Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,50
coincidence.
“We didn’t have much to work with. There were no witnesses. Nothing left behind. Not even a fuckin’ skid mark.”
I stare at him, aware that my pulse is up. “The driver made no attempt to stop?”
“We assumed he was probably under the influence. Drugs or alcohol or both.” Grimacing he shakes his head. “Welcome to the opioid epidemic.”
“Where did it happen?”
“River Road area. We call it The Bend. East where the road runs along the river, then doglegs north. Kids go out there all the time to drag-race and raise hell.”
“The bishop lived in the area?”
“He actually lived to the east a ways.”
“Any idea what he was doing there?”
“No one ever said.” He cocks his head. “Why the interest?”
“I think the bishop knew the family in Painters Mill.” I shrug, trying to keep it nonchalant. “Did you have a chance to double-check on any missing infants reported six to eight years ago?”
“I did a cross search, expanded the date criteria to four to ten years, and there’s nothing there. Had a missing baby five years ago, but it was a domestic thing and resolved within twenty-four hours. Two-year-old boy went missing nine years ago. Deputy found him in a pond, drowned. That’s all I got.”
He shifts, looking a little miffed because he knows I’m not telling him everything. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re interested in missing minor children?”
“The Helmuth family has relatives down here.” I shrug. “Since most kidnappings of minor children are perpetrated by a family member or someone known to the family, I thought I’d sniff around.”
His eyes narrow on mine. “You think some Amish person from Crooked Creek took that little girl?” He makes no effort to conceal the incredulity in his voice. “Most of the Amish down here are Old Order. Painters Mill is four hours away. That would be a difficult trip to make by buggy.”
“They hire drivers when they need to travel a distance not practical to cover by buggy.”
“You know a lot about the Amish.”
“I was born Amish,” I tell him. “I left the fold when I was eighteen.”
“Oh. That’s interesting.” He offers a sheepish grin. “So you know Penn Dutch and all that?”
“I do.”
“Huh.” He scratches his head, looking amused. “Never met an ex-Amish chief of police.”
I smile back, knowing the revelation would earn me some leeway. “I thought talking to some of the Helmuths’ relatives might be helpful.”
“Wish I could be more help, Chief Burkholder. The Amish keep to themselves down here. The only place I see them regularly is the farmers’ market. They’re there every weekend with furniture, vegetables, quilts, and whatnot. They do some work for folks around here in Portsmouth. Fences. Sheds. Stuff like that. One of the local guys built a workshop for me last summer. Nice dude and he did good work.”
He studies me intently for the span of several seconds. “I think I’ve got his name and address around here somewhere. Might be a good place for you to start.”
“That would be great.”
Pulling out his phone, he taps the screen. “Got it right here. Name’s Adam Fisher.” He recites an address and I thumb it into my phone.
I rise and once again extend my hand for a shake. “Is there a police department in Crooked Creek? Anyone I could talk to there on the law enforcement side?”
“Mayor disbanded the department a couple years ago. They were down to two officers. Lack of funds, you know. Scioto County covers that whole area now.”
He looks at me again as if he wants to say something else, but doesn’t. “If you need anything from us, Chief Burkholder, you let me know and we’ll help out if we can.”
I thank him for his time and head for the door.
* * *
Driver hit the buggy from behind. Had to be doing fifty. Killed Schwartz instantly.…
The deputy’s words echo in my head as I drive east toward Crooked Creek. Sadly, buggy accidents are a fact of life in Amish country. They’re slow-moving vehicles and, unfortunately, some of the Old Order reject the use of reflective signage and safety lights. Add a driver under the influence to the mix and it’s a recipe for disaster. I’ve investigated my share of accidents over the years; too many of them are alcohol or drug related.
No witnesses. Nothing left behind. Not even a fuckin’ skid mark.…
While his assertion that the lack of skid marks can indicate an intoxicated driver, it’s not the only conclusion that might be drawn. If Bishop Schwartz was