“This was Noah’s room,” she tells me.
I notice a hand-carved wooden yo-yo on the table next to the bed. The handmade wooden rocker in the corner. Above the steel frame headboard, a wood wall-hanging depicts the faceless images of an Amish boy and girl. “He made some beautiful things,” I tell her.
Miriam goes directly to a wooden trunk at the foot of the twin-size bed and opens the lid. Something inside me quickens at the sight of the items inside. We kneel. With a certain reverence, she picks up a newborn’s onesie. A wooden teething ring. A rattle much like the one in my evidence bag. A double pack of baby bottles. I recognize the bibs from the Buckeye Baby Boutique in town.
When I glance over at Miriam, tears are streaming down her cheeks. “I don’t know why he had these things,” she whispers.
“It’s almost as if he was saving them for something,” I say gently. “Or someone.”
“In all the years Willis and I have been married, I’ve never lied to him. I’ve never kept anything from him. But I didn’t tell him about this.”
“Mrs. Fisher, did you hear about the newborn baby found on Bishop Troyer’s front porch?” I ask gently.
“I heard.” She lowers her gaze. “And I’ve been praying ever since.”
For the first time I understand why she didn’t want her husband to overhear our conversation. “I’m trying to find the mother,” I say softly.
We stare at each other, a silent communication passing between us. A silent voice telling us now is not the time for certain words.
“Goodness.” Forcing a laugh, the Amish woman brushes at the tears with both hands. “Would you look at me?”
“Miriam, is it all right with you if I take a look around Noah’s room?” I ask gently.
Her gaze slides to the window. “I suspect Willis will be in the barn for a while.…”
“I promise not to leave anything out of place.”
Giving me a decisive nod, she gets to her feet. “I’ll fetch our coffee.”
*
I begin my search with the trousers hanging on the dowel next to the window, but the pockets are empty. I check the windowsill, behind the curtains, but it’s bare. I look beneath the cushion on the rocking chair in the corner. Next, I go to the neatly made bed. I peel back the vintage quilt and look beneath the pillow. I squeeze the stuffing, but there’s nothing inside, either. I look under the bed and randomly check for loose floorboards. There’s nothing there. Nothing tucked between the box springs and the frame. Finally, I slide my hands beneath the mattress. My fingertips brush something hard. At first I think it’s a board someone added to shore up the frame for support. But the object is small and plastic. I know it’s a cell phone even before I pull it out.
“What on earth is that?”
I look up to see Miriam standing at the door, a mug in each hand. “I found a cell phone,” I tell her. “Under the mattress.”
“Oh, my.” She bites her lip. “I didn’t know he had one.”
It’s an old-fashioned flip phone. The kind you can buy at any discount department or electronics store. “Any idea where it came from?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Too many Amish youngsters are using the phones these days.”
“Do you mind if I take it back to the station with me?” I ask. “I’d like to find out who he talked to.”
“I have no use for a phone. But since it belonged to Noah, I’d appreciate it if you brought it back.”
“Of course I will,” I assure her.
*
Back at the police station, I take the phone directly to my office and flip it open. The first thing I notice is that while it has the capability to send and receive texts, Noah Fisher didn’t utilize either. I page through the recent calls, sent and received, and I immediately notice nearly all the calls were to or from a local number, right here in Painters Mill.
Bingo.
If Noah Fisher were still alive and suspected of committing a crime, I’d have to secure a search warrant before looking through his cell phone to collect information. Since Noah is deceased and I received express permission from his mother, I’m free to use whatever information I find.
Picking up my desk phone, I dial the number in question. A girl’s voice picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
Young, I think. Teenager. Possibly pre-teen. “Hi,” I begin. “I’m trying to figure out if I dialed the correct number.” I recite the number back to her. “Who’s this?”
“Chloe,” she replies uncertainly. “Who are you trying to reach?”
“What’s your last name, Chloe?”
She makes a sound of annoyance. “Why are you asking me that? How did you get that phone?”
“Chloe, this is Kate Burkholder, the chief of Police in Painters Mill. Is your mom or dad there? I’d like to speak with them.”