
I nod in understanding. “Take your time.”
The silence stretches for a full minute before she finally speaks. “I was riding my bicycle to work at the joinery,” she begins. “It was just starting to get light. I was late and in a hurry. There was a car behind me, following too close. I kept pedaling, but I remember being annoyed that a driver could be so rude when he had plenty of room to go around. You know how the tourists are. Always in such a hurry. . . .” Her voice trails off and she looks out the window.
“What happened next?” I ask.
“The car hit me. The back wheel went out from under my bike and I lost control, went into the ditch.”
“Were you injured?”
She chokes out a laugh. “I was angry and set on giving the driver a piece of my mind.” Her expression sobers, and I know her memory is taking her back.
“The old man was just standing there,” she whispers, “looking at me with this creepy expression.”
“Who was the old man, Bonnie?”
“Deacon Mast.”
“Perry Mast?”
She nods. “We were only allowed to address him as ‘Deacon.’ ”
“What kind of car was he driving?”
She shakes her head. “It was old and blue, I think.”
I think of the old Ford LTD I discovered in the shed and continue. “What happened next?”
“I accused him of driving like a maniac.” A breath shudders out of her. “Deacon Mast . . . the old man, he made like he was sorry and wanted to help me. When he was close, he stabbed me with the needle.”
“What kind of needle?”
“The kind we vaccinate the calves with.”