“Welcome aboard, Chief Burkholder,” he says, releasing my hand.
Bates takes command of the meeting and gets right to the business at hand. “We’re pleased you’re here, Chief Burkholder. I’m sure John has already filled you in on the situation.”
I nod. “I understand there’s now a third person missing.”
“We just got the call from local law enforcement in Buck Creek,” Bates says. “I know you’re anxious to get started, so we’ll keep this brief.”
McNinch motions to the woman, who has remained seated throughout the introductions but hasn’t taken her eyes off me since I walked in. “This is Paige Wilson, my assistant. She’s got a couple of forms for you to sign, Chief Burkholder. We’ve got to keep all of this on the up-and-up with Uncle Sam.”
“Call me Kate.”
Nodding, he motions to the forms on the table. “We pay a small stipend, plus mileage, expenses.”
The forms are in typical government triplicate. The pages that require a signature are marked with red flags. Everyone’s in a hurry, so I give the forms a cursory read-through and scribble my name.
When I’ve finished, Bates says, “I’ve wanted to meet you since Tomasetti assisted with the Slaughterhouse Murders. Hell of a case for a small town.”
“It was a tough one.” The very thought of that investigation and all its gnarly implications still makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Agent Tomasetti was a tremendous help to the entire department.”
“He tells us you used to be Amish,” McNinch says.
That’s always the thing everyone wants to know. They don’t care about my resume or law-enforcement background or my degree in criminal justice. They don’t ask about my solve rate from when I was a detective in Columbus. They want to know if I was Amish; if I wore homemade dresses and rode in a horse-drawn buggy and lived my life without electricity and cars. “I grew up Amish,” I say simply.
In my peripheral vision, I see the woman lean slightly to one side, and I wonder if she’s checking to see if I’m wearing practical shoes.
“I understand you’re also fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch,” McNinch says.
I nod. “That’s particularly beneficial, especially with regard to breaking down some of the cultural barriers.”
“So far we’re batting zero in the way of garnering much useful information,” Bates says.
“Local law enforcement isn’t getting much from the Amish families,” Tomasetti adds, clarifying the matter.
“Unfortunately, that’s not unusual,” I tell them. “There’s a certain level of distrust between the Amish and the government, particularly law enforcement. We ran into that when we had a rash of hate crimes last December.” I don’t look at Tomasetti as I speak. I’m afraid if I do, somehow these men will know that we’re more than colleagues, more than friends. “The Amish are also slow in making contact with us because of their tenet of remaining separate. But there are also cultural issues. Religious issues.” I think of the chasm that stretches between me and my siblings. I don’t mention the fact that sometimes even if you’re born into the plain life, you can still be an outsider. “Generally speaking, once we convince the family we have only their best interest at heart, they’ll open up, especially if the safety of a loved one is in question.”
“Excellent.” Bates slides a folder across the table toward me. “We’re still putting things together, Kate, so the file is sparse.”
Intrigued, I open the file and find myself staring down at three missing-person reports. Bates was right: The information is hit-or-miss. The missing consist of three females between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, all of whom are Amish.
“We think their being Amish is the key element here,” McNinch says.
“Do you think this is a serial thing?” I ask. “And this is some kind of escalation?”
Tomasetti nods. “Maybe.”
“What we can’t figure is motive,” Bates says.
“No ransom demand,” Tomasetti puts in.
“Yet,” Bates adds.
“Anything come to mind off the top of your head?” McNinch asks.
I look up from the reports and make eye contact with him. “I’m sure you’ve already considered this, but the first thing that comes to mind is that these are sexual in nature.” I think of the Plank murder case and all of the dark places the investigation took me. “It could be fetish-related. An individual with an Amish fetish acting out some fantasy. His motivation has more to do with the victims’ being Amish than anything else.”
“I didn’t know such a thing existed,” McNinch comments.
“We’re running queries through NCIC and VICAP,” Tomasetti says. “We’re still waiting for results.”
“There’s also the hate angle,” I tell them. “It’s happened in Painters Mill. I know of cases in other towns, too.”
“I guess hate crimes don’t have to make sense.” Bates scratches his head. “But the Amish? Seems like they’d make pretty good neighbors.”
“Some people don’t like the religion and see them as fanatical or cultlike. Some don’t like them because the horse and buggies hold up traffic.” I shrug. “You name it and there’s probably some nutcase out there who thinks it.”
“Have you ever dealt with any kidnappings with regard to the Amish?” McNinch asks.
I shake my head. “Suspects?”
Bates shakes his head. “Nada.”
“Anything at any of the scenes?” I ask.
“We don’t have a scene,” Tomasetti replies. “These kids disappeared without a trace. We don’t know where the actual kidnappings—if, in fact, that’s what we’re dealing with—took place.”
I look down at the file. The part of me that is a cop is intrigued by the puzzle. I want to know what happened and why. I want to find the person responsible, go head-to-head with whoever it is. I want to stop him. Bring him to justice. But the more human part of me—the part of me that is Amish and knows the culture with such intimacy—is outraged by what has been done and frightened by the possibilities. “What about the victims? Aside from being Amish, do they share any other common threads?”
“Not that we’ve found, but we’re still gathering information,” McNinch says.
“Analyst is looking at everything now,” Tomasetti adds. “Once we arrive on-scene, we’ll talk to the families. That’s where you come in.”
I nod. “That’s where we’re going to get the brunt of our information. The families. Friends.”
“We haven’t been able to get our hands on photos,” Bates adds.
“Most Amish won’t have photos of their children,” I tell him.
He stares at me blankly, and I realize he’s probably not an Ohio native. “Most Amish don’t like to have their photos taken,” I tell him. “They feel it’s a vain display of pride. Some of the more conservative have biblical beliefs that keep them from having any kind of likeness done.”
“We’ve brought in the state Highway Patrol,” Bates says. “They wanted photos, but all we could give them were physical descriptions.”
“If the parents will cooperate, we may be able to get a sketch done,” I offer as an alternative. But everyone knows a sketch takes time and isn’t as helpful as a photo.
“Say the word and we’ll get someone down there,” Bates says.
Tomasetti glances at his watch, and I know he’s sending his superiors a not-so-subtle message to hurry this along so we can get on the road.
“Has local law enforcement talked to the parents?” I ask.
Tomasetti nods. “I talked to the sheriff. He didn’t get much. Apparently, the parents are as baffled as we are.”
McNinch scrubs a hand over his head. “No reflection on small-town law enforcement, but I suspect these people are out of their league. You know, small departments with minimal resources. They’re under-staffed. The
