Kate Burkholder: Gone Missing Part 9

"You did your best."

"Did I?"

I take a moment to calm down, rein in my own emotions. "Tomasetti, are you okay?" I ask.

He gives me a wan smile. "I'm not going to wig out, if that's what you're asking."

I reach across the seat and take his hand. "Just checking."

For a couple of minutes, neither of us speaks. We watch G.o.ddard get into his cruiser. The only sounds come from a group of little boys playing stickball in the yard across the street and a blue jay scolding us from the maple tree a few feet away.

"I wanted to take that b.i.t.c.h's head off," he says after a moment.

"Now there's the Tomasetti I know and love."

His mouth twists into a grim smile, and the tension loosens its grip. An instant later, his cell goes off. He glances at the display, makes eye contact with me, and answers it. "What do you have?"

His eyes hold mine as he listens to the caller, but his face reveals nothing. "Got it. Right. Check on that for me, will you?" He disconnects and clips the phone to his belt.

"What?" I ask as I buckle up.

He cranks the key and the engine rumbles to life. "The blood is human."

"d.a.m.n." We both a.s.sumed 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 G.o.ddard.

"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 G.o.ddard, 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 a.s.sist," which is usually well received by even the most territorial of law-enforcement agencies. We do a lot more than a.s.sist, 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 G.o.ddard 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 s.p.a.ce 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. G.o.ddard 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.

G.o.ddard 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 a.s.sist 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."

"s.h.i.+t." G.o.ddard grimaces. "Hers?"

"Lab should have the type by tomorrow." Tomasetti looks at G.o.ddard. "We'll need to get her blood type from the family, if they have it."

"I'll check," G.o.ddard 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."

G.o.ddard 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 G.o.ddard'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 pa.s.ses it to me. I glance at the type; it contains an address for Fisher's Branch Creek Joinery in Rocky Fork.

"What were the circ.u.mstances 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, G.o.ddard 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." G.o.ddard 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 h.e.l.l out of his own mother."

He gestures toward the papers stacked in front of each of us. "Julie pulled a list of registered s.e.x 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."

"d.a.m.n 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." G.o.ddard 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 sumb.i.t.c.h 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.

G.o.ddard 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.

"Eighteen-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."

"The fact that he's a male stands out," I put in.

"Was there a missing-person report filed?" Tomasetti asks.

"Eventually." G.o.ddard nods. "I'll have copies made for everyone."

"How far is Monongahela Falls?" I ask.

G.o.ddard indicates the location on the map. "About fifty miles north."

"An hour's drive," Tomasetti comments. "Not too far."

We watch as G.o.ddard turns to the whiteboard and writes "Noah Mast-nine years ago," followed by a large question mark. He then circles a fourth location on the map: Monongahela Falls.

Tomasetti raises the next question. "Are any of the s.e.x offenders on that list convicted of a.s.saults on a male victim?"

"One." G.o.ddard writes a name in bold letters without looking at the list, telling me he'd already considered the angle. "Mike Campbell." "Forty-two-year-old white male. One conviction s.e.xual a.s.sault on a minor. Victim was a thirteen-year-old neighbor kid."

"Probably worth a look," the deputy says.

"What's his location?" I ask, thinking of logistics.

"Sugar Bend." The chief indicates the location on the map. "About forty-five minutes southeast of here."

"Do any of these offenders have an Amish connection?" I ask.

G.o.ddard writes another name on the board: "Stacy Karns." "Karns is some big-shot photographer. Lives out on Doe Creek Road, by the lake. Forty-four-year-old black male. Originally from Toledo. Anyway, he did six months on a child p.o.r.nography charge. Case file says he photographed a fourteen-year-old Amish girl in the nude. Happened in Geauga County. I guess he won all kinds of awards. Everyone thought it was f.u.c.king art."

"Except her parents," Tomasetti says.

G.o.ddard smiles. "And the jury."

"What about that cult over to Salt Lick?" the deputy asks.

"I'm getting to that." G.o.ddard turns to the whiteboard and writes another name: "Frank Gilfillan." "Fifty-two-year-old white male. Clean record. Runs the Twelve Pa.s.sages Church over in Salt Lick. They got about sixty followers now. Strange mix of people. Most are fanatical, and they're big into recruiting. The reason this group is of interest is because Gilfillan doesn't like the Amish. He's outspoken about it and makes an effort to recruit their young. A couple of Amish teens have joined the Twelve Pa.s.sages Church. Don't know if any of that is related to our missing persons, but I thought it was worth a mention."

I'm still thinking about the missing Amish boy. "Has anyone talked to Noah Mast's parents recently?"

G.o.ddard shakes his head. "I didn't even think of the Mast disappearance until Red mentioned it. To tell you the truth, I'm not convinced it's related, what with the time gap and his being a male. Won't hurt if you want to run out there. They live in Monongahela Falls."

"If I recall," the deputy begins, "Perry Mast was some kind of Amish elder or deacon."

G.o.ddard returns his attention to the group, looking from person to person. "A missing-person report has been filed on King. All of these girls are categorized as "missing endangered" and Amber Alerts have been issued." He nods at the trooper. "The state Highway Patrol has been notified. "Info has been entered into NCIC. I also put the call into A Child is Missing, so the ball is rolling.

"a.s.signments." G.o.ddard flips to the next page, then looks at the young deputy. "Lewis, I want you to talk to Mike Campbell. See if he's got an alibi and then check it. If something doesn't jibe, I want to know about it. And don't break any heads. You got that?"

Laughter ripples around the table, but the humor is short-lived. G.o.ddard looks at the officer from the local police department. "Dale, why don't you guys recanva.s.s the area where the King girl disappeared. Talk to the neighbors again and see if anyone saw anything. And walk those woods again to see if we missed anything."

G.o.ddard's gaze lands on the older deputy. "Clyde, you want to come with me to talk to Gilfillan?"

The deputy pats his s.h.i.+rt pocket. "Got my holy water right here."

Another round of laugher erupts.

The deputy named Clyde looks at me. "Fisher place isn't too far from Karns's."

"We're game if you want us to swing by," Tomasetti offers.

G.o.ddard and Clyde exchange c.o.c.keyed looks, as if they share some amusing secret. "Might not be a bad idea," G.o.ddard says.

The deputy chuckles. "Karns doesn't have much respect for small-town cops." His gaze narrows on Tomasetti. "If you don't mind my saying so, you kind of have that big-city look about you."

"I also carry a sidearm," Tomasetti says, deadpan.

The beat of silence lasts an instant too long; then everyone in the room breaks into laughter.

It takes Tomasetti and me almost an hour to reach Rocky Fork and locate the Branch Creek Joinery, the woodworking shop owned by Eli and Suzy Fisher. They build kitchen cabinets, desks, and other wood furniture, utilizing only old-fas.h.i.+oned methods and tools. According to G.o.ddard, the business has been in the Fisher family for two generations.

Tomasetti parks in the gravel lot, where two draft horses are hitched to a wagon loaded with cabinetry.

"Looks like they're about to make a delivery," I say.

"d.a.m.n nice cabinets." Tomasetti shuts down the engine.

The joinery is housed in a nondescript gray building with small windows and a tin roof. We exit the Tahoe and start toward the entrance, which is a plain white door with no window or welcome sign. The absence of a sign, combined with the lack of customer accommodations, tells me they probably don't sell directly to the public, but to area builders and furniture stores.