I hand the bag to Fowler, who tapes it closed and tags it with a label. I lower my voice and address the deputy. “The BCI lab is waiting for that. Will you have one of your guys courier it?”
I give Levi a nod and then descend the steps. The older Amish man standing at the base of the steps glares at me as I walk past. I glance left and right and then head directly toward the boy charged with the buggy horses.
“Guder mariya,” I tell him.
He’s too polite to ignore my greeting but looks at me as if I’m some flesh-eating zombie with my sights set on him.
“Have you seen Abigail Kline?” I ask.
His eyes flick toward the house. “Don’t look over there,” I say. “Look at me. Have you seen her?”
His Adam’s apple bobs twice. “She took the buggy.”
“How long ago?”
“Less than an hour, I think. She asked me to harness the horse, so I did.”
“Where did she go?”
His eyes slide toward the house, looking for someone to save him from having to deal with me. I move so that I’m blocking his view. “Answer me,” I say. “Where did she go?”
“She didn’t say.”
I walk away without thanking him. I reach for my shoulder mike as I start toward the Crown Vic and hail Deputy Fowler. “Abigail Kline took the buggy and left. I’m going to look for her. You and T.J. okay here without me for a few minutes?”
“We’ll be fine.”
Frustration pushes a sigh from me. I’d wanted to be here while the search warrant was being executed, if only to answer questions and ward off any conflicts with the Kline family and the Amish as a whole. But with Abigail unaccounted for and the warrant in the hands of the Coshocton County Sheriff’s Department, I feel my time would best be spent looking for her.
I spot Levi Kline standing at the base of the porch steps, watching me, and I walk over to him. “She took one of the buggies and left,” I inform him.
“Are you sure?” For the first time he looks concerned. “I can’t see her taking the buggy on her own at a time like this. I would have taken her wherever she wanted to go. Any of us would have. All she had to do was ask.”
“Do you have any idea where she might have gone? Does she have a best friend? Her parents? The bishop?”
“If she was troubled or sad, she may have gone to see the bishop. Or maybe she went to Grossdaddi’s farm.” His brows knit. “Chief Burkholder, she should not be alone.”
“What was her frame of mind last time you saw her?” I ask.
He considers my question for a long moment. “She was … in a dark place. Crying a lot. Shaken inside.”
The last thing I want to do is needlessly worry her family. Chances are, the situation is exactly as he theorized; Abigail needed some time alone or sought her parents or the bishop for counsel. But I’ve been a cop long enough to know that when people commit a crime as heinous as murdering their spouse, sometimes the next life they take is their own.
I’m trying to come up with a delicate way to ask him if his mother could be suicidal, but he beats me to the punch. “You think she’s a danger to herself?” he asks.
“The thought crossed my mind.”
The color drains from his face, and he takes a step back from me. “I’m going to look for her.”
I consider asking him not to, but I change my mind. At this point, the more people we have looking for Abigail Kline, the better.
CHAPTER 26
As I pull out of the lane of the Kline farm, it occurs to me that if Abigail left an hour ago, she hasn’t gone too far. Most Amish use Standardbred horses for their buggies because that particular breed is prized for its fast, working trot. Even so, they travel only eight to ten miles an hour. It’s not an unduly long distance for me to cover relatively quickly in a patrol car.
Bishop Troyer and his wife live southwest of Painters Mill, about ten miles from the Kline farm. If Abigail went to see him, she’s still en route. I should be able to catch her before she arrives.
I take a right out of the Kline farm and head south on County Road 19 toward a secondary road that will take me to Highway 83. I drive slowly, keeping an eye out for telltale signs of the buggy—horse manure—and the side roads, in case she pulled over or opted for a shortcut. I pass an Amish wagon full of hay, but there’s no sign of Abigail’s windowless buggy. I cruise past Bishop Troyer’s farm, but she’s not there, so I loop around and take a less-used road south, back toward the Kline farm. It’s possible that in order to avoid traffic, she took the county road.
I reach the Kline farm, pull onto the gravel at the mouth of the lane, and hail T.J. on the radio. “Any sign of Abigail Kline?”
“Her son walked the property, but she’s not here, Chief.”
“Damn it.” I sigh. “You guys find anything else inside?”
“Folly found more of those greens in their refrigerator,” he tells me, referring to the kerosene-powered refrigerator.
“Bag it and seal it,” I tell him. “Get it to the lab. Make sure you guys follow chain of custody.”
“Roger that.”
“I’m going to head northwest to see if she went to her parents’ farm.”