Four hours missing
A missing endangered child is the kind of scenario in which a cop needs to be in a dozen places at once. Searching. Talking to family, witnesses, and suspects. Extracting evidence at the crime scene. Doing something—whatever it takes—to find a child in imminent danger and bring her home. Every minute that passes is another minute lost, and that torturous clock never stops ticking closer to a potentially devastating outcome.
Glock and I spent half an hour talking to registered sex offender Gene Fitch. He’s an unlikable individual and a drunken slob to boot, but he had a solid alibi.
I’ve called upon every law enforcement resource available, including BCI, the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, and the Ohio State Highway Patrol. I’ve mobilized every member of my own department. The Amber alert has gone out. Tip line has been activated. No one is going home tonight. We’re four hours in, and it’s as if she’s disappeared from the face of the earth.
It’s excruciating to know an innocent little girl is out there, frightened and alone and in the kind of danger no child should ever have to face. I don’t know what’s worse, thinking of her being brutalized—or imagining her little body lying somewhere and growing cold.
I’m consciously trying not to become too entangled in my own emotions when a call comes in from Tomasetti. Dread punches me squarely in the gut, and I brace. Please don’t have bad news.…
“I’m on my way to the Helmuth place,” he begins. “I’m with a colleague. She’s trained to interview young children. I thought we might have another go at the five-year-old.”
“I can be there in a few minutes.”
“Hang on a sec.” I hear him speaking to someone on the other end, and then he comes back on. “She’s wondering if you can bring a toy for the girl. Something a kid her age will like and be comforted by.”
“I know just the thing.”
I make it to the Carriage Stop Country Store on the traffic circle just as the manager is locking up for the night. Some fast talking gets me in the door and to the toy aisle. I was never a doll lover as a child; much to my mamm’s chagrin, I was a tomboy and more likely to be playing ice hockey or riding the plow horse. Still, I manage to find an Amish-made doll I think a five-year-old girl will like.
In keeping with the Amish tradition of avoiding any type of graven image, it’s faceless and made of nude-colored fabric. She’s wearing a royal-blue dress, a black apron, and a black bonnet, with smooth nubs for hands and feet. I deflect questions from the clerk about the murder and missing girl as she rings up the sale. I put it on my card and then I’m through the door and back in the Explorer.
I pass six buggies as I near the Helmuth farm, Amish men armed with flashlights or lanterns and the resolve to find one of their own. At the mouth of the lane, I raise my hand in greeting to two boys on horseback. It’s unusual to see so many out after dark, when most Amish families are winding down for the night or already in bed. These men have organized search parties. More than likely, the women are cooking and cleaning for the Helmuth family. As is always the case, the Amish community has rallied to support those in crisis.
The farm glows with lantern light. The windows. The front porch. Even the barn is lit up. There are four more buggies, the horses still hitched, parked in the gravel off the back door. Tomasetti’s Tahoe sits adjacent to a chicken coop, the headlights on, engine running. I park behind the Tahoe and start toward it. I’m midway there when Tomasetti and his passenger get out. He’s wearing his usual creased trousers, button-down shirt, and suit jacket with the tie I bought him for Christmas last year. He looks tired, rumpled, and grim.
“Agent Tomasetti.” I extend my hand, cross to him, and we shake.
“Chief Burkholder.”
I turn my attention to the woman standing next to him and offer my hand. She’s petite, about fifty years of age, with silver hair cut into a sleek bob. She’s wearing the usual agent attire. Khaki slacks. Button-down shirt. Practical shoes. A navy windbreaker embellished with the BCI logo. She’s soft-spoken and self-assured, without the in-your-face demeanor I see in so many law enforcement pros.
“Mackenzie Upshaw.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “Everyone calls me Mackie.”
She’s no-nonsense and to-the-point. No makeup. No frills. Discerning blue eyes beneath thick black brows.
“Agent Tomasetti was just filling me in on the case,” she tells me. “I wanted to get your take before we speak to the child.”
With the niceties out of the way—and kept to a minimum—she’s ready to get down to business. I like her already.
