“Got the Fishers’ address right here.” He leans down and hands a sheet of paper to one of the deputies, who passes it to me. I glance at the type; it contains an address for Fisher’s Branch Creek Joinery in Rocky Fork.
“What were the circumstances 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, Goddard 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.” Goddard 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 hell out of his own mother.”
He gestures toward the papers stacked in front of each of us. “Julie pulled a list of registered sex 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.”
“Damn 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.” Goddard 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 sumbitch 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.
Goddard 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.
“Eigh teen-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.” Goddard nods. “I’ll have copies made for everyone.”
“How far is Monongahela Falls?” I ask.
Goddard indicates the location on the map. “About fifty miles north.”
“An hour’s drive,” Tomasetti comments. “Not too far.”
We watch as Goddard 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 sex offenders on that list convicted of assaults on a male victim?”
“One.” Goddard 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 sexual assault 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.
Goddard 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 pornography 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 fucking art.”
“Except her parents,” Tomasetti says.
Goddard smiles. “And the jury.”
“What about that cult over to Salt Lick?” the deputy asks.
“I’m getting to that.” Goddard turns to the whiteboard and writes another name: “Frank Gilfillan.” “Fifty- two-year-old white male. Clean record. Runs the Twelve Passages 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 Passages 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?”
Goddard 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.”
Goddard 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.
“Assignments.” Goddard 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. Goddard looks at the officer from the local police department. “Dale, why don’t you guys recanvass 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.”
Goddard’s gaze lands on the older deputy. “Clyde, you want to come with me to talk to Gilfillan?”
The deputy pats his shirt 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.
Goddard and Clyde exchange cockeyed looks, as if they share some amusing secret. “Might not be a bad idea,” Goddard says.
The deputy chuckles. “Karns doesn’t have much respect for smalltown 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-fashioned methods and tools. According to Goddard, the business has been in the Fisher family for
