hinges on my finding her, the possibility that I may not succeed, and the reality that it may already be too late.
At one A.M. I slide from the bed, make my way to the desk, and open my laptop, along with the files I’ve amassed over the last few days. Twice, I take my cell into the bathroom and close the door to speak with Mona—trying not to wake Tomasetti. I read the files on the deaths of Noah Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman given to us by Sheriff Pallant, but neither file offers anything in the way of new information. I reread my own files, trying to see things with a fresh perspective, but there’s nothing there.
Frustrated, I shove my laptop in its case and go to the cardboard box where I stowed the pile of newspapers and clippings and the manila folder we retrieved from Sadie Stutzman’s bedroom. I’m not optimistic about finding anything new as I pull out the first stack and set it on the desktop.
Since I’m not sure what I’m looking for, I begin by sorting the newspapers by date. I spend twenty minutes looking through copies of The Budget, The Connection, and The Diary. I look for highlighted areas or paper-clipped sections, but there’s nothing marked. I skim the local news sections, looking for familiar names or stories that could be related to the Helmuth family or a missing child—anything that doesn’t sit right. I’m hoping I’ll recognize it when I see it.
Finding nothing of interest, I set the August editions aside and go to September. There’s a story about a buggy-accident fatality, but it’s out of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. I pull out my yellow legal pad and write down the name anyway. I pay particular attention to births and obituaries, but none of the names, dates, or circumstances mean anything to me.
At three A.M., I’ve gone through four months of newspapers, all to no avail.
“Shit,” I mutter. Leaning forward, I rub my eyes, thinking about going to bed, trying to sleep. If I don’t get some rest, I’m not going to be worth a damn in the morning. But I can still feel that guy-wire tension in my chest, the clench of fear that I’m going to fail and an innocent kid is going to die because of it, and I know sleep will not come.…
Scooting my chair back, I dig into the box, spot the folder at the bottom, and pull it out. Dozens of newspaper cutouts spill onto the desktop. MENNONITE THRIFT STORE OPENS IN SCIOTO COUNTY. AMISH COMMUNITY RALLIES FOR INJURED TRUCK DRIVER. AMISH SCHOOL TO BE REBUILT AFTER FIRE. They’re in no particular order; some aren’t dated. Most of the articles are old, the paper yellowed with age. I page through them, trying to determine if they are relevant or could somehow be helpful in terms of the case.
Nothing.
I skim the last article and shove it back into the folder. That’s when I notice the dozen or so obituaries and birth notices that slipped out and scattered on the desktop. Tiny cutouts, just an inch or two in length, most with no date or even the name of the publication. Beneath the obits is a folded half-page tear sheet from the Portsmouth Daily Times. The paper is crinkled and yellow with age. I unfold it and skim. There’s an advertisement for a local funeral home. Another for a new hospice center going up in Sciotodale. A few more obits, which I scan.
Nettie Mae Detweiler was born on March 14, 2012 at 3:32 A.M. and passed peacefully in the loving arms of her parents. She entered the house of the Lord at 6:53 A.M. Nettie was the daughter of Rosanna and Vernon Detweiler.
It’s the first obituary for an infant I’ve found. Not a stillbirth, but the newborn survived just a short time. Something about it gives me pause. I look at the date.
… born on March 14, 2012 at 3:32 A.M. and passed peacefully in the loving arms of her parents. She entered the house of the Lord at 6:53 A.M.
A resonant ping sounds in my brain. My exhaustion falls away. The mental clutter in my head grinds to a halt. I stare at the date, knowing it’s somehow significant. I’ve seen it before. But where?
Energized, I spin, go to my laptop case, pull out the file on Elsie Helmuth. I set it on the desktop and page through. My fingers freeze on the Missing flyer published by the Painters Mill