Tomasetti motions to his Tahoe and we gather around for a quick huddle. “Kate, Mackie is trained in the forensic-interviewing protocol RATAC—rapport, anatomy identification, touch inquiry, abuse scenario, and closure,” he tells me. “It’s a questioning process most often used with child victims of sexual abuse.”
“It’s a terrific protocol,” Mackie tells us. “Effective and nonintrusive. It basically means I’ll be asking nonleading questions, using terms the little girl will understand. I’ll keep it nice and slow since most children that age have pretty short attention spans.”
“I talked to Annie immediately after the incident.” I relay to her our exchange. “I didn’t get as much out of her as I would have liked.”
“Kids make for extremely difficult interview subjects, especially when they’re younger than six or seven years old.” She pauses. “I understand this child is Amish.”
I nod.
“Is there anything you can tell me that might help me relate to her?” Mackie adds.
I take a moment to get my thoughts in order. “Amish kids are much like their English counterparts, especially when they’re as young as Annie. That said, there are distinct differences.” I pause, thinking. “Generally, Amish kids are more sheltered. More disciplined. Religious. They’re taught to respect and obey their elders, especially their parents. The biggest difference is that she will probably see you as an outsider, not because you’re a cop, but because you’re not Amish.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Win her trust.” I hold up the doll, pass it to her. “Bribery.”
Mackie takes the doll and grins. “Cool.”
“Works every time,” Tomasetti mutters.
“If I sense she’s clamming up or becoming uncomfortable,” Mackie says, “I want you to jump in. We need to keep her engaged and as focused as possible. Any thoughts on that?”
I shrug. “Deitsch might help.”
“Excellent.” She thinks about something a moment. “Is she shy?”
I nod. “That’s my impression.”
Mackie looks at Tomasetti. “Would you mind sitting this one out? The fewer people present, the more comfortable she’ll be.”
“No problem.”
“You’re a good sport, Agent Tomasetti.” Mackie looks at me. “Shall we?”
As we cross the gravel to the sidewalk, I notice the young hostler carrying a bucket of water to the buggy horses. I recognize him as one of the Helmuth children. Even in times of turmoil and stress, the parents keep the kids busy with responsibilities.
I knock and we enter. The aromas of lantern oil, candle wax, and something frying fill the air. We’re midway through the mudroom when Ivan Helmuth rushes through the door to greet us. “You bring news of Elsie?”
“We’re here to speak with Annie,” I tell him.
His brows furrow. For an instant, I’m afraid he’s going to refuse. But he knows what’s at stake. “This way.” He leads us into a well-lit kitchen.
Two Amish women stand at the sink, washing and drying dishes. A third mans the stove, stirring a steaming Dutch oven with a wooden spoon.
Mackie extends her hand to Helmuth and recites her name. “I’m with BCI,” she tells him.
“Sit down.” He motions to the big wooden table. “I’ll get Annie.”
Mackie and I pull out chairs and sit. She puts the doll on her lap and sets her hand on it. I nod, letting her know it’s going to make a good first impression.
A minute later, Ivan and Miriam Helmuth appear at the kitchen doorway with their daughter. Miriam’s hands are on Annie’s shoulders. The girl is pale, with circles beneath her eyes. She’s wearing a light green dress with sneakers and her kapp. Upon spotting us, she turns and buries her face against her mamm’s skirt.
“You remember Chief Burkholder?” Ivan asks.
The girl doesn’t turn around, but nods.
“You can call me Katie,” I tell her in Deitsch.
She turns her head, peeks at me out of the corner of one eye. Curious about my use of Pennsylvania Dutch.
“My friend’s name is Mackenzie,” I tell her, “but everyone calls her Mackie.”
Annie turns slightly, her one eye seeking the BCI agent, and she repeats the name, testing it, as if she likes the way it feels on her tongue.
The instant the girl makes eye contact with Mackie, the BCI agent raises the doll. “I’m hoping we can come up with good name for her. Do you have any ideas?”
