Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,60

my laptop. I run a few searches on Cohen syndrome, but there’s not much out there. The symptoms include a host of problems—developmental delay, intellectual disability, muscle weakness, eye problems. It’s a rare disorder, caused by a gene mutation, and slightly more prevalent among the Amish. Both parents have to have the gene, but usually don’t show signs of the disorder themselves.

If that holds true, it rules out my theory that the mother may have been physically or intellectually unable to care for her child due to Cohen syndrome.

It’s eleven P.M. when I call Tomasetti. I summarize my conversation with Lizzie Schwartz. “She overheard most of it. Bishop Schwartz and the midwife conspired to bring a newborn infant to Painters Mill.”

“You talk to the midwife?”

I take him through my exchange with Sadie Stutzman. “She danced around most of my questions. Tomasetti, she suggested Bishop Schwartz’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“Did you look at the police report?”

“I talked to the deputy who investigated the accident. They have no idea who was responsible and attributed it to a drunk driver.”

“Was the midwife able to make a case?”

“That’s the problem. She’s … eccentric. She’d suffered a stroke recently and the general consensus is that she may be in the early stages of dementia.”

“Is she completely diminished mentally?” he asks.

“Not so much that I felt I needed to discount everything she said. And I got the distinct impression she’s afraid.”

Tomasetti falls silent, digesting; then he asks, “What’s your gut telling you? Do you think it’s possible someone killed him because of what happened with the kid seven years ago?”

“I think the timing of it and the circumstances are suspect.”

“Why now?” he asks. “After so much time?”

“Maybe the parents or a parent or even a family member recently found out what happened and who was involved, and they decided to … take back what had been stolen from them.” I pause, thinking about the notes. “Look, I’m going to try the midwife one more time tomorrow before I leave, talk to the new bishop, then I’ll head back.”

After hanging up with Tomasetti, I go back to my search engine, using a multitude of criteria for a missing child five to ten years ago, but nothing comes back. I strike out with the law enforcement databases, too. No newspaper stories. I even spend some time floundering around some of the social media sites. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I go back to the file I brought with me, rereading every report, every interview transcript, every form, and my own personal notes. One name that keeps popping up is Marlene Byler, Mary Yoder’s sister. I think about familial connections. The rumors surrounding her death. Is there some nexus I’m not seeing? I flip the page, look at the crime scene photos, desperately seeking something—anything—I missed before, all to no avail.

By the time midnight rolls around, I can’t keep my eyes open. I shut my laptop cover, turn off the TV, and exhaustion drags me into a hard sleep.

CHAPTER 15

Sixty-four hours missing

The river moved with an uneasy restlessness. Wind whipped the surface into waves more befitting a lake. The brown current boiled with turbulence. The eddy near the bank formed a whirlpool, sucking leaves and debris into the depths. The family of muskrats that had been living in a push-up near shore had moved to the marsh across the road. Even the red-shouldered hawk that had nested in the birch tree had left for higher ground.

Something coming, she thought.

Sadie Stutzman stood on the back porch and watched the water slither past the muddy bank. Dawn teased the horizon above the treetops to the east. Snow pattered the brim of her winter bonnet and dampened the shoulders of her shawl, but she barely noticed the cold or wet.

She loved the river. The sight of it. The smells. She loved the land with its fickle ways and hidden threats. She’d been born here, raised in this very house. She’d been married in the old barn, which had been swept away by the river going on thirty years ago. She’d lost her husband here a decade ago. Somehow, she’d grown old. This morning, watching the water that was as cloudy and troubled as her own mind, she knew she would probably die here, too. Such were the joys and agonies of life.

Taking a final look at the river, she pushed open the door that took her into her small kitchen. In anticipation of the snow, she’d pulled the last of the mint from the little

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