Page 96 of Shamed

“Let’s head that way and then cut south toward the house.”

We slog through high weeds and grass and mud for twenty minutes. We’re standing on a relative high point of the property. Despite the bad weather, the views are pretty. A few yards ahead, the ground drops away steeply. At the base of the hill a muddy creek the color of creamed coffee churns south toward the river. Even though we’re fifty yards away, I can hear the rush of water. Beyond are the house and barns. I can see the lights of the sheriff’s department cruisers. Disappointment presses into me when I realize we’ve covered the entire property.

“I hate to point out the obvious,” Tomasetti says.

“She’s not here,” I mutter.

We stand in the rain, soaked and cold, and take in the scene for a moment. “We did our best,” he says. “We followed through.”

“A seven-year-old little girl is still missing. Tomasetti, after what that son of a bitch did to Mary Yoder … she may not even be alive. The statistics are not in her favor.”

“Fuck the statistics,” he growls. “Let’s talk to the old lady again, see if she has anything to add.”

Heart heavy, the sense of defeat, of failure, a physical weight on my shoulders, I start down the hill and head toward the house.

CHAPTER 26

One hundred and fourteen hours missing

I find Sheriff Pallant and two deputies standing in the rain next to their cruisers, the engines running, headlights on, emergency lights off. Waiting for us. One of the deputies has already left.

“There’s no child on this property,” the sheriff says as we approach. “We searched the house, the land. There’s nothing there. I’ve got deputies canvassing, talking to neighbors, and no one has seen either Detweiler in the vicinity. No one recalls seeing a light-colored truck in the area.”

“We’ve run both of them through the system,” Tomasetti adds. “No warrants. No criminal record.”

Pallant makes a sound of frustration. “We tried locating known associates, but we haven’t had any luck. None of the Amish have phones.” He sighs. “Part of the problem is these Old Order Amish stay off the grid. No electricity. No phone. No driver’s license.”

“Did you get anything from Irene Detweiler?” I ask.

“We talked to her at length,” he tells me. “She doesn’t know anything about a missing child. And she doesn’t know where her son and daughter-in-law are. I guess they had some kind of falling-out with the Amish, got them excommunicated or something.”

The sheriff tips his hat and water runs off the brim. “Look, we’ve done our due diligence and there’s nothing to be had. We’re going to call it a day.”

“Do you mind if I speak with her?” I ask.

“Look, I’m sorry this didn’t pan out for you, Chief Burkholder. I’m sorry we didn’t find the girl.” He jabs a thumb at the house and lowers his voice. “I know you two want to find that kid; believe me, we do too. But you can’t get blood from a turnip.”

“There’s a familial connection,” I tell him. “I’d like to ask her about it.”

Neither of us moves. The sheriff holds his ground, his expression steely and set.

“With Chief Burkholder’s roots being Amish,” Tomasetti says, “she may have some insights into the culture, into this family in particular, that might help jog this woman’s memory or open some doors.”

The sheriff sighs. “Well, hell, we’re here. You do what you need to do.” He looks at his watch. “We’re going to take off. All I ask is that you not overstep.”

“Of course,” I say.

Tomasetti and I watch them pull away, and then we go back to the house. He knocks on the door. Irene Detweiler peers out at us. “I thought you were finished,” she says.

“Just a couple of quick questions,” I say in Deitsch.

Looking put out, she opens the door and ushers us inside. At some point, she’s lit another lantern, and the living area glows with golden light.

The woman shuffles to the sofa, lowers herself onto it, and picks up some knitting project—two needles and a ball of yarn. Tomasetti holds his ground near the door. I sit in the chair next to the sofa and spend a few minutes trying to build rapport, gauge her receptivity to my being formerly Amish, hoping it will somehow garner me an added level of trust.

I take her through some of the questions that have already been asked, hoping for more detailed answers or something she’d forgotten to mention before. She remains consistent, giving me nothing.

“Did Rosanna have any children?” I ask.