The girl looks up at her mamm as if asking for permission to speak. Tugging out a chair, the Amish woman settles into it, pulls the child into her lap, and wraps her arms around her. Ivan leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed, watching.
“What do you think about Willie?” Mackie says with a mischievous grin.
Annie smiles shyly and presses her face against her mamm. “That’s a boy’s name.”
Mackie laughs. “Do you have any ideas?”
The girl nods, but she’s not engaged; she doesn’t want to talk to us. She doesn’t care about the doll.
“I always liked the name Susie,” I tell her. “What do you think, Annie?”
For the first time the girl gives us two eyes, dividing her attention between Mackie and me and the doll. “I like it.”
“Susie it is then.” Mackie looks longingly at the doll, giving an exaggerated frown. “I think I’m a little too old for dolls.”
“Annie’s just about the right age,” I put in.
Mackie perks up as if she hadn’t thought of it. “What a great idea! Annie, would you like her?”
Again, the girl looks up at her mamm. Asking for permission to accept the gift. The woman nods, encouraging her to interact.
The girl gives an enthusiastic nod. “Ja.”
Mackie runs a hand over the doll’s head, gives it a big, smacking kiss, and then passes it to the child. “There you go.”
A smile whispers across the girl’s face as she takes the doll. Something shifts inside me when she looks at the doll, then closes her eyes and hugs it against her.
“Maybe Susie can keep you company until we find Elsie,” Mackie says.
Caution enters the child’s eyes, but she nods.
“Did you and Elsie find lots of walnuts today?” Mackie asks the question in a nonchalant, casual way, as if it’s an afterthought and she doesn’t care whether she gets an answer.
“Two bags,” Annie says in a small voice.
Good girl, I think. Talk to us, honey. Talk.
“What happened while you were picking up walnuts?” Mackie asks.
The girl turns away, sets her face against her mamm’s dress, and seems to fold in on herself. Pulling away. From us. From questions she’s already been asked too many times and doesn’t want to face again. From the memory of her dead grandmother and the knowledge that her sister is gone.
“Was there someone else there?” Mackie asks gently.
The little girl puts her thumb in her mouth and begins to suck.
“I wonder if the stranger was picking up walnuts, too?” Mackie asks of no one in particular.
The thumb comes out. “He was in the house,” Annie tells us.
“A man?”
“Ja.”
“Hmmm. What happened next?”
“Grossmammi was in the house, too,” the girl says.
Mackie casts a look toward me. “‘Grossmammi’ is ‘Grandmother’?”
“Yes.” I wink at Annie and whisper, “She doesn’t know Deitsch.”
Mackie continues. “I wonder why your grossmammi went into the house.” A pause and then, “Did she hear something? See something?”
“She just likes it because she used to play there when she was little.”
“I see.” Mackie gives an exaggerated nod. “Did she go in through the front door or back?”
“Back.”
“What were you and Elsie doing?”
“Putting walnuts in our bags. We wanted to fill them up so we could play.”
“Did you see anyone else outside?” Mackie asks.
“No.”
“So you and Elsie were playing and picking up walnuts.” Mackie slants her a smile. “Having fun?”
“Ja.”
“And Grossmammi was in the house, looking around. What happened next?”
The girl snuggles against her mamm. “We heard Grossmammi yelling.”
“What did she say?”
“I don’t remember.”
The agent nods thoughtfully. “What did you do?”
Again, the girl brings her hand to her mouth and begins to suck her thumb. She pulls it out long enough to say, “We thought she fell down or saw a mouse, so we went in to find her.”
“What did you see when you went inside?”
A storm cloud of emotion darkens her face. Her breaths quicken. I see her mind dragging her back to what must have been a horrifying moment. “Grossmammi.” She buries her face against her mother.
“Where was she?” Mackie asks.
“On the floor. In the kitchen. She was bleeding and…” The girl stops speaking as if she doesn’t have enough breath to finish.
“Was there anyone else in the kitchen?”
“Not at first, but then the Plain man came out.”
“What did he look like?”
