He chuckles as I turn my attention to the second man, and we shake. His grip is a little too firm and damp. “Denny McNinch.”
His stare is calculating. There’s baggage in his expression, perhaps even between him and Tomasetti. He’s got a battered look about him that has nothing to do with physical scars. And I know that before he sat behind a desk, he spent a good bit of time on the street. “Nice to meet you,” I tell him.
“Denny’s out of the Columbus office,” says Tomasetti, clarifying.
Baggage, I think. Tomasetti worked out of the Columbus office after leaving the Cleveland PD. He’d had some problems there early on, nearly got himself fired. I can tell by McNinch’s stare that he knows about it. I can also tell by the way he’s looking at me that he’s wondering if there’s something going on between Tomasetti and me. Or maybe I just have a guilty conscience.
“Welcome aboard, Chief Burkholder,” he says, releasing my hand.
Bates takes command of the meeting and gets right to the business at hand. “We’re pleased you’re here, Chief Burkholder. I’m sure John has already filled you in on the situation.”
I nod. “I understand there’s now a third person missing.”
“We just got the call from local law enforcement in Buck Creek,” Bates says. “I know you’re anxious to get started, so we’ll keep this brief.”
McNinch motions to the woman, who has remained seated throughout the introductions but hasn’t taken her eyes off me since I walked in. “This is Paige Wilson, my assistant. She’s got a couple of forms for you to sign, Chief Burkholder. We’ve got to keep all of this on the up-and-up with Uncle Sam.”
“Call me Kate.”
Nodding, he motions to the forms on the table. “We pay a small stipend, plus mileage, expenses.”
The forms are in typical government triplicate. The pages that require a signature are marked with red flags. Everyone’s in a hurry, so I give the forms a cursory read-through and scribble my name.
When I’ve finished, Bates says, “I’ve wanted to meet you since Tomasetti assisted with the Slaughterhouse Murders. Hell of a case for a small town.”
“It was a tough one.” The very thought of that investigation and all its gnarly implications still makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Agent Tomasetti was a tremendous help to the entire department.”
“He tells us you used to be Amish,” McNinch says.
That’s always the thing everyone wants to know. They don’t care about my résumé or law-enforcement background or my degree in criminal justice. They don’t ask about my solve rate from when I was a detective in Columbus. They want to know if I was Amish; if I wore homemade dresses and rode in a horse-drawn buggy and lived my life without electricity and cars. “I grew up Amish,” I say simply.
In my peripheral vision, I see the woman lean slightly to one side, and I wonder if she’s checking to see if I’m wearing practical shoes.
“I understand you’re also fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch,” McNinch says.
I nod. “That’s particularly beneficial, especially with regard to breaking down some of the cultural barriers.”
“So far we’re batting zero in the way of garnering much useful information,” Bates says.
“Local law enforcement isn’t getting much from the Amish families,” Tomasetti adds, clarifying the matter.
“Unfortunately, that’s not unusual,” I tell them. “There’s a certain level of distrust between the Amish and the government, particularly law enforcement. We ran into that when we had a rash of hate crimes last December.” I don’t look at Tomasetti as I speak. I’m afraid if I do, somehow these men will know that we’re more than colleagues, more than friends. “The Amish are also slow in making contact with us because of their tenet of remaining separate. But there are also cultural issues. Religious issues.” I think of the chasm that stretches between me and my siblings. I don’t mention the fact that sometimes even if you’re born into the plain life, you can still be an outsider. “Generally speaking, once we convince the family we have only their best interest at heart, they’ll open up, especially if the safety of a loved one is in question.”
“Excellent.” Bates slides a folder across the table toward me. “We’re still putting things together, Kate, so the file is sparse.”
Intrigued, I open the file and find myself staring down at three missing-person reports. Bates was right: The information is hit-or-miss. The missing consist of three females between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, all of whom are Amish.
“We think their being Amish is the key element here,” McNinch says.
“Do you think this is a serial thing?” I ask. “And this is some kind of escalation?”
Tomasetti nods. “Maybe.”
“What we can’t figure is motive,” Bates says.
“No ransom demand,” Tomasetti puts in.
“Yet,” Bates adds.