gentle, to not frighten this child who has already been so traumatized. All of those things are in direct conflict with my need for facts.
“My grossmuder used to call me little peach.” I tilt my head, and make eye contact with Annie. “Your cheeks kind of look like peaches.”
A ghost of a smile floats across the child’s expression.
“Makes me want to pinch them.”
This time, a full-blown grin.
I jump on it. “Can you tell me what happened when you and Elsie and your grossmammi were gathering walnuts?”
The little girl shakes her head, then turns, wraps her arms around her mother, buries her face against her mamm’s bosom. “I’m scared,” she whispers.
I try again. “Was there someone else there?”
“Da Deivel,” she mumbles.
“Can you tell me what he looked like, sweetie?”
“I can’t remember,” she whispers, not looking at me. “Just a man.”
I pull a lollipop from my pocket. Hearing the wrapper crinkle, she turns her head and eyes the candy.
“It’s strawberry.” I offer it to her.
An almost-smile, and then the girl reaches for the lollipop.
“What was the man wearing?” I ask matter-of-factly.
The process is excruciatingly slow, and again, I feel precious time slipping away. Minutes I can’t get back. Minutes in which a little girl is in grave and immediate danger. I feel the tension coming off these parents. My own tension wrapped tight around my chest. And I remind myself: This has to be done. No other way to move forward.
When Annie doesn’t respond, I try another tactic. “How about if we play a game?”
The little girl turns, looks at me with one eye, the other obscured by the fabric of her mamm’s apron.
“I’ll guess what he looks like and you tell me if I’m right or wrong.”
Nodding, she slides the lollipop into her mouth.
“Was his hair blond, like yours? Or brown, like mine?”
“Like yours,” she says in a small voice.
“Okay.” I pretend to think for a moment. “Was his skin the color of mine? Or was it the color of chocolate pudding?”
The mention of pudding elicits the whisper of a smile. “Yours.”
I pull out my notebook and write. White male. Brn. “Did he have a beard like your datt?”
“I didn’t see.”
“Was he Plain or English?”
“Plain.”
It isn’t the answer I expected. In the back of my mind I wonder how reliable she is as a witness. Usually by the time a child is five years old, they are considered relatively dependable. That said, I’m no expert on the child interview process. There are techniques and procedures and protections in place. In light of a missing sibling, I don’t have time to wait.
“Good job.” I say the words with a little too much enthusiasm. “Were his eyes blue like your mamm’s or brown like your datt’s?”
The child looks up at her mother, lets her eyes slide to her father’s face. In the end her brows knit and she shakes her head.
“Was he old? Like Bishop Troyer? Or young, like your mamm?”
“Kind of in the middle.”
“Was he tall or short?”
“Tall. Grohs.” Big.
“Fat or skinny?”
The girl shakes her head. “Just big.”
“So you and Elsie and Grossmammi were gathering walnuts.” I switch to Deitsch to keep her mind moving, so she doesn’t clam up. “What happened next?”
“Grossmammi went in the house to look at Mrs. Schattenbaum’s kitchen. We heard something break and then yelling so me and Elsie went in to find her.”
“What did you see when you went inside?”
“Grossmammi was on the floor. She was all bloody. Like when Datt takes the cows to make meat. She was making noises. Elsie tried to help her. Then the man came.”
“He came into the kitchen?”
“Ja.” Her nose is running now, her upper lip covered with snot. She doesn’t seem to notice. Lower, her foot begins to jiggle. “I thought he was going to help Grossmammi. But he grabbed Elsie. Real rough like. And she got scared.”
“Did he say anything?”
“I…” She takes the lollipop out of her mouth. Her eyes fill with tears. “I got scared and ran.”
“What about Elsie?” I ask. “Did she say anything?”
“All she did was scream.”
CHAPTER 3
One hour missing
The Schattenbaum place is teeming with activity when I pull into the driveway. I see a Holmes County Sheriff’s Department vehicle. An Ohio State Highway Patrol Dodge Charger. Two Painters Mill cruisers tell me my own department has arrived on scene. While I want all available law enforcement looking for the little girl, I’m cognizant that any evidence left behind needs to be protected and preserved. Not an easy feat when there are a dozen cops