“I thought you might have a hard time resisting.”
We smile at each other and then the doors swish open. No time to think about what just transpired. My heart is still riding high in my throat when we step into a well-lit hall lined with a dozen or so doors, most of which are open. Government-issue artwork adorns institutional white walls. I see an Ansel Adams photo in a black frame; a color photograph of Ohio’s attorney general; a matted and framed mosaic of the great seal of the state of Ohio; a photo collage of agents killed in the line of duty. At the end of the hall, Tomasetti motions me to the right and we stop outside a door affixed with a chrome plate that says CONFERENCE ROOM 1.
“I’ll try to make this as quick as possible,” he says.
I wipe my damp palms on my slacks. “I’ll try not to look like I just got waylaid in the elevator.”
He tosses me a sideways look, and then we’re through the doorway and entering the conference room. Two men and a woman sit at a heavy oak table. They look up, their eyes skimming quickly over Tomasetti and then settling on me, curious, assessing, making judgments based on appearance and demeanor, psyching me out. I know the routine; I’ve done it myself to many a rookie over the years. I discern immediately the two men are law enforcement. Bad suits. Stares that are slightly too direct. The woman is in her early thirties, well dressed, with expensive jewelry and a nice manicure. I peg her as administrative but sense she prefers to hang with the guys.
Tomasetti doesn’t waste any time. “This is Chief of Police Kate Burkholder,” he says by way of introduction.
The men stand. A tall, lanky man with blue eyes and a bulbous nose threaded with broken capillaries extends his hand to me. “I’m Lawrence Bates, the deputy superintendent.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Which basically means I have to put up with Tomasetti most days.”
I grin, liking him. “Tough job.”
He chuckles as I turn my attention to the second man, and we shake. His grip is a little too firm and damp. “Denny McNinch.”
His stare is calculating. There’s baggage in his expression, perhaps even between him and Tomasetti. He’s got a battered look about him that has nothing to do with physical scars. And I know that before he sat behind a desk, he spent a good bit of time on the street. “Nice to meet you,” I tell him.
“Denny’s out of the Columbus office,” says Tomasetti, clarifying.
Baggage, I think. Tomasetti worked out of the Columbus office after leaving the Cleveland PD. He’d had some problems there early on, nearly got himself fired. I can tell by McNinch’s stare that he knows about it. I can also tell by the way he’s looking at me that he’s wondering if there’s something going on between Tomasetti and me. Or maybe I just have a guilty conscience.
“Welcome aboard, Chief Burkholder,” he says, releasing my hand.
Bates takes command of the meeting and gets right to the business at hand. “We’re pleased you’re here, Chief Burkholder. I’m sure John has already filled you in on the situation.”
I nod. “I understand there’s now a third person missing.”
“We just got the call from local law enforcement in Buck Creek,” Bates says. “I know you’re anxious to get started, so we’ll keep this brief.”
McNinch motions to the woman, who has remained seated throughout the introductions but hasn’t taken her eyes off me since I walked in. “This is Paige Wilson, my assistant. She’s got a couple of forms for you to sign, Chief Burkholder. We’ve got to keep all of this on the up-and-up with Uncle Sam.”
“Call me Kate.”
Nodding, he motions to the forms on the table. “We pay a small stipend, plus mileage, expenses.”
The forms are in typical government triplicate. The pages that require a signature are marked with red flags. Everyone’s in a hurry, so I give the forms a cursory read-through and scribble my name.
When I’ve finished, Bates says, “I’ve wanted to meet you since Tomasetti assisted with the Slaughterhouse Murders. Hell of a case for a small town.”
“It was a tough one.” The very thought of that investigation and all its gnarly implications still makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Agent Tomasetti was a tremendous help to the entire department.”
“He tells us you used to be Amish,” McNinch says.
That’s always the thing everyone wants to know. They don’t care about my résumé or law-enforcement background or my degree in criminal justice. They don’t ask about my solve rate from when I was a detective in Columbus. They want to know if I was Amish; if I wore homemade dresses and rode in a horse-drawn buggy and lived my life without electricity and cars. “I grew up Amish,” I say simply.
In my peripheral vision, I see the woman lean slightly to one side, and I wonder if she’s checking to see if I’m wearing practical shoes.
“I understand you’re also fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch,” McNinch says.
I nod. “That’s particularly beneficial, especially with regard to breaking down some of the cultural barriers.”
“So far we’re batting zero in the way of garnering much useful information,” Bates says.
“Local law enforcement isn’t getting much from the Amish families,” Tomasetti adds, clarifying the matter.
“Unfortunately, that’s not unusual,” I tell them. “There’s a certain level of distrust between the Amish and the government, particularly law enforcement. We ran into that when we had a rash of hate crimes last December.” I don’t look at Tomasetti as I speak. I’m afraid if I do, somehow these men will know that we’re more than colleagues, more than friends. “The Amish are also slow in making contact with us because of their tenet of remaining separate. But there are also cultural issues. Religious issues.” I think of the chasm that stretches between me and my siblings. I don’t mention the fact that sometimes even if you’re born into the plain life, you can still be an outsider. “Generally speaking, once we convince the family we have only their best interest at heart, they’ll open up, especially if the safety of a loved one is in question.”
“Excellent.” Bates slides a folder across the table toward me. “We’re still putting things together, Kate, so the file is sparse.”
Intrigued, I open the file and find myself staring down at three missing-person reports. Bates was right: The information is hit-or-miss. The missing consist of three females between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, all of whom are Amish.
“We think their being Amish is the key element here,” McNinch says.
“Do you think this is a serial thing?” I ask. “And this is some kind of escalation?”
Tomasetti nods. “Maybe.”
“What we can’t figure is motive,” Bates says.
“No ransom demand,” Tomasetti puts in.
“Yet,” Bates adds.
“Anything come to mind off the top of your head?” McNinch asks.
I look up from the reports and make eye contact with him. “I’m sure you’ve already considered this, but the first thing that comes to mind is that these are sexual in nature.” I think of the Plank murder case and all of the dark places the investigation took me. “It could be fetish-related. An individual with an Amish fetish acting out some fantasy. His motivation has more to do with the victims’ being Amish than anything else.”
“I didn’t know such a thing existed,” McNinch comments.
“We’re running queries through NCIC and VICAP,” Tomasetti says. “We’re still waiting for results.”
“There’s also the hate angle,” I tell them. “It’s happened in Painters Mill. I know of cases in other towns, too.”
“I guess hate crimes don’t have to make sense.” Bates scratches his head. “But the Amish? Seems like they’d make pretty good neighbors.”