Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,49

four-hour drive to Crooked Creek, which is on the Ohio side of the river half an hour east of Portsmouth. I’m southbound on Ohio 23 just past Chillicothe when the call comes in from Tomasetti.

“The tire-tread plaster casts captured at the scene were viable,” he tells me.

“Best news I’ve had all day.”

“And it’s still early. Manufacturer is Goodyear. Wrangler radial P 235/75R15 105S SL OWL.”

“Does any of that tell us the type of vehicle?”

“Light truck or SUV.”

“Pickup truck,” I say. “Covers a lot of territory.”

“The good news is the tires are worn. The technician says there are markings from wear. In this case, some minor damage, a slice on the outer edge that’s unique to this tire.”

“So if we produce a suspect, chances are good we’ll be able to match the tire.”

The silence that follows tells me there’s more, that it’s probably not good. “Have you talked to anyone at the station?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I say. “Do I need to brace?”

“The national media have moved in. Cable networks started running the story last night. They’re camped out in front of the police station and on both ends of Township Road 14. They’ve got people in town, shoving cameras and mikes in front of anyone who’ll talk to them, especially if they’re Amish.”

“Shit.”

In some cases, the media can be helpful to law enforcement, especially when there’s a missing person. Television and radio can help get the word out and circulate photos. The rest of the time, they just get in the way, passing along misinformation, demanding time no one has, and disrupting the lives of the people involved.

“Might be best if they don’t know you’re down there,” he says. “Especially if you want to keep it low-key.”

“I do.”

“In that case I’ll try to keep it under my hat,” he says dryly. “Look, I’ve got to run. Keep me posted on how it’s going. And if it’s not too much to ask, stay the hell out of trouble.”

* * *

Any time a cop pokes around in an outside jurisdiction, it’s prudent to check in with local law enforcement to let them know you’re in town so I make my first stop in Portsmouth. The Scioto County Sheriff’s Office is housed in a newish redbrick building that also accommodates the county jail and communications center. I called ahead, hoping to meet with the sheriff, but he wasn’t available, so I spoke with one of the deputies that regularly patrols the Crooked Creek area. I briefed him on the case, some of which he was already familiar with. I asked him to check for reports—official or unofficial—of a missing child six to eight years earlier. He said it didn’t ring a bell, but he’d only been with the department a couple of years. He promised to take a look and let me know.

Deputy Martin Harleson meets me inside the reception area with a hearty handshake and welcoming smile. After introductions are made, the duty deputy buzzes us through the secure door and Harleson shepherds me to a small meeting room equipped with a table and chairs, a coffee station, sink, and vending machines.

I lay out the fundamentals of the case. “We believe he may be Amish and has connections to Crooked Creek. I wanted to let you guys know I was in town.”

“Any way I can help?” He asks the question sincerely enough, but I see the curiosity in his eyes. Cops are a nosy lot, me included. We like to be in the thick of things, especially when it includes murder.

“Do you know who replaced Noah Schwartz, the Amish bishop who was killed?”

He shakes his head. “No idea.”

“Do you have the names of any of the ministers?” I ask. “Or preachers? Elders?”

“We don’t deal with the Amish much here in Portsmouth. Most of them live to the east of us. They own a lot of the farms down by the river. A lot of buggies on the road in that area. Bishop Schwartz was the first fatality. Hit-and-run. Let me tell you, it was the worst damn thing I ever saw.”

The term “hit-and-run” gives me pause. “What happened?”

“Driver hit the buggy from behind. Had to be doing fifty. Killed Schwartz instantly.” Sighing, he scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I don’t think those Amish people realize how vulnerable they are in those buggies.”

“You guys make an arrest?” I ask, troubled not only because Schwartz is one of the people who was involved in the case, but because I’m not a fan of