been documented. But I hate the idea of leaving her in the water, where it’s murky and cold and her flesh is at the mercy of the aquatic creatures whose domain has been invaded.
Abruptly, Tomasetti jerks the beam from the body, clicks off the flashlight, and stalks away. Surprised, I glance over at him. In the gray light seeping down from the canopy, I see him set his hand against a tree and lean against it, close his eyes. And I realize that even though he is a veteran witness to this kind of violence, he is as outraged and repulsed as I am.
After a moment, he scrapes a hand over his jaw and pushes away from the tree. “I’m going to get a CSU down here before the rain destroys what little evidence is left.” Turning on the flashlight, he runs the beam along the steep, tangled bank of the creek. “They might be able to pick up some footwear imprints.”
But he doesn’t pull out his phone. He stands motionless between the path and the creek bank, the beam focused on the ground. His back is to me and his shoulders are rigid. I can’t see his face, but I sense he doesn’t want questions.
I give him a minute before asking, “Do you want me to make the call?”
Slowly, he turns. I can just make out his features in the peripheral light from the beam. The shadows reveal lines in his face I never noticed before, something in his eyes I understand because I know he’s seen the same thing in mine.
“I’ll do it.” He looks away. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look fine.”
His eyes meet mine. “Five years ago, a scene like this would have pissed me off, and that would have been the extent of my emotional response. I would have felt nothing for that dead girl or her family. All I cared about was catching the fucker responsible. It was an added bonus if I got to take his head off in the process.”
“Don’t beat yourself up for being human,” I tell him.
“That’s the problem, Kate. I wasn’t human. I didn’t feel shock or sadness or remorse because a girl was dead. Sometimes I didn’t even feel outrage. It was a game. All I felt was this driving need to catch the son of a bitch who’d done it. Not because of some noble desire for justice, but because I knew I was better than him and I wanted to prove it.”
“That’s a protective mechanism built into all of us.”
“Now I know what’s it’s like to hear someone tell you everyone you’ve ever loved is dead.”
I cross to him. Before I realize I’m going to touch him, I set my palm against his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
Setting his hand over mine, he brushes his mouth across my palm, then pulls it away from his face. “Let’s go catch this motherfucker,” he says, and we start down the path.
An hour later, the township road swarms with sheriff’s deputies, state Highway Patrol officers, and paramedics. The red and blue lights of half a dozen emergency vehicles flicker off the treetops. The area has been cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The state Highway Patrol has set up roadblocks, barring all through traffic from the bridge. Two ambulances from Trumbull Memorial Hospital are parked outside the secure area, their diesel engines rumbling in the predawn light.
Rain slashes down from a low sky as three technicians from the Trumbull County coroner’s office struggle to carry the body up the incline of the bar ditch. Tomasetti snagged us a couple of county-issue slickers from one of the Goddard’s deputies, but we were already wet, and though the temperature hovers in the sixties, I feel the cold all the way to my bones.
I’m standing at the rear of the ambulance when the gurney is brought up. I can see the outline of the body within the black zippered bag.
“Any idea who she is?” Tomasetti asks.
“No ID,” replies one of the technicians. He’s about thirty years old, with a goatee and wire-rimmed glasses. “We preserved as much of the scene as possible, but the bank got pretty trampled.”
“Cause of death?” Tomasetti asks.
“No visible injuries.” The technician grimaces. “Tough to tell with the water, though. We won’t know until the autopsy.”
“How long will that be?” Tomasetti asks.
“Well, we’re not backlogged. Maybe tomorrow morning.”
Tomasetti passes him his card. “Keep us in the loop, will you?”
“You got it,” he says, and they load the body into the rear of the ambulance.
A fist of outrage unfurls in my gut as I watch the vehicle pull away. “I was hoping this would have a better end.”
Tomasetti sighs. “The case isn’t exactly coming together, is it?”
“Chief Burkholder. Agent Tomasetti.”
We turn as Sheriff Goddard approaches. He’s wearing a yellow slicker and holding two McDonald’s to-go cups of coffee. I’m unduly thankful when he shoves one at me.
“Is it Annie King?” I ask.
“No one recognized her.” The sheriff shakes his head. “And we don’t have a photo.”
I tell him about the Amish-print dress, the lack of nail polish and jewelry. “I think she might be Amish.”
Goddard’s expression darkens. “It’s probably her. Timing’s right. Damn it.” He heaves a grievous sigh. “We’re going to have to bring in the parents to identify her.”
“Who’s the Amish bishop for this church district?” I ask.
Both men look at me.
“Even though we’re only bringing in the parents to identify the body, if it’s her, the bishop should be there,” I say.
Goddard nods. “That’d be Old Abe Hertzler. He and his wife live out on River Road.” He lowers his voice, gives a single grim nod. “I’ll go get him. Can you two oversee things here? We can meet up at the hospital in Warren in a couple of hours. That’s where our morgue facilities are.”
Notifying next of kin is a responsibility no cop relishes. I would venture to say it’s one of the most difficult aspects of being a chief of police. Regardless of the manner of death, whether it’s a traffic accident, a drowning, or the result of foul play, breaking the news to a loved one can affect a cop profoundly.
Goddard starts to turn away, but I stop him. “I’ll do it.”
He casts me a slightly incredulous look. “Aw, Chief Burkholder, I can’t put that on you.”
“It might help that I used to be Amish,” I tell him.
I’m aware that Tomasetti’s watching me, but I don’t look at him. I’m not sure I’m succeeding with the “I’m not affected” persona I’m striving to project. “That’s why I’m here,” I add.
I don’t mention the fact that most Amish are not only suspicious of the English but also of Amish who are from a different area. Not to mention those who have been excommunicated, like me.
The relief on his face is palpable. “To tell you the truth, I’m a little out of my element when it comes to the Amish,” he says sheepishly.
“She knows the territory,” Tomasetti puts in.
“Where can we find the bishop?” I ask.
The sheriff gives us directions to the bishop’s house, which is only a few miles to the south. “I’ll see you at the morgue in a couple of hours.”
CHAPTER 11
“Are you sure you’re up to this?”
Tomasetti doesn’t ask the question until we’re turning into the gravel lane of the farm where Bishop Abraham Hertzler, aka “Old Abe,” and his wife, Ruth, reside.
“I’m sure.” I don’t look at him as I reply, because I know he’s far too astute to miss the trepidation that’s plastered all over my face. “I’ll do a better job than Goddard.”
“I could have just run over you with the Tahoe.”
I can’t help it; I laugh and glance over at him. “You’re not trying to subtly tell me I’m a glutton for punishment, are you?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
But I know he won’t try to talk me out of it; he knows I’m right.
