Gone Missing, Page 3

  Sadie is past the age where a smacking would be effective. But I have no doubt she will be punished for her disobedience, more than likely by the assignment of some unpleasant chore. I wonder if it will be enough.

  I’m tired, still thinking about Sadie, on my way to the station to file my end-of-shift reports when my cell phone chirps. Mild annoyance transforms into plea sure when I see Tomasetti’s name on the display, and I pull on my headset. “Morning, Agent.”

  “I called earlier and got voice mail. Everything okay?”

  “Sorry. Got tied up with a stop.”

  “Cows?”

  “Worse,” I tell him. “Teenagers.”

  “That is worse.”

  “At least with cows, you know what you’re getting.”

  “Less bullshit anyway.”

  John Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation in Cleveland. We met a year and a half ago, when he assisted with the Slaughterhouse Murders case. It was a tumultuous time for both of us, not only professionally but personally. His wife and two children had been murdered just nine months before, and he was an emotional basket case. He’d been taking some heavy-duty prescription drugs and mixing them with alcohol, a coping mechanism run amok that had put his career on the skids and sent his life careening out of control. There were probably other things going on as well that he didn’t see fit to reveal. But then, people like us excel at keeping secrets, especially when they’re big ones.

  It was my first major case as chief, and my personal connection to the killer made for an extremely stressful investigation. The murders themselves were shocking and brutal—the things of nightmares. Somehow, in the course of all that depravity and blood, Tomasetti and I became allies. We became friends and, later, lovers. In the end, we broke that damn case wide open.

  “Have you slept?” He knows I covered the graveyard shift last night.

  “I’m heading home as soon as I file reports.” In the back of my mind, I’m wondering if he’s going to drive down. If he’s got the weekend off and wants to spend some time with me. It’s been a month since I last saw him. Something inside me surges at the thought, but I quickly bank it. I’m still reluctant to trust any emotion that packs so much power and comes with such ease.

  “I just got handed a case,” he tells me. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in coming up to consult.”

  For a moment, I’m too shocked to answer. The request is unusual in the extreme. I’m a small-town chief of police. I spend my days mediating domestic disputes, breaking up fights, and investigating the occasional theft. Small-town crime. Why would he need me when he has a plethora of sophisticated resources at his fingertips through BCI? “This doesn’t have anything to do with cows, does it?” I ask.

  He chuckles. “Missing persons. Two so far, but the case is developing.”

  “That’s not exactly my area of expertise.”

  “It is if they’re Amish.”

  My curiosity flares. “You’ve got my attention.”

  “I have two missing teenagers from two towns within a one-hundred-mile radius. We’re just now putting things together. I’m going on-site, and I’ll need to conduct interviews with the families as soon as possible. I thought you might be able to offer some insight.”

  No one is more aware than I am of the divide that exists between the Amish and English communities. It’s a divide that runs even deeper when it comes to law enforcement, particularly an outside agency such as BCI. My intimate knowledge of the plain life, combined with my fluency in Pennsylvania Dutch, will go a long way with regard to bridging the gap and encouraging the Amish to speak freely.

  I pull over in front of the Butterhorn Bakery and give the call my full attention. “Where did these disappearances occur?”

  “Latest was in Rocky Fork. Small town about fifty miles from Cleveland.”

  I take a deep breath, trying not to be too flattered. “I’m interested.”

  “Interested enough to drive up?”

  “You mean now?”

  “Clock’s ticking. I thought we could meet here in Richfield. Take care of the red tape. Introduce you to the suits. There’ll be a formal briefing. Some forms to sign. They’ll supply you with a temporary ID. You up for it?”

  A sensation that’s a little too close to excitement flashes in my chest. “Let me tie up some things here. When’s the briefing?”

  “As soon as you get here. Call me.”

  I start to give him a time frame, but he disconnects. I sit there for a few seconds, smiling stupidly, energized by the prospect of consulting for such a well-respected agency. But I know most of what I’m feeling has more to do with John Tomasetti than it does with BCI. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. But it’s honest, and I resolve not to analyze it any more closely than that.