The girl takes us through much the same description as the one she gave me. White male. Old—at least in the eyes of a five-year-old child. Brown hair. When she’s finished, she turns away, presses her face against her mamm, and whispers, “Ich bin fashrokka.” I’m scared.
Miriam pats her daughter’s back. “God is with you. He will guide you.”
Mackie is soft and sympathetic, but maintains a gentle level of pressure. “Everything you tell me might help us find Elsie.”
The girl turns to look at her, wipes her face with her sleeve. “Elsie was scared,” she whispers.
“I know, sweetie. You’re doing a good job.” Mackie reaches out and squeezes the girl’s hand. “What happened after the man came into the kitchen?”
“We ran out the back door.”
“Did the man follow?”
“Ja.”
“What happened next?”
“I don’t know. I just ran.”
“Did he say anything?”
Her brows furrow and she takes a moment to think about it. “He said, ‘Sie is meiner.’”
It’s the first time I’ve heard the words. I stare at the girl, wondering if she got it right, but there was no hesitation in her voice.
Mackie looks at me for translation, raises her brows.
“It means ‘She’s mine,’” I tell her.
“You’re a very brave little girl.” Mackie reaches out and pats the girl’s hand. “Just a few more questions and we’re all done, okay?”
Over the next twenty minutes, Mackie covers every conceivable question with the child. Some the girl answers readily; others she veers away from or curls inward. But Mackie is a highly skilled juvenile interrogator. She has sharp instincts, knowing when to push, when to back off, and she has patience. There’s no doubt Mackenzie Upshaw is very good at what she does. Is it enough?
When we’re finished, I thank the parents and then Mackie and I walk to the Tahoe where Tomasetti is waiting.
“I feel confident that child told us everything she can recall at this time,” Mackie says with a sigh. “It’s possible she’ll remember new details over the next few days. But I think we got most of it.”
“Anything new?” Tomasetti asks.
I nod. “When Mackie asked Annie if the man said anything, she responded with, ‘Sie is meiner,’ which basically means ‘She’s mine.’ It’s an odd thing for an attacker to say.”
Tomasetti grimaces. “As if he feels somehow … entitled to her.”
Mackie shrugs. “Or he’s mentally unhinged. Confused.”
“Do you think she’s reliable?” he asks.
“I do,” Mackie replies. “I believe she was truthful. I think her answers were unembellished. When she didn’t know the answer to something, she said so.”
“Do you think she’s credible enough for us to get a facial composite?” Tomasetti asks.
“I think it’s worth a shot.”
“I’ll get permission from the parents.” I look at Tomasetti. “It would be helpful if the composite artist can come here to the house.”
“I’ll get it done,” he says.
I’m still pondering the order of the events that led up to the attack. “Was the killer waiting for them? Was he familiar with Mary’s routine?” I say, thinking aloud. “Or was this a crime of opportunity? Did they surprise him? And he panicked?”
Tomasetti watches me closely, nods. “And who was his target? Was this about Mary Yoder? Or was it about Elsie?”
Mackie chimes in. “Most child predators are opportunists. They wait or they stalk; they see a kid alone or one that’s in a vulnerable situation, and they move in, either through deceit—the do-you-want-to-see-my-puppy approach—or force.”
“The violence of the attack on Yoder is significant,” Tomasetti says.
“That degree of savagery indicates a profound level of passion,” I say. “Hatred or rage or both.”
“He knew her,” Mackie says.
“Unless he was focused on the girl and Yoder got in the way,” Tomasetti says. “Maybe she tried to stop him, and things went south.”
We take a moment, digesting everything that’s been said.
I glance at my watch. “I’m going to talk to the Helmuths, find out who Mary Yoder was close to.”
“I’ll work on getting a composite artist down here.” Tomasetti glances at his watch. “Probably first thing in the morning.”
Mackie extends her hand to me. “I’ll email you a transcript of our interview with Annie as soon as I get it transcribed.”
