I spend an hour in the emergency room of Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg with the abandoned newborn—now dubbed “Baby Doe.” The social worker and I talk shop while the baby is thoroughly examined. A blood sample is taken from her little heel for DNA that will, hopefully, be matched with the mother’s DNA when—or if—she’s found.
Once the infant girl is deemed stable and given a clean bill of health, I leave her in the capable hands of the social worker and make my way to the OB department to speak with the RN on duty.
I find Louann Zeigler at the nurse’s station, her fingers flying over the keyboard of a sleek laptop. I’ve met her a couple of times over the years in the course of my job. She’s friendly, capable and, luckily for me, always seems to have a pretty good handle on the goings-on inside the hospital.
She looks up from her computer screen and smiles when I approach. “Hi, Chief Burkholder,” she says. “How can I help you?”
I tell her about the abandoned newborn.
“I just heard,” she says with a shake of her head. “Doctor Atherton—he’s the head of pediatrics here at Pomerene—is looking at her now. He says you probably got her here just in time. Any longer and we might have been dealing with dehydration issues or even hypothermia.”
“I’m wondering if you’re aware of any expectant moms who were upset by their pregnancy or troubled or confused about having a baby,” I begin.
“Not off the top of my head.” Her brows knit. “Occasionally, we’ll have a patient get upset when her pregnancy is confirmed. Usually, a case like that is a young woman who’s not married or she’s not ready for kids, and the pregnancy is unplanned. I’ve seen it happen to women in unhappy or abusive relationships, too.”
She thinks about it for a moment and then shakes her head. “We’re a relatively small department, Chief Burkholder. I come into contact with most of our maternity patients, and I can’t think of a single woman who was in any way ambiguous or unhappy about her pending birth. Then again, women are good at keeping secrets when they feel they need to.”
Disappointment ripples through me, but it’s short-lived. I hadn’t really expected her to relay much in the way of useful information. I’m pretty sure the woman who abandoned Baby Doe is Amish. While the hospital was the logical place to begin my search, I know this case isn’t going to reveal its mysteries easily.
*
I drop Tomasetti at the farm. By the time I park in front of the Siess Kaffi baby shop on Main Street, it’s nearly ten A.M. Siess Kaffi is Pennsylvania Dutch for “Sweet Coffee.” The term is borne from the tradition in some Amish communities of a new mother serving coffee with sugar when she receives visitors after the birth of her baby. The shop is a tourist favorite and sells everything from crib quilts to bassinettes and just about everything in between.
On the passenger seat beside me the quilt in which Baby Doe was wrapped and the rattle found with her are sealed in evidence bags. Grabbing both items, I exit the Explorer and head inside.
The wind chimes hanging on the front door tinkle like tiny bells when I walk in. The aromas of vanilla and lavender greet me. A middle-aged Amish woman stands behind the counter manning an antique-looking cash register and chatting with a tourist who’s just purchased an Amish-made stuffed lamb and a wooden sign that reads: MY GREATEST BLESSING.
The shop is jam-packed with every kind of baby item a new mom or dad could possibly need, including old-fashioned baby bottles, handmade vintage toy,s and an entire wall of awe-inspiring crib quilts.
“Can I help you with something?”
I turn to see a second Amish woman standing a few feet behind me. She’s wearing a gray dress with the requisite organdy kapp and wire-rimmed eyeglasses. I guess her to be about forty years old.
“Hi.” I introduce myself and extend my hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, Chief Burkholder.” She looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “I’m Laura Schlabach. Welcome to Siess Kaffi.”
“You have some lovely things.”
“Danki. All made with Amisch hands, too,” she tells me. “Hard to find that kind of workmanship these days.”
“I’m investigating a case, Mrs. Schlabach, and I’m wondering if you might be able to identify a couple of baby items.”
She’s already peering down at the evidence bags in my hand, curious eyes prying. “I can try.” Nodding, she turns and starts toward the counter. “Better light over here.”
I follow her to the cash register, set the evidence bags atop the well-worn counter, and pull out the folded quilt. “Do you recognize the workmanship?” I ask.
She picks up the quilt and tilts her head back, gazing at it through her bifocals. “It’s nicely made.” She runs her fingers over the fabric. “Stitching is good and straight. And such pretty colors for a little one.” She lowers the quilt and looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “I don’t recognize the workmanship, though, and it didn’t come from this shop.”
“What about the fabric?”