  My mind jumps ahead to the tasks I need to complete before I leave. I’ll need to brief my team, speak to the mayor, get my shifts covered. We’re chronically understaffed in Painters Mill. But Skid—the officer I stood in for last night—is due back today. I was scheduled to have the weekend off. It could work.

  Sleep forgotten, I hit my radio and hail Mona. She answers with a perky “Painters Mill PD!”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “What’s up, Chief?”

  “I want you to call the guys in for a quick briefing.”

  “This morning? What’s going on?”

  I recap my conversation with Tomasetti. “See if you can get everyone there within the hour. I’m going to swing by the house for a quick shower and to pack a bag.”

  It takes me an hour to shower and pack enough clothes for a few days on the road. I’m no fashionista—not by any stretch of the imagination—so it takes me a good bit of time to figure out which clothes to take. Usually, I wear the old standby: my police uniform. We’re talking basic navy with a leather shoulder holster. No frills. After three years of being chief, that’s the way I’ve come to identify myself, at least with regard to style. This consulting stint promises to take me out of my comfort zone by a couple of light-years. That’s not to mention the issue of Tomasetti. I may not be into the whole fashion thing, but I’m still a woman. I might have grown up Amish, but there’s a small part of me that is vain.

  I opt for business-casual and go with the khaki boot-cut slacks, black trousers, and a pair of blue jeans. A couple of blazers and a few camis, a blouse, some nice T-shirts. Impatient with myself for taking so long when I still have a one-hundred-mile drive ahead, I forgo jewelry, toss my toiletries into the bag, and head for the door.

  I call Mayor Auggie Brock on my way to the station and break the news, going heavy on the “This will improve our relationship with an important state law-enforcement agency” angle.

  “How long will you be gone?” is, predictably, his first question.

  “I’m not sure,” I tell him. “Two or three days.”

  He makes a noise that tells me he’s not happy about the situation. But he knows he can’t say no, because for three years I’ve forgone vacations and, most weeks, a day off. I’m well within bounds to push the issue if needed.

  “You’ll have to do this on your own time,” he tells me. “I mean, you’ll need to take vacation days. And of course we can’t afford travel funds for you. We’ve got bud get constraints.”

  “They pay a daily stipend and expenses.”

  “That’s good.” I can practically hear him thinking this over, weighing all the pros and cons, trying to think of a worse-case scenario.

  An awkward silence ensues. I’m trying to think of a way to end the call, when he broaches the one subject I’d wanted to avoid. “Before you leave,” he says after a moment. “I’ve been meaning to call you about Bradford. I mean, about the charges.”

  “Auggie—”

  “He’s a minor . . . a good kid with his whole life ahead of him.”

  “Everything’s already been turned over to the county attorney. You know that.”
/>   “You could . . . pull the charges.”

  “ ‘Pull the charges’?” Incredulity rings in my voice; this is nervy even for Auggie. “We caught him with drug paraphernalia and an ounce of pot. He slugged one of my officers. T.J. had to get stitches, Auggie. There’s no undoing that.”

  “There were extenuating circumstances. Bradford was upset about—”

  I don’t know Bradford Brock, but I read the police report. The so-called good kid had enough marijuana on his person to supply the high school potheads for a month. The blood test that came back confirmed that he was high on methamphetamines, as well.

  “Stress over a high school government exam isn’t considered extenuating circumstances,” I tell him.

  “Look, I’m finding it difficult to believe my son had an entire ounce of marijuana on him. Perhaps T.J. . . . overreacted. Maybe you could . . . correct his report. At least with regard to the amount of pot.”

  The conversation has taken a path I have no desire to tread. Uneasiness presses down on me. “I don’t think we should go there, Auggie.”

  “I have to go there. He’s my son.” He sighs. “Come on, Kate. Work with me here.”

  “What, exactly, are you asking me to do?”