We part ways and I head back into the house. I find Ivan and Miriam and five of their children in the kitchen. Ivan has put on his coat and boots. He’s going to do the only thing he can: search for his child, though by now he’s realized the effort will be fruitless. I can tell by his expression he can’t bear to sit inside and do nothing. Miriam is sitting at the table, her face in her hands, an untouched mug of coffee on the table in front of her. Two of the children have fixed bowls of cereal. They’re silent and subdued, knowing that tragedy has invaded their safe and protected home. Both parents look frazzled and exhausted and utterly miserable.
I pull a prepaid cell phone from my pocket and hand it to Ivan. The Amish man doesn’t take it. “We do not need a phone,” he says. “All we need is our daughter.”
“Take it,” I say firmly. “If there’s an emergency and you need to talk to me quickly.”
When he doesn’t accept the phone, I go to the counter and set it down next to the sink. “Keep it handy,” I tell them.
The Amish woman looks away, but not before I see the assent in her eyes.
“I’m going to look for her.” Ivan Helmuth’s gaze is defensive, defiant, as if he thinks I’m going to try to stop him. “She’s out there somewhere.”
I was only gone for a few minutes, but in that short span of time I’ve reclaimed my position as an outsider. I address both of them. “I know it’s been a difficult day. I want you to know … I’m on your side. I’m—”
“Why hasn’t anyone found her?” Miriam snaps.
“We’re looking,” I assure her.
“It’s going to be cold tonight.” She puts a hand over her mouth, tears streaming. “Elsie doesn’t have a coat. She’ll be cold. I can’t bear to think of it.”
The image of a shivering, frightened child, all alone—or with someone intent on harming her—tears me up inside. Makes me feel ineffective and powerless because I’m unable to prevent it. Time is like sand running between my fingers.
Rising abruptly, Miriam rushes from the room.
I look at Ivan. “I need to ask you about Mary Yoder.”
“I’m finished with your questions. All this talking … it’s not helping.” He buttons his coat and strides to the door, but he doesn’t leave. He stands there with his hand on the knob, breathing heavily, looking down at the floor. After a moment, he storms through without speaking.
I become aware of the children sitting at the table. Their spoons have fallen silent. Cereal going soggy. Five pairs of eyes pin me where I stand, expressions apprehensive and confused.
“Mamm says God will take care of Elsie,” says a girl of about eight or nine.
“Grossmammi isn’t coming back.” The youngest girl closes her eyes and begins to cry.
A girl of ten or eleven puts her arm around her. “Shush now. Grossmammi’s in heaven with God and all of us are going to be there with her one day.”
“No one knows where Elsie is.” The little boy speaks up for the first time. “Mr. Miller said someone stole her.”
Realizing the conversation is about to go in a more speculative and dark direction, I move to refocus them. “What are your names?” I ask.
The question seems to startle them, but they come around quickly. The oldest girl straightens, sets her hands on the table in front of her. “I’m Irma.”
I turn my attention to the child sitting next to her and raise my brows. “How about you?”
A girl with strawberry-blond hair and eyes the color of spring grass squirms beneath my stare. “I’m Becky and I’m seven.”
I look from child to child; each mutters their name and age, polite but reluctant. Red-haired and freckled, Elam is eight. Gracie is nine and very pretty. At ten, Bonnie is thin and gangly, already taller than her older sister, and nearly as tall as her mamm.
“Luke and Annie are sleeping,” Becky finishes as she shovels cereal into her mouth. She’s the only one who has resumed eating.
“I’m Katie Burkholder, the chief of police,” I tell them. “I want you to know we’re doing everything we can to find your sister.”
A shower of measured responses sound, but they’re uttered with such softness I can barely make out the words. They don’t believe me—the Englischer—I realize, and the reality of that bothers me more than I want to acknowledge.
Becky begins to cry. “I want Elsie to come home. She always comes to my room and kisses me good night. Sometimes she tickles my belly.”
“I’ll kiss you good night,” Bonnie says. “But I’m not tickling your belly.”
“Shush now.” Irma sets her hand over Becky’s. “We all miss her. It’s like Mamm says. God will take care of her. And He will send her back to us.”
Elam picks up his spoon, but he doesn’t eat. Instead, his moss-green eyes slide from his sister to me. “What if you can’t find her, Chief Katie?”
