Page 79 of A Gathering of Secrets

I go through the doorway, enter the same small living room where Mona and I spoke with Ruth Petersheim days ago. There’s a sofa. Coffee table. Nothing out of place. I follow the sound of the baby’s cries, down a dimly lit hall.

“Mark! Ruth! Are you okay? It’s Kate Burkholder!”

The last thing any cop wants to do is walk into a house and surprise the homeowner. I always make it a point to shout out my location, and identify myself multiple times. Ever present in the back of my mind is the shooting last night, and that the shooter has yet to be apprehended.

I tug my .38 from my holster. Ahead, two doors stand open. A small bathroom. A bedroom. A third door is cracked open a few inches. The hardwood floors are mottled with bloody paw prints. The smell is worse here. Rotten eggs and sewage. It’s a stench I’ve smelled before, one I don’t want to identify, and I pray to God I’m wrong. All the while the baby screams. His little voice has gone hoarse. He screams with such ferocity that he’s run out of breath.

“Mark? Ruth?” Pistol leading the way, I sidle to the end of the hall, push open the door with my left hand. The room is darkened. I see a window, curtains drawn. A closet door standing open. An oak headboard.

A gasp escapes me when I see them. Mark and Ruth Petersheim lie side by side atop a cream-colored quilt. I see pale faces and staring eyes. All of it surrounded by an ocean of blood, shocking and red. I know immediately they’re dead.

Ruth lies prone, her head turned toward me. One eye closed, the other rolled back white. She’s wearing a blue dress with a white apron, the bodice soaked with blood that’s gone black in the center. She’s still wearing her kapp. Tights. One shoe missing.

Next to her, Mark Petersheim lies supine. He’s wearing dark trousers, a blue shirt, suspenders. Right arm slung over the side of the bed. His head is against the headboard, his neck bent at a severe angle. His mouth is a bloody, gaping hole. Copious amounts of blood and tissue and specks of bone spatter on the headboard. More blood on his shirt. A single tooth rests on his chest. There’s a straw hat and a rifle on the floor next to the bed.

For a moment, my feet are cemented to the floor. I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can barely think. All sound leaches from the room. The light fades. My vision tunnels on the two bodies. It’s as if the house has been submerged in water, and it’s slowly sinking to the dark, cold depths of the ocean.

The crying of the baby snaps me back. I look to my left, see the crib. The infant inside is wriggling, little blanket tangled, tiny face red and wet with tears and spittle and a runny nose. He senses my gaze on his and falls silent. Mouth quivering, blue eyes watching, watching …

Giving myself a hard mental shake, I step away from the bed and go to the child. Something breaks loose inside of me at the sight of him. Hungry and dirty, frightened and alone. Dear God, the things he must have seen.

“Poor sweet baby.” I hear the words, actually look around the room because it’s as if they were spoken by someone else. There’s no one there but me.

I go to the crib and scoop the child into my arms. He’s wearing his little onesie. A T-shirt with Amish suspenders. I barely notice the smell of his dirty diaper as I lift him and pull him against me. I look down at his angel’s face. I see tears in eyes the color of a summer sky and I want to cry for him.

“It’s okay, little guy,” I whisper. “I’ve got you now. I’ve got you. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Little William looks up at me and begins to wail.

* * *

It takes the Stark County sheriff’s deputy six minutes to arrive on scene. While waiting, I called 911 again and let the sheriff’s department know Mark and Ruth Petersheim are deceased. I let them know they need to notify a social worker from Children Services to care for William until a family member or foster parents can be located.

I’m standing next to my Explorer, holding William against me, when the first deputy rolls up. I show him my ID, tell him what happened, and he goes inside. Less than a minute later, he walks stiffly onto the porch, bends over, and throws up in the bushes. He goes back to his cruiser without speaking to me.

The next hours are a blur of questions from a flurry of law enforcement. I tell my story half a dozen times to several deputies. I spend most of that first hour trying to balance my need to know what happened to the Petersheims and caring for a hungry and dirty infant whose future has been forever altered.

I watch the Stark County Coroner’s van arrive on scene. A fire truck with Wilmot Fire and Rescue. An ambulance from Stark County EMS. It takes an hour for the social worker from Children Services to arrive. A red Camry parks on the street two cars down from mine. A thirtysomething woman in a maroon suit and sensible heels gets out. She’s watchful and harried, speaking into her phone as she starts toward me. I see her eyes taking in the scene. I know it the moment she spots me and William. Finishing her call, she starts toward us.

“Chief Burkholder?” She’s walking fast, her heels clacking against the sidewalk. She’s got brown hair and blue eyes, coiffed hair, and earrings the size of hen eggs dangling from her ears. “I’m Deb Cooke with Children Services.”

“Hi.” I cross to her and, shifting William, offer my hand.

We shake and then she reaches into her bag for her identification. I take my time, look at it closely. “Glad you’re here,” I tell her.

She looks at the baby sleeping in my arms, and her expression softens. “What a cutie.”

“Yes, he is.” I send a nod toward the house. “I think he’s been alone for some time. I think he’s hungry. Needs a clean diaper. His parents are inside, deceased.”

Sighing, she shakes her head. “I’ve got a car seat in my car. No diaper or bottle, but I’ve been in contact with a foster family. They’re a sweet couple, about fifteen minutes away.”

“His parents were Amish,” I tell her.

“We’ll get it figured out, Chief. If we can place him with a family member, we will as quickly as possible.” She pauses. “But for now…”

William’s body is warm and soft against me as I carry him to the social worker’s car. She strides ahead of me, opens the door to the backseat, prepares the car seat. When she turns to me, an awkward moment descends. She’s waiting for me to hand off the baby. All I can think is that he’s sleeping. I don’t want to wake him. I don’t like the idea of this poor little guy spending the night with strangers.

I think about Ruth and Mark Petersheim and I think, How could you do this to your son?