  “Nothing that doesn’t happen every day.” He pauses. “Come on. Reports get lost. Evidence gets lost. It happens all the time. It would mean the world to me and my wife if you could make this go away.”

  “You’re asking me to cross a line, Auggie.”

  “Kate, I’m desperate. This situation has been a nightmare. If Bradford is tried as an adult and convicted, these charges could ruin his life. He’ll have a record.”

  That’s when I realize this is an argument I’m doomed to lose. Auggie Brock is, indirectly, my boss. But he’s also a father, and I know better than most that blood always trumps lesser loyalties, which include right and wrong.

  “For God’s sake, Catherine is going to have a breakdown over this. You should have called me instead of arresting him! Why didn’t you let me take care of it?”

  “Take care of it?” I take a deep breath, close my eyes briefly, remind myself Auggie is a good man who’s been placed in an untenable situation by someone he loves. “I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation.”

  The line goes dead before I finish.

  Shaking my head, I drop the phone onto the console. I feel compassion for Auggie and his wife. But there’s no way I’m going to falsify police records or “lose” evidence to keep his snot-nosed punk of a son out of jail. As far as I’m concerned, a stint in juvenile hall might be the kick in the pants the kid needs to get back on the right track.

  A few minutes later, I arrive at the police station and park in my usual spot. The department is housed in a century-old redbrick building replete with drafty windows, noisy plumbing, and an array of unexplained odors, most of which are unpleasant. Mona and Lois hide air fresheners in creative places, but the reception area invariably smells of old plasterboard, rotting wood, and maybe a dead mouse or two. The decor looks like something out of an old Dragnet episode. And I don’t mean retro cool, but truly butt ugly. The town council did spring for a new desk and computer for our dispatch station a couple of months ago. But only because the old computer went up in flames—literally.

  My conversation with Auggie niggles at me as I enter. Mona Kurtz sits at the reception station, hunched over her computer with her headset on and the mouthpiece pushed aside. She’s eating grapes out of a Baggie with her left hand, clutching the mouse with her right. As usual, the volume on her radio is turned up a little too high and she’s tapping her fingers to a funky Linkin Park number.

  I’m midway to her desk when she spots me. Offering a quick smile, she flicks off the radio and plucks a dozen or so pink slips from my message slot. “You’re a wanted woman this morning, Chief.”

  “And it’s not even ten A.M.”

  “Ever think about cloning yourself?”

  “Somehow, I don’t think the world is ready for two of me,” I tell her.

  Her hair is a slightly darker shade of black today, with a contrasting burgundy stripe on the left side of her crown. She’s wearing skinny black pants with a snug T-shirt and a blue scarf that’s tied around her neck like a noose. I’m glad I can’t see her shoes from where I’m standing.

  I page through messages. One from Tomasetti. Two from Auggie. Six from Kathleen McClanahan. It takes me a moment to place the name and then I realize she’s the mother of Angi, the girl from earlier this morning. “McClanahan mention what she wants?”

  “You mean aside from your head on a stick?”

  I chuckle. “She’s going to have to stand in line.”

  “I swear, Chief, that woman can cuss. It was like being at an auction.”

  “There’s something to look forward to.” I start toward my office. “Let me know when everyone’s here.”

  “Roger that.”

  I grab a cup, fill it to the rim with coffee, and drink half of it down hot on the way to my office. Using my key, I open the door and flip on the light. The odors of paper dust and toner greet me when I walk in. It’s a small space, not much bigger than a walk-in closet, with bad lighting and a dingy window that looks out over Main Street. It’s jam-packed with a metal desk, a mismatched file cabinet, two hotel-fare visitor chairs, a half-dead ficus tree, and a bookcase upon which a broken coffeemaker sits. Shortcomings aside, this is my home away from home, and most days I’m unduly glad to be here.

