Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,7
God happened?
“Chief?”
I look up to see Mona come through the back door. She spots the victim and freezes. After a moment she blinks, shakes her head as if waking from a bad dream. A tremor passes through her body.
My newest deputy is no shrinking violet, but she’s not ready for this.
“Mona.” I say her name firmly. “Get out. I got this.”
Without making eye contact with me, she backs away onto the porch, bends at the hip, and throws up in the bushes.
That same queasy response bubbles in my own gut; no matter how many times you see it, there’s something inherently repellent about blood. The sight of death, especially a violent one. I shove it back, refuse to acknowledge it.
“Where’s the girl?” I ask Mona.
“She’s with a deputy, in the backseat of his cruiser.” Hands on her hips, she spits, and then looks at me. “Chief, kid says a man took her sister.”
The words land a solid punch to my gut, adding yet another awful dimension to an already horrific situation. “Did you get names?”
“Helmuth.”
“I know the family,” I say. “They live down the road.”
“What do you think happened?”
I shake my head. “Hard to tell. Looks like she was … stabbed.”
Butchered, a little voice whispers.
We’re both thinking it, but we don’t utter the word.
I hit my lapel mike and hail Dispatch. “Possible ten-thirty-one-D,” I say, using the ten code for kidnapping in progress.
I look at Mona. “We need to look around, talk to the parents,” I tell her. “Confirm if the girl is missing.”
If we were dealing solely with a likely homicide, my first priorities would be to protect the scene, limit access, set up a perimeter, canvass the area, and get started on developing a suspect. The possibility of a kidnapped minor child changes everything. The living always take precedence over the dead.
“Did the little girl say anything else?” I ask.
“Couldn’t get much out of her, Chief. She’s pretty shaken up.”
I take a final look at the victim, suppress a shudder. “Let’s go talk to her.”
CHAPTER 2
I find the girl huddled in the backseat of a Holmes County Sheriff’s Department cruiser. Someone has draped a Mylar blanket across her legs, given her a bottle of water, and a teddy bear to hold. Some cops, my small department included, carry a stuffed animal or two in the trunks of our official vehicles for situations exactly like this one, when we want to keep a child as calm and comforted as possible.
I make eye contact with the deputy as I approach. I’ve worked with him before; we had Fourth of July parade duty last summer. He’s a good guy, a father himself, and a decent cop. We shake hands. “She say anything?”
“Been crying mostly, Chief. Said something in Dutch.” He shrugs. “Wants her mom, I think.”
I tell him about the possibility of a missing sister. “Best-case scenario she got scared and ran home.”
The door to the backseat stands open. I go to it and kneel so that I’m eye level with the girl. “Hi there,” I say. “My name’s Katie, and I’m a policeman. Can you tell me what happened?”
She looks at me, her face ravaged and wet with tears. “I want my mamm.”
She’s a tiny thing. Blue dress. Blue eyes. Light hair. Blood on baby hands. Smeared on the bottle of water, which she isn’t drinking. She’s shaking violently beneath the blanket. I switch to Deitsch, try to kickstart her brain. “Who did that to your grossmammi?”
“Da Deivel.”
The devil.
The words put a chill between my shoulder blades. They’re words no child should ever have to speak. A scenario no kid should ever have to witness or recount. “A mann?”
She nods.
“Do you know his name? Have you seen him before?”
She shakes her head.
“Is your sister with you?”
“Elsie.” She whispers the name as if she’s afraid to say it aloud. “He took her.”
“Do you know where they went?”
She closes her eyes; her face crumples. “I want my mamm.”
I ignore the tears, all too aware of precious minutes ticking away, and I press for more. “Just one man?”
A nod.
“What did he look like?”
She stares at me.
“Was he English? Or Plain?”
“I want my mamm.”
“Sweetheart, do you know where he went?”
She shakes her head.
I keep going. “Was he in a buggy or an Englischer car?”
The child begins to cry. Huge, wrenching sobs. I consider pressing, but back off. For now.
I reach out and squeeze her little knee. “I’m going to go get your mamm and datt.”