Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (11 page)

“The kind he has to answer.” But Tomasetti doesn’t take his eyes off the boy.

Justin holds his gaze. “I never touched her.”

“Did you buy her a cell phone?” Goddard asks.

“Her parents wouldn’t do it, so I did. Last I heard, that wasn’t against the law.”

“She use it?” I ask.

“Sure. We talk all the time.”

“When’s the last time you heard from her?” Tomasetti asks.

“I dunno. A couple days ago.”

“Have you tried to contact her in the last twenty-four hours?”

Justin nods. “Goes straight to voice mail.”

“Didn’t that seem strange?” Goddard asks. “Or worry you?”

“Hey, she’s like that. Independent, you know?” The teenager shrugs. “I figured she’d call me when she got to where she was going.”

Tomasetti pulls out his note pad. “What’s the number?”

Justin rattles it off from memory and Tomasetti writes it down.

“You got your cell on you?” he asks.

“Sure, I—” The kid’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to take it.” Tomasetti holds out his hand. “Give it to me.”

The kid wants to refuse. I see it in his face and in the way he can’t quite make himself reach into his pocket to get it out. But he must see something in Tomasetti’s eyes, because after a moment, he produces the phone. “That cost me plenty.”

“We’re just going to take a look, see if it will help us with a time line.” He removes an evidence bag from his pocket and the boy drops the phone into it. “You’ll get it back.”

Justin doesn’t believe him, and looks away. “What ever.”

“You know, Justin, it would have been helpful if you’d come to us when she first went missing,” Goddard says.

“So that’s what you’re calling it?” Treece looks from Goddard to me to Tomasetti. “She’s missing?”

“Her parents just filed a missing-person report,” I tell him.

“I figured she was fine,” the boy says. “How was I supposed to know?”

“You could have tried using that thing between your ears,” Tomasetti tells him.

The teenager gives him a “Fuck you” look.

“Does she have any other friends she might have taken off with?” Goddard asks.

Justin shakes his head. “Most of her friends are Amish.”

“Did she have transportation?” I ask.

Another shake. “Not that I know of. She couldn’t afford a car.” He chuckles. “I let her drive mine once and she took out old man Heath’s mailbox.”

“So you just assumed she’d walked somewhere?” Tomasetti asks.

“Or took the bus.” His voice turns belligerent. “Look, we’re friends, but I ain’t her fuckin’ keeper.”

“How did you meet her?” I ask.

“She was walking along the road. It was raining, so I stopped and asked her if she wanted a ride. She got in.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “I offered her a cigarette and she smoked it.” He smiles. “It was funny, because she was wearing that old-lady dress—you know, the Amish getup. We hit it off.”

“Are you involved in a relationship with her?” Tomasetti asks.

“Well . . . we’re friends . . . mostly.”

Tomasetti sighs. “Are you sleeping with her, Justin?”

To his credit, the kid blushes. “I guess. I mean, we did it a few times. But we weren’t like boyfriend and girlfriend or anything like that. I’m not ready to get tied down, so I set the boundary right off the bat.”

Silence falls and all of us stand there, caught up in our own thoughts. The two little girls watch the scene from the kitchen, eating chips from a bag. Tomasetti’s trying not to look at them, but he’s not quite managing.

I look at Justin. “If you wanted to get out of Buck Creek so badly, why didn’t you go with her?” I ask.

He laughs. “I don’t think my probation officer would appreciate that.”

A few minutes later, Tomasetti and I are sitting in the Tahoe, waiting for Goddard to start rolling. Tomasetti is staring out the window, brooding and preoccupied. I’m trying to find the right words, when he beats me to the punch.

“What the hell are people doing to their kids, Kate?”

It’s not the kind of statement I’m accustomed to hearing from him. He’s more apt to spout off some politically incorrect joke than a serious philosophical question, and it takes me a moment to find my feet. “Not everyone treats their kids that way.”

“Too many do.”

I want to argue. Only I can’t, because he’s right. So I let it stand. “We do what we can, Tomasetti. We can’t control everything.”

“That bitch in there doesn’t deserve those little kids.”

“I know.”

“She’s going to fuck up their lives the same way she fucked up her own.”

“You can’t say that for sure.”

His laugh is bitter. “Since when are you the optimist?”

“Don’t get cynical on me, Tomasetti.”

“That’s kind of like asking the ocean not to be wet.” But he doesn’t smile as he stares out the window. “We take so much for granted. I wish I had five minutes with my kids. Just five lousy minutes to say the things I didn’t say when they were alive.”

Tension climbs up my shoulders and into my neck. This is the first time he’s talked about his children with this level of intimacy, this kind of emotion. It’s the first time he’s mentioned regret or allowed me a glimpse of his pain. I don’t have children. But I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. I’ve been to that dark place and I know firsthand the toll it can take.

“That’s human nature,” I tell him. “We take things for granted. All of us do.”

He says nothing.

“I’m sure they knew you loved them,” I say, but I feel as if I’m floundering.

“When I was on a case, I’d go for days without seeing them. Even when I was home, when I worked late, I didn’t kiss them good night. I didn’t tuck them in. I barely looked at them some days. Half the time, I didn’t even fucking miss them. What the hell kind of parent doesn’t miss his kids?”

