Mrs. Fisher. “Do either of you know the names of the midwives in the area?”
They seem surprised that a midwife would be of interest, but Mrs. Fisher answers readily. “Well, Sadie Stutzman was the only midwife around for years. I used her with our seven children. But she’s getting old, you know. Had a stroke a few months back.”
“Narrisch,” the Amish man mutters beneath his breath. Insane.
His wife bites her lip. “Most of the Amish ladies use Hannah Beachy over to Portsmouth these days. She’s Mennischt, you know.” Mennonite. “She doesn’t have as much experience as Sadie, but she’s a nice girl, certified by the state, Ohio and Kentucky, and all that.”
I write down both names, but I find myself more interested in the former. “Where can I find Sadie Stutzman?”
“The government people tried to get her into that rehabilitation home down to Ironton after the stroke.” The Amish woman laughs. “We all knew she wouldn’t leave. She’s a crotchety little thing. Stubborn, too. Some of the women in our church district take a covered dish or vegetables out to her every week or so. She still lives out to that old house by the river. Lived there with her husband for years.”
She rattles off an address and I write it down.
One of the most difficult aspects of information gathering in the course of a case—particularly when the topic is sensitive—is maintaining a prudent level of confidentiality. The Amish may be pious and reject most modes of electronic communication, but they’re a tight-knit group, well informed as far as the local goings-on, and like most human beings, they occasionally fall to gossip. If I start asking questions about midwives and missing children, I risk sparking rumors—maybe even hindering my quest for information. I don’t want that to happen, especially since I have no idea if I’m right about any of it. But I’ve come in blind; I need a starting point, so I proceed with caution.
Hoping to get into their good graces, I switch to Deitsch. “Mr. and Mrs. Fisher, are either of you aware of a child or baby that went missing from this area in the last eight years or so?”
“A missing child? Here?” Mrs. Fisher looks at me as if I’ve sprouted a third eye. “Not that I know of.”
Mr. Fisher stares at me, his expression inscrutable. “An Amish child?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “Could be Amish or English.”
“That sort of thing doesn’t happen around here,” the Amish man tells me. “If it did, it would have been big news. We would have heard.”
“You’re Amisch?” Mrs. Fisher asks.
“I was, but I left.”
“We’re sorry for you.” Mr. Fisher doesn’t say the words unkindly.
I don’t respond. “Do either of you know Marlene Byler?”
Both assume puzzled expressions. The Amish man shakes his head. “Can’t say we do.”
I pass him my card. “If something occurs to you about a missing child, will you get in touch with me?”
He takes the card, drops it into his pocket without looking at it. “Have a blessed day,” he says, and closes the door in my face.
CHAPTER 13
Forty-eight hours missing
In the early stages of a case, a cop never really knows if the premise they’re operating on is right or wrong or somewhere in between. The longer I’m here in Crooked Creek, the more pronounced the feeling that my time might be more wisely spent in Painters Mill. Every minute that passes is one more minute that Elsie Helmuth is gone, that her life is in jeopardy. My gut is telling me I need to be there, at the heart of the investigation, looking for her. Not here where facts are scarce and no one seems to know shit.
The theory that two Amish bishops and a midwife transported a baby to Painters Mill, perhaps against the wishes of the baby’s mother or without her knowledge, seems outlandish. The Amish are not in the business of stealing babies. Certainly not the bishops or elders.
But as I pull onto the county road and head south, Miriam Helmuth’s words replay in my head. They brought her to us. In the middle of the night. This screaming, red-faced little baby.
A baby that may have come from Crooked Creek.
Shoving my doubts aside, I plug the address for Sadie Stutzman into my GPS, but quickly discover that some of the roads aren’t on the map. Half a mile from the river, I realize why. The road isn’t really a road at all, but a narrow dirt track crisscrossed with tire ruts.