“I’ll find her,” I tell him.
“Mamm says Elsie was a gift,” Becky says.
Bonnie’s expression softens. “I’ve known that since the day Bishop Troyer brought her—” She cuts off the words. Her eyes skate away from mine and back to her cereal bowl. Quickly, she raises a spoonful of cereal to her mouth and begins to chew, staring straight ahead. I look around and notice Irma won’t look at me.
It’s an odd moment. I almost chalk it up to what has surely been a wearisome day. But in light of today’s events, I’m curious what Bonnie had been about to say.
“What about the bishop?” I ask.
Bonnie swallows. “Nothing,” she mumbles.
I wait, but she keeps her eyes on her bowl and won’t meet my gaze.
Next to me, Irma and Becky exchange a look I can’t quite decipher and I sense a strange rise of tension. What the hell?
After a moment, Irma pats her lap. “Kumma do.” Come here.
Clenching her spoon, Becky climbs onto Irma’s lap, and with two spoons the girls begin to share the bowl of cereal. All the while something I can’t quite articulate niggles at the back of my brain.
Miriam enters the kitchen, a girl’s coat in her hands, and the moment is gone. She glances toward the door, realizes her husband has left, and lowers it to her side. She looks bereft for a moment, then turns her attention to the children, slips back into her mamm persona.
“What are all of you still doing up? Staying up past bedtime isn’t going to help us find Elsie now, is it? You’ll just be sleepy in the morning.”
The Amish woman brings her hands together. “Come on now. Up to bed. All of you.” She shakes her head with exaggerated admonition. “Eating breakfast at ten o’clock at night. My word.”
Chairs scrape against the floor. Irma takes a final bite of cereal and then gathers their bowls, takes them to the sink. The others clamber to the door. The little boy goes to his mamm and throws his arms around her hips, lets his cheek sink into her skirts. “Night.”
She sets her hand on his head. “You say a prayer for Grossmammi and Elsie,” she says to all of them.
When the children are gone, Miriam goes to the nearest chair and collapses into it as if her legs are no longer strong enough to support her. She raises the coat to her face and breathes in deeply. “Smells like her,” she whispers, then adds beneath her breath, “I know God always has a plan. For the life of me I can’t figure out what it might be this time.”
I pull out the chair across from her and sit. “We’ll be searching through the night.”
She raises her gaze to mine. Her eyes are tired, the energy behind them depleted. “I don’t know what to do, Chief Burkholder. I keep … searching the house, going room to room like a crazy person. I go to her room and look in, thinking she’ll be there.”
I’m still pondering the odd moment with the children a few minutes ago. Something Bonnie said. I look at the Amish woman sitting across from me. “Are Elsie and Becky twins?” I ask. “They’re both seven years old?”
“They’re not twins.” Miriam offers a wan smile. “The children came … quickly.”
I wait a beat, my thoughts circling back to Mary Yoder. “Was your mother close to anyone in particular? Did she have a best friend? A confidante?”
“Mamm spent most of her time with us, here at home. She was always cooking or baking. But she was a social bird, too, and liked to visit with the widow down the road, Martha Hershberger.” Miriam’s brows furrow. “She was friendly with the bishop’s wife, too. Sometimes the three of them would sew together after worship.” She makes a sound that might’ve been intended as a laugh, but comes out like a sob. “I suspect they did more gossiping than sewing.” The words are not unkind and followed by a wistful smile. “Those ladies could talk a blue moon.”
I pull out my notebook and scribble the names. “Your mamm was a widow?”
Miriam nods. “Going on eight years now.” She cocks her head, narrows her eyes on mine. “I don’t see how Mamm’s friends could have anything to do with what happened, Chief Burkholder.”
“It’s helpful to know the backgrounds of everyone involved. You never know when something from someone’s past can come back to haunt them.”
“We’re Amisch, Chief Burkholder. We’ve no ghosts to speak of.”
Over the course of my career in law enforcement I’ve heard a thousand variations of those words. Experience has taught me, they’re rarely true, even among the Amish.