  Dropping my overnight bag at the door, I go directly to my desk and dial Sheriff Rasmussen’s number from memory. I’ve known the sheriff for almost a year now. We’ve drunk a few beers together and butted heads a couple of times, but he’s a decent man and a good cop. We worked closely together during the Slabaugh case last December. It was a difficult investigation, during which four people lost their lives, shattering a family and shaking everyone involved, including me. Especially me. It was the first time in the course of my career I used deadly force. I’m still dealing with the aftermath of that, mostly in the form of nightmares. On bad days, I still flash back to the moment I pulled the trigger, and I wonder if I could have done something different.

  I keep tabs on the surviving children. Not as any kind of penance—that’s what I tell myself anyway—but because I care. I want to make sure they have everything they need and every opportunity they deserve.

  On the phone, I hear Rasmussen’s voice telling me to leave a message, and I can’t help but think, Golf day. I let him know I’m going to be out of town for a few days and ask him to look in on my department. I leave my cell number and tell him to contact Glock if he needs anything in my absence.

  I’m in the process of hanging up when Mona buzzes me and lets me know my team has arrived. I hit the power button on my desktop to begin the lengthy process of booting up, then start for the conference room. Officer Chuck “Skid” Skidmore meets me in the hall. He’s about thirty years old, unmarried, and has a sense of humor most civilians don’t appreciate. He’s originally from Ann Arbor, Michigan, and had a promising career with the police department there—until he lost his job due to an off-duty DUI. I took him on, with the caveat that if I ever caught him drinking on the job, I’d fire him on the spot and do my utmost to make sure he never worked in law enforcement again. He’s been with the department for three years now and has never breached our agreement.

  Eight months ago, he was shot during a sting I set up to catch a killer. He sustained a nonpenetrating head wound, which left him with a concussion and a gash that required stitches. Every now and then, we still rib him about the thickness of his skull, but he takes it in stride. What I like most about Skid is that while he might be one of my less personable officers, I know that if things get dicey, I can count on him to back me up.

  “How was the trip?” I ask.

  “About two days too long.”

  “You were only gone two days.”

  “Yeah.” He grins. “Thanks for covering fo
r me, Chief.”

  “Your parents doing okay?”

  “They’re fine. Glad to see me, if you can imagine that.”

  A deep male voice cuts in. “They were lying about being glad to see you, dude.”

  Glock stops next to Skid. The two men shake hands and then Glock turns his attention to me. “This guy told you he was going to Michigan?”

  “That’s a likely story,” Mona mutters as she squeezes past.

  “He was probably down at the Brass Rail boozing it up,” Glock says with a grin. “I’d fire his ass.”

  “Who’s getting fired?” comes a gravelly voice from behind us.

  We turn, to see Roland “Pickles” Shumaker shuffle toward us, his gnarled hands clutching mismatched mugs filled with coffee. At the age of seventy-five, he’s my only auxiliary officer and works part-time—when I can get him to go home, that is. During the 1980s, Pickles single-handedly brought down one of the largest methamphetamine rings in the state. He’s slowed down the last couple of years, but he’s still a good cop. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the pressure I received from the town council, he’d still be full-time. But several of the more vocal members felt he was too old to be an effective police officer—mainly due to an incident in which he shot and killed a rooster during a call. The case caused an uproar, not only from the dead rooster’s owner but from some of the community, as well. I couldn’t see letting Pickles go after nearly fifty years of service, especially over a dead chicken. So I met with him privately and asked him to go part-time. He pretended to be pleased about “not working so damn many hours.” But I know he misses being in the thick of things.

  Despite the fact that he’s not on the clock this morning, he’s wearing a uniform and his trademark pointy-toed cowboy boots are buffed to a high sheen. I suspect he’ll still be at his desk in his cubicle when the sun goes down. . . .

  “No one’s getting fired,” I tell him.

  “Good thing,” he grumbles. “ ’Cause I ain’t shot no damn chickens lately.”

  I keep walking.

  At the podium, I set down my mug and scan the room. My eyes land on Mona and her counterpart, Lois, who are seated near the door so they can hear the switchboard and radio.