volunteer fire department, and a slew of state Highway Patrol troopers. The coroner’s SUV is parked outside the slaughter shed. Midway down the driveway, out of the crime-scene perimeter, is a television news van from WCVK, out of Cleveland. A young reporter in a lime green raincoat is finger-combing her hair while the cameraman sets up lights.
I’m about to go in search of Tomasetti, when I see him coming out of the house. The scowl he’s wearing softens when he spots me, and he starts toward me. “You’re getting wet, Chief.”
The fact that I hadn’t noticed tells me something about my frame of mind. I’m unduly glad to see him—for myriad reasons—and it takes a good bit of self-discipline to keep myself from putting my arms around him. “Anything new?” I ask.
“Going to take a while to figure this one out,” he tells me. “How are the hostages?”
I’ve spent the last hour in the tunnel with Sadie Miller, Bonnie Fisher, and the third girl, who, we believe, is Ruth Wagler, while the local locksmith dismantled the shackles.
“Sadie Miller and Bonnie Fisher are in relatively good condition. Physically anyway.” I look at Tomasetti and sigh. “The third girl is in terrible shape. She’s emaciated and weak. Nearly catatonic.”
“I called the Waglers,” he tells me. “Sheriff’s deputy is driving them down from Sharon.” He pauses. “Did you speak with the Miller girl’s family?”
“I called Glock and had him run out to my sister’s farm. They were . . . ecstatic. And thankful.” I grin. “Gave all the credit to God.”
“Ah . . . the bane of being a cop.”
We watch an ambulance pull away. I find myself thinking about the body I found. “Any more remains?”
“One of the deputies found bones in the hog pen,” he tells me. “Two skulls.”
“Jesus.” I stave off a shiver, trying not to think about what that means.
“We’re going to search the entire property. Sheriff’s office is going to bring in some cadaver dogs.”
I sigh, wondering if we’ll ever get the full story of what happened and why. “Have you talked to Noah Mast?”
He nods. “One of the troopers and I did while we were waiting for the ambulance. Kid’s a mess. Doesn’t even know what year it is.”
I struggle to wrap my brain around that. The conditions were truly horrific—dirty, unsanitary, damp. The hostages were malnourished and filthy. I can’t imagine the psychological toll nine years would take.
“Does he know his parents are dead?” I ask.
“Not yet.”
A snatch of memory pushes at the back of my brain. “All of this makes me wonder what really happened to the sister.”
Tomasetti nods. “We asked Noah about her. Evidently, the parents blamed him for her death.”
“But it was a suicide.”
“Maybe. We’ll need to take a look at the autopsy report. Maybe even exhume her body.”
I’m still thinking about the parents and how they could lay blame on their son. “Did Noah say why they blamed him?”
“We didn’t get that far. EMS took him to the hospital in Mayfield Heights. He’ll probably spend at least one night there. Once they get him set up in a room, we’ll do the interview.” His face darkens. “You get anything from the girls?”
“Not much. They were pretty shaken up.”
“We need to talk to them.”
“They took Bonnie Fisher and Ruth Wagler to the same hospital as Noah. Sadie went to Pomerene, in Millersburg, so her family could be there.”
For a moment, the only sounds are the crack of police radios and the patter of rain against the ground. “Tomasetti, what the hell was going on here?”
He shakes his head in a way that tells me not only does he not know but the depravity and insanity are so far beyond his grasp, he can’t imagine.
“The Masts seemed so fucking normal,” I say.
“Except they kidnapped at least five teenagers, killed at least three people, and imprisoned their own son for nine years,” he growls.
We fall silent, our thoughts zinging between us, and watch a trooper in a yellow slicker turn away a young reporter. But my mind is still on Bonnie Fisher, Sadie Miller, and Noah Mast. Tomasetti’s right: They’re going to be our best source of information. Our only source now that the Masts are dead.
I hope they know enough to tell us why.
There are innumerable rewards that come with the closing of an investigation. First and foremost is the knowledge that a dangerous individual—in this case, two—has been taken off the street and won’t be harming anyone else. But there are other rewards, too. The personal satisfaction of knowing you did your job to the best of your ability; that the time and energy you’d invested paid off. Then there’s the intellectual reward of finally having the question of “why?” addressed.
That, more than anything, is the engine driving us as Tomasetti and I walk through the emergency entrance of Hillcrest Hospital in Mayfield Heights, a small community east of Cleveland.
We don’t speak as we ride the elevator up. The doors whoosh open to a brightly lit nurses station. A heavyset woman wearing pink scrubs sits at the desk, staring at a computer monitor. She glances up when we step off the elevator. She doesn’t speak, but her mouth firms into a thin, unpleasant line, and I suspect she’s not happy about the police questioning her new high-profile patients.
Beyond, a wide tiled hall is lined with doors. We don’t have to ask which rooms belong to the victims. Two Lake County sheriff’s deputies and a state Highway Patrol trooper stand outside rooms 308 and 312, dr inking coffee and talking quietly, eyeing us with the territorial glares of a pack of dogs. Another local cop sits in a plastic chair, reading a magazine.
Since the crimes were committed in rural Lake County, the case falls under the jurisdiction of the sheriff’s office. But Tomasetti and I have been part of this investigation since the task force was formed. I don’t think there will be a problem with our sitting in on the interview.
All eyes fall on us as we approach. I recognize two of the deputies from the scene at the Mast farm earlier. Their expressions aren’t hostile, but they’re not friendly, either, and I’m reminded they’ve lost a fellow officer today.
Tomasetti slides his badge from his pocket, and I do the same. The deputy I don’t recognize steps forward and extends his hand. “I’m Ralph Tannin with the Lake County sheriff’s office.”
He introduces the other men, one of whom is with the Monongahela Falls PD, and then addresses me. “We want to thank you for what you did, Chief Burkholder.”
“I was at the right place at the right time,” I tell him.
“No one could have imagined what was going on out there at that farm.” He rocks back on his heels. “Goddamn middle age Amish couple.”
“You talk to any of them yet?” Tomasetti asks.
“The doc’s with the Fisher girl now.” Tannin indicates the room directly behind him.
“You guys find anything else at the scene?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Just those two skulls. But we’ve got a lot more to search.”
The door behind him opens. I look up and see a tall, thin man emerge. He’s wearing a white lab coat over SpongeBob scrubs and glasses with small square lenses. He’s young, maybe thirty, with a five o’clock shadow and circles the size of plums beneath his eyes, telling me he’s been on duty for quite some time. His badge tells me his name is Dr. Barton.
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
The doctor looks at me over the tops of his glasses. She’s “dehydrated, exhausted, traumatized. But she’s going to be okay.” He glances at Tannin. “Are her parents on the way?”
The deputy nods. “They got a driver and should be here within the hour.”
“Good,” the physician says. “She needs them.”
“Can we talk to her?” Tomasetti asks.
Barton gives a reluctant nod. “She’s been sedated, so she can get some rest to night. Keep it short and try