I glance over at him. He’s gripping the wheel tightly, staring straight ahead, and I think,
Shit
. “Tomasetti . . .”

He tosses me a sideways look. “I don’t remember the last words I said to them, Kate. I was in a hurry that morning. Had some big fucking meeting. Some meeting that didn’t mean anything to anyone. I didn’t know that the next time I saw them would be in the morgue.”

It’s difficult, but I hold his gaze. “You loved them. They knew it. That’s what counts.”

“I didn’t keep them safe.”

“You did your best.”

“Did I?”

I take a moment to calm down, rein in my own emotions. “Tomasetti, are you okay?” I ask.

He gives me a wan smile. “I’m not going to wig out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I reach across the seat and take his hand. “Just checking.”

For a couple of minutes, neither of us speaks. We watch Goddard get into his cruiser. The only sounds come from a group of little boys playing stickball in the yard across the street and a blue jay scolding us from the maple tree a few feet away.

“I wanted to take that bitch’s head off,” he says after a moment.

“Now there’s the Tomasetti I know and love.”

His mouth twists into a grim smile, and the tension loosens its grip. An instant later, his cell goes off. He glances at the display, makes eye contact with me, and answers it. “What do you have?”

His eyes hold mine as he listens to the caller, but his face reveals nothing. “Got it. Right. Check on that for me, will you?” He disconnects and clips the phone to his belt.

“What?” I ask as I buckle up.

He cranks the key and the engine rumbles to life. “The blood is human.”

“Damn.” We both assumed that would be the case. Still, the news is like a hammer blow. “Is it hers?”

“They don’t know yet. Lab’s backed up. They should have blood type tomorrow. DNA is going to take a few days.” He puts the Tahoe in gear and pulls onto the street behind Goddard.

“That was a lot of blood,” I say, thinking aloud. “If it’s Annie’s, she’s seriously injured.”

Or worse.

The unspoken words hover like the smell of cordite after a gunshot. Neither of us dares say them aloud.

Half an hour later, Tomasetti, Bud Goddard, and I are standing in the reception area of the Trumbull County sheriff’s office with three uniformed deputies, a state trooper, and a single officer from the Buck Creek PD. Tomasetti and I were introduced upon our arrival as “state agents here to assist,” which is usually well received by even the most territorial of law-enforcement agencies. We do a lot more than assist, but then, that’s cops for you.

The sheriff’s department is typical of most county-funded offices: small, cramped, and cheaply furnished, but functional. However, the computers look relatively new and the dispatch and phone system are state-of-the-art. I figure if Goddard is as good at policing as he is at politicking, the county is in pretty good hands.

We convene in an interview room, which is past the rest room, at the rear of the offices. The space is small and windowless, with barely enough room for the rectangular table, which looks like a donation from someone’s garage, and a hodgepodge of folding and task chairs. A laminate podium with the seal of the great state of Ohio affixed to the facade demarks the head of the table. Goddard stands behind it, looking down at his notes. Behind him, a whiteboard as well as a terrain and road map of northeastern Ohio are tacked to the wall. Three red circles indicate the locations where the missing teens were last seen.

Tomasetti and I sit together on one side of the table. Across from us are the three deputies, one of whom is a female. Though she wears a sheriff’s department uniform, she’s armed with a steno pad instead of a Glock, and I realize with dismay that she’s here only to take notes. The trooper and city cop sit one chair down from Tomasetti and me.

Goddard clears his throat. “This is an informal briefing to bring everyone up to speed on a developing missing-person case.” He recites the names and agencies of everyone in the room. “Trooper Harris, who’s with the state Highway Patrol, and Officer Gilmore, a member of the local PD are here to assist the Trumbull County sheriff’s department, as well.”

He turns to the whiteboard and writes: “
Missing
” with a double underscore. Below that: “
Annie King, fifteen, missing thirty-six hours—Buck Creek. Bonnie Fisher, sixteen, missing two months—Rocky Fork. Leah Stuckey, sixteen, missing one year—Hope Falls.
”

“That’s what we got so far, folks, and it ain’t much,” he begins. “Three missing females. All three are Amish. All three are teenagers. Annie King is the only missing person from Trumbull County, but Agents Tomasetti and Burkholder believe these three incidents are related. At this point, we do not have a suspect. No motive. No body. So we’re not exactly sure what we’re dealing with.”

“The CSU got back to me on the blood,” Tomasetti interjects. “It’s human.”

“Shit.” Goddard grimaces. “Hers?”

“Lab should have the type by tomorrow.” Tomasetti looks at Goddard. “We’ll need to get her blood type from the family, if they have it.”

“I’ll check,” Goddard replies.

Nodding, Tomasetti continues. “DNA is going to take a few days. Lab is backlogged.”

“There’s a surprise for you.” Sighing, the sheriff looks down at his notes. “We now have a crime scene, which is being processed now by a CSU from the state. We also have the King girl’s cell phone number. Agent Tomasetti is working on gaining access to phone records and getting a triangulation going.”

Goddard looks at Tomasetti. “Any idea how long that’ll take?”

“We should know something tomorrow.”

“Keep us posted.”

No one mentions the possibility that Annie King might not have that kind of time.

I catch Goddard’s eye. “Do you have an address for the other families? I’d like to speak with the parents.”

“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.