Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (24 page)

The woman gives me a firm nod and lowers her voice. “God bless you guys. I hope you find that girl safe and sound.”

A few minutes later, I’m back in the Tahoe, idling past the bridge where Mandy Reiglesberger claims to have seen Sadie Miller talking to someone in a vaguely described vehicle. It’s not much to go on—not
enough
to go on—but it’s all I’ve got.

I’ve called Tomasetti and asked for a list of individuals in Holmes and Coshocton counties who own dark-colored cars more than three years old. But we both know extracting any useful information is a long shot. Still, I could whittle down the results to pedophiles or males convicted of a sex crime in the last five years. It’s a start.

I park on the gravel shoulder a few yards from the bridge. Looking in my rearview mirror, I see Rasmussen pull over behind me. We exit our vehicles and meet on the shoulder.

He looks toward the west, where the sun has already sunk behind a purple bank of clouds. “It’s going to be dark in half an hour.”

Trying not to feel as if we’re wasting our time, I motion left. “I’ll go east and you go west. Let’s see what we can find.”

He nods and we start in opposite directions.

There isn’t much traffic along this deserted stretch. Two miles to the east, the road dead-ends at the county dump, which is chained off except on Saturday mornings. The asphalt is pitted and narrow, with a centerline that’s been scoured by tires and the elements. I walk the narrow shoulder, my eyes skimming the grassy bar ditch, the fence, the soybean field, and the macadam on my left. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Anything that seems out of place. Signs of a struggle. Skid marks. None of those things is indicative of a crime. But sometimes building a case is akin to putting a puzzle together. Alone, the pieces mean nothing. But when you arrange them in a meaningful way, a picture emerges.

Several minutes pass with no luck. I’m ever aware of the fading light, birdsong being replaced by a chorus of crickets in the woods. Near the bridge, I find a beer can and the ragged remnants of a paper towel. There’s a plastic Baggie that looks as if it’s been ripped to shreds by some animal. Twenty yards past the bridge, I notice horse hoof marks in the gravel. There are more in the grass, along with a pile of horse manure. I know now that this is where Mandy Reiglesberger rides.

I’m about to turn back, when I notice a single skid mark from a short, hard stop. It’s not unusual to see rubber marks on any roadway. People brake for animals. Teenagers, armed with new driver’s licenses, perform peel-outs to flaunt their horse power and show off for their friends.

These particular skid marks are fresh. My heart jigs when I spot a thin brown cigarette lying in the gravel. It’s smoked halfway down and it’s been run over at least once. Pulling a glove from a compartment on my belt, I slip it over my right hand. I’m an instant away from picking it up when I discern the scent of cloves. And I have proof—at least in my own mind—that at some point Sadie was here.

I glance over my shoulder, see the sheriff wading through knee-high grass fifty yards back. “Rasmussen! I think I found something! Bring the camera!”

Nodding, he starts toward his vehicle.

I return my attention to the skid mark. Cursing the swiftly falling darkness, I follow the direction of the skid to a disturbance in the gravel and a place where the grass has been flattened by a tire. It’s as if someone made a U-turn in the middle of the road. There’s no identifiable tread. Five feet from the skid mark, I find the one thing I didn’t want to find: a dark, irregularly shaped stain. I know immediately it’s blood.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter, staving off a crushing sense of helplessness.

“Looks like blood.”

I turn at the sound of Rasmussen’s voice.

He pulls a Mini Maglite from his belt and sets the beam on the stain. “Might not be hers.” He looks around, his eyes going to the wooded area at the bridge. “Could be from an animal that got hit. Raccoon or possum that came up from that creek.”

“Maybe.” But I don’t think that’s the case. More than likely, if an animal had been struck by a car, the carcass would be lying nearby. I motion toward the cigarette butt a few feet away. “Sadie Miller smoked clove cigarettes.”

We kneel next to the stain. There’s not enough blood to form a pool like the one in Buck Creek. This one is elongated and looks more like a smear, or a scrape.

Wishing for a magnifying glass, I lean close. I see what looks like bits of flesh that have been abraded by the rough surface. My eyes land on something in the center of the stain, sending a scatter of goose bumps over my arms. “A hair,” I hear myself say.

“Human?”

“I don’t know. It’s long. Same color and length as Sadie’s.” I straighten, look at him. “I’m going to call Tomasetti and get a CSU out here.”

He looks around. “Kate, I hate to say this, because this could turn out to be nothing. But it almost looks like a hit-and-run involving a pedestrian.”

A dozen arguments spring to mind. We’re overacting. Reading things into this that aren’t there. Chances are, a deer or dog or a fucking raccoon got hit. But considering everything we know, his theory is solid. Too damn solid.

“He ran her down,” I whisper. “And he took her.”

He tilts his head to catch my eye, then holds my gaze. “I know you have a connection to this girl. If you want me to—”

“I can handle it.” I know he’s thinking about the Slabaugh case and the fact that I used deadly force. I guard my secrets well, but he knows I’m still dealing with the aftereffects.

He nods, but his eyes are knowing. “I’ll get a roadblock set up and get some photos.”

I unclip my phone, surprised that my hands are shaking. Impatient with myself, I punch speed dial to get Tomasetti. He answers with his usual growl and I fill him in on Mandy Reigelsberger’s sighting of Sadie Miller and the scene Rasmussen and I discovered.

“You sure the hair is human?” he asks.

“I’ve never met a raccoon with long hair.” Neither of us laughs. “I was wondering if you could send a CSU.”

“I can have someone there within the hour.”

“I owe you one.”

“I’ll remind you of that next time I see you.”

I almost ask him when that will be, but I don’t want to sound needy. Maybe because, at the moment, I am. “Anything on your end?”

“We have a witness who claims Gilfillan with the Twelve Passages Church had contact with Annie King, targeted her for recruiting. Goddard brought him in for questioning.

In terms of the case, unearthing that kind of connection is huge. “You don’t sound too excited.”

“Witness is a flaky son of a bitch. Known meth user. Disgruntled because he was kicked out of the church.”

“So he’s got an ax to grind.”

“Maybe.” But his voice is uncertain. “Or maybe Mr. Meth is telling the truth and Annie King didn’t want to be recruited and things went sour. I’m working on a search warrant now.”

I think about Gilfillan in terms of Sadie’s disappearance. “Does he have an alibi for last night?”

“He claims he was home. Alone.”

The need to be there, to talk to Gilfillan myself, burns through me. Is it possible the self-proclaimed pastor is preying on Amish youths who are confused about the religious path they want to follow?

“Keep me posted,” I say.

“You know I will.”

One of the most difficult aspects of a long-term investigation—especially a case in which someone’s life is in jeopardy—is knowing when to call it a night. I know it’s a self-defeating mind-set; everyone needs sleep. But I invariably feel as if I’m turning my back on the victim when I go home. The truth of the matter is, I don’t know how to stop being a cop. How can I go home to eat or sleep or sit on my sofa and watch TV when a young girl is depending on me to find her?

The answer is a simple matter of human endurance. No one can work around the clock indefinitely. If people try, there will come a point when they’ll become in effective, or, worse, a detriment to the investigation. They reach a point where exhaustion and emotions cloud the decision-making process, reaction time, and good old-fashioned common sense. I’m loathe to admit it, but I’ve been there. I’m not the least bit proud of the way I handled some aspects of cases past. The only positive gleaned is that I learned my limits.

It’s nearly 1:00
A.M.
when I unlock the door of my house and step inside. The aromas of stale air and the overripe bananas I left on the kitchen counter greet me.

Flipping on the light, I carry my overnight bag to the bedroom and drop it on the floor outside my closet. Physical exhaustion presses into me as I peel off my clothes and toss them into the hamper. But while my body is crying for sleep, my mind is wound tight, and I know sleep will not come easily.

In the bathroom, I crank the water as hot as I can stand it and step under the spray. I soap up twice, knowing I’m trying to wash away more than just the dirt of the day. I haven’t let myself think of Sadie in emotional terms. I haven’t let myself think about how this could turn out or what she might be going through at this very moment.

Now that I’m alone with my thoughts, all of those gnarly beasts come calling. I can’t help but compare Sadie’s disappearance to the murder of Annie King. The possibility that the outcome will be the same terrifies me. Another young life snuffed out long before its time. Another family shattered. And all I can think is that I can’t let that happen.

In the bedroom, I pull on an old T-shirt from my Academy days and a pair of sweatpants. Padding barefoot to my office, I flip on my computer. While it boots, I pull out my Rand McNally road atlas and turn to a map of northern Ohio. Tearing out two pages, I take both to the bulletin board I keep on the wall adjacent to the desk and pin them up side by side. With a black marker, I circle the location of each disappearance. Monongahela Falls. Sharon, Pennsylvania. Rocky Fork. Buck Creek. Painters Mill. I draw a larger circle encompassing all the towns.

Leaning over my desk, I open the pencil drawer and pull out a red Sharpie, snap off the lid, and go over to the map. I circle Buck Creek, where Stacy Karns, Gideon Stoltzfus, and Justin Treece are located. I circle Salt Lick, where Frank Gilfillan and the Twelve Passages Church are located. I draw a larger circle to encompass each location and go back to my desk.

I stare at the map. The two large circles overlap each other and include much of the same area. All of the towns, the locations of the victims and suspects, are roughly within a one-hundred-mile radius. In rural terms, that’s less than a two-hour drive. Chances are, the killer resides somewhere within that circle.

“Why do you do it?” I whisper.

I turn to the whiteboard and write,
Why?
with a double underscore. Then “
No ransom demand. Sexual in nature? Fetish related?
” I think of Annie and Sadie and write, “
Vulnerable? Runaways?
” Then I add, “
Blood found at scenes.
”

“Where are they?” I’m thinking aloud now, letting my mind run with random thoughts and undeveloped theories. “Why did we find Annie King’s body and not the bodies of the others?”

I divide the board in half with a bold line. Below the delineation, I write, “
Suspects: Stacy Karns, Frank Gilfillan, Gideon Stoltzfus, Justin Treece.
” Finally, I write, “
Unknown perpetrator.
”

“We don’t know you yet,” I say.

I circle “
Unknown perpetrator.
” Next to it, I write, “
Motive?
” And then add, “
Why?
”

“Why do you take them?” I say aloud.

And I know that once we know why, we will find the who.

The sound of pounding drags me from a deep and dreamless sleep. A hard rush of adrenaline sends me bolt upright. For an instant, I’m disoriented, uncertain about the source of the noise. Then I realize someone’s at the door. My mind registers that the doorbell didn’t ring. Back door, I think, and something else niggles at my brain. A glance at the alarm clock on my night table reminds me that 3:00
A.M.
visitors are almost always the bearers of bad news.

Jerking the robe from the chair next to my bed, I work it over my shoulders and tighten the belt. I open the top drawer of the night table and snag my .38, cock it. Holding the weapon low at my side, I pad silently to the kitchen, sidle to the back door, and peer through the curtains.

John Tomasetti stands on the porch with his hands in his pockets, looking out over the backyard as if his being here in the middle of the night is the most natural thing in the world.

I turn the bolt lock and swing open the door. “Don’t tell me,” I begin. “You were in the neighborhood.”

He turns to me, hands still in his pockets, his face deadpan, and for a split second I’m terrified he’s come here with some dire news about the case. “Actually, I drove a hundred miles, against my better judgment and without telling my superiors, to sleep with you.”

I laugh, but it’s a nervous sound. “Well, that’s pretty subtle.”

“That’s me. Mr. Subtle.” His lips don’t move, but I see the smile in his eyes. “Pink robe goes nicely with that thirty-eight.”