lapped at the blood.
It’s a macabre scene in the crepuscular light. Like the sheriff, I hope for some benign explanation—a deer struck by a car. But in my gut, I know it’s human blood. I know something terrible happened here. In light of the fabric satchel lying a few feet away, I’m pretty sure it happened to the missing girl.
I look at Tomasetti. “Is that a fatal amount?”
He grimaces. “Hard to tell. Maybe.”
“She could have been walking alongside the road and got hit by a car,” Goddard says, but he doesn’t look convinced.
“With that kind of scenario, it seems like internal injuries would be a more likely result,” I say.
“And there’s no body,” says Tomasetti.
“Maybe whoever hit her put her in the car,” Goddard offers. “Took her to the hospital.”
“No skid marks,” I say.
“Unless it wasn’t an accident.” Tomasetti glances at the sheriff. “Did you check area hospitals?”
Goddard nods. “I’ve got my secretary checking.”
Around us, the forest goes silent, as if in reverence, due to the violence that transpired just a short time ago in this very spot.
Tomasetti scans the surrounding woods. “Do you have the manpower to search the area?”
“I can probably round up some volunteers.” Goddard unclips his phone from his belt but then pauses to indicate the tire marks. “What do you think about those?”
Tomasetti squats and studies the tread mark. “CSU might be able to lift tread imprints. If we can match those to a manufacturer, we might catch a break.”
“How old do you think this blood is?” Goddard asks.
Tomasetti shakes his head. “There’s quite a bit of drying around the edges. Spatter is dry.” He looks up, and I realize he’s trying to figure out how much sun gets past the trees. “Doesn’t get much sun here. It’s humid. I’d say six or seven hours.”
The sheriff jerks his head. “I’ll get to work on those volunteers.”
Stepping away from the scene, Tomasetti pulls out his phone, punches in numbers, and begins speaking quietly.
I study the scene, trying to envision what might have happened. The bag lies on the gravel shoulder, about four feet from the bloodstain. A couple of ears of sweet corn still wrapped in their husks have spilled out of it, looking out of place on the asphalt. I cross to the bag for a closer look. It’s a satchel made of quilted fabric—an Amish print—and looks homemade. My
Pulling a pen from my jacket pocket, I squat next to the bag and use the pen to open it and peer inside. I see green peppers, another ear of sweet corn, and tomatoes that have gone soft in the heat. Straightening, I cross to the sheriff. “Is there a vegetable stand nearby?”
He blinks at me, as if realizing he should have already explored that angle. “The Yoders run a stand a couple miles down the road.”
“You talk to the folks at the stand?”
“Not yet,” he says sheepishly. “There ain’t no phone out there.”
The statement sounds like an excuse, and he knows it. The last thing I want to do is ruffle local feathers. By all indications, he’s competent and capable. Still, I’m surprised that hadn’t occurred to him.
Looking chagrined, he pulls his phone from his belt. “I’ll get one of my deputies out there.”
I walk the scene, memorizing as much of it as I can. The location of the pool of blood, the proximity of the satchel in relation to the blood, the angle of the tire tread.
When he ends the call, I ask, “Did you photograph the scene?”
“Not yet.”
“Have you checked registered sex offenders in the area?”
“My secretary is pulling it now.”
We study the scene for a minute or so and then I ask, “What can you tell me about the family?”
“Girl’s parents are Edna and Levi King. They’re Old Order. Nice folks, though. I think they got about eight kids now, with Annie being the oldest. Anyway, they came into my office about eight this morning and told me she didn’t come home last night.
“Evidently, they spent the night looking for her. Got the neighbors involved. Finally, they got so worried, they decided to involve the police.” He swats a fly off his forehead. “I wish they’d come to me right away, so we could have gotten a jump on this.”
“You have a description of the girl?”
“They didn’t have a photo.” He pulls a note pad from his back pocket, flips it open. “Fifteen years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A hundred and fifteen pounds. Five feet five inches.” He grimaces. “I seen her a time or two. Pretty little thing.”
A picture of her forms in my mind. I see a plain, slender girl with work-rough hands. Trusting. At 115 pounds, she would be easy to overpower. Easy to control. I pull out my own pad and jot down the information. “Do you know what she was wearing?”
“Blue dress with a white apron. Black shoes. One of them bonnet things on her head.”
“Prayer
He gives me a “Yeah, what ever” look.
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
“To tell you the truth, Chief Burkholder, the parents weren’t very forthcoming about the girl’s personal business. They kind of clammed up when I asked, and I got the impression they were uncomfortable talking to me.” He grimaces. “I was thinking we could run out there so you could have a go at them.”
“Sure,” I tell him.
“CSU is on the way.”
We turn at the sound of Tomasetti’s voice. He’s striding toward us. “Should be here in an hour or so.”
“I think we need to speak with the parents,” I tell him.
“Sounds like a good place to start.” He glances at Goddard. “Do you have the manpower to protect the scene?”
“I’ll tell my deputy to stay put until your crime-scene guy gets here.” He starts toward the young officer.
Tomasetti and I head toward the Tahoe. “What do you think?” I ask as we climb in.
He grimaces. “I think that blood is a bad fucking sign.”
I agree, but I don’t say the words.
Ten minutes later, we turn onto a winding gravel lane bounded on both sides by cornfields, the shoulder-high stalks shimmering like some massive green mirage in the afternoon sun. A tangle of raspberry bushes grows along the wire fence on the north side. White dust billows from the tires of Sheriff Goddard’s cruiser in front of us, tiny stones pinging against the grille of the Tahoe.
A quarter mile in, the track opens to a large gravel area. Two hulking red barns trimmed in white loom into view. Ahead, I see several smaller outbuildings, an old outhouse, and a rusty metal shed. On my left, a white farmhouse with tall, narrow windows and a green tin roof looks out over the land. I wonder about all the things the house has witnessed over the years and I know this place, like so many others in this part of the country, has stories to tell.
Beyond, several huge maple trees shade a manicured yard teeming with blooming peonies and tufts of pampas grass with spires as tall as a man. A scarecrow wearing a straw hat and suspenders stands guard over a garden abundant with strawberries and green beans. An Amish girl in a tan dress stops hoeing to watch us.
I recall reading, when I was in college, that sense memories can be a powerful trigger of flashbacks. The sight of this farm, combined with the smell of cattle and horses and that of summer foliage, elicits an intense sense of deja vu. This farm is uncannily similar to the one I grew up on, and for the span of several seconds I’m transported back to the past. I see my
