A quick intake of breath and then the line goes dead. Either she didn’t believe me when I identified myself, or she knew exactly why I was calling and panicked. I’m betting on the latter.
My interest piqued, I enlist the help ofa reverse number lookup database and enter the number. Four dollars and ninety-nine cents later, I have a name and an address: Damon Atherton.
I’ve never met Chloe but her father, Damon Atherton, is a respected pediatrician at Pomerene Hospital. I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard the name. More recently, I recall one of the nurses mentioning him the morning I brought in Baby Doe.
I spend a few minutes digging up everything I can find on Chloe Atherton. She just turned sixteen years old. She’s had her driver’s license for two months. No citations. No arrests. She’s on the Painters Mill High School track team and holds the record for the mile run. According to a recent newspaper story highlighting outstanding high school students, she’s an honor roll student with a 4.0 GPA—and aspirations for med school. Just three months ago she was awarded the People Helping People Award for her volunteer work at the local retirement home.
Is it possible this girl—Chloe—is Baby Doe’s mother? Did this young overachiever become pregnant, somehow hide the pregnancy for nine months, and give birth without anyone knowing? The scenario doesn’t seem plausible. Especially with her father being a physician. But experience tells me it’s not only possible, but it happens more often than most people realize.
Committing the Atherton address to memory, I grab my keys and head for the door.
*
In 2001, Ohio enacted a Safe Haven law, which basically allows any parent who feels they are unable to care for a newborn to leave the child with a peace officer or medical worker without legal ramifications. The law was adopted to keep mothers from leaving their newborn babies in places that might endanger the child.
I don’t know if Chloe Atherton is the person I’m looking for. If she is, I need to be prepared. While Baby Doe was found healthy and unharmed, the infant was not left with a peace officer or medical worker. Still, Bishop Troyer claimed someone was there the morning he discovered her on his front porch. I suspect Chloe stayed to ensure that her baby was taken in immediately. That means something; it tells me she was responsible enough—that she cared enough—to make certain the vulnerable newborn was not left alone.
Chloe probably wasn’t aware of the law’s details. She may have simply left the child at the only safe place she could think of; the only place where she believed she could remain anonymous: the Amish bishop. It doesn’t negate the fact that she didn’t follow the law, but I know the county attorney will take all of the circumstances into consideration when—or if—charges are filed.
The Athertons live in the upscale Maple Crest subdivision. It’s nearly six P.M. by the time I pull into the driveway and park behind a silver Land Rover. The house is a massive Tudor with a four-car garage, landscaping befitting a European castle, and an extravagant entrance covered with ivy. I take the curved flagstone path to the front porch and make use of the brass knocker.
I hear voices on the other side of the door. A girl calling out to someone. Laughter. The door swings open and I find myself looking at a tall, slender teenage girl with huge brown eyes, her dark hair cut into a messy bob. She’s wearing loose-fitting sweat pants and an oversize Painters Mill Panthers sweatshirt Bare feet. Toenails painted blue.
“Chloe Atherton?” I say.
She steps back as if expecting me to reach in, grab her, and drag her away. Her mouth opens, a sound of distress escaping between perfect white teeth. Her eyes widen as she takes in my uniform. She looks over her shoulder. Her fingers twitch on the doorknob, and I know she’s thinking about slamming it in my face.
“There’s no one here by that name,” she says quietly.
“Don’t be afraid,” I tell her. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“You have the wrong house.” She starts to close the door.
I put my hand out and stop her. “No, I don’t.”
“What do you want?”
“I just want to talk. That’s all.”
She glances over her shoulder again, and I realize her most pressing concern is her father. “Just go away,” she whispers. “Please.”
“Honey?” comes a male voice from somewhere inside the house. “Hey, the sweet potato fries are burning.”
I look past her to see Dr. Damon Atherton approach. He’s still in his work clothes. Custom trousers. Lavender pinstripe button-down shirt. Tie askew. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Big Rolex strapped to his wrist. He’s probably just arrived home from the hospital after a busy day.
He looks perplexed by my presence. Slightly annoyed that dinnertime with his daughter has been interrupted. “Can I help you?”
I show him my badge and identify myself.
His gaze switches from me to his daughter and then back to me. “Is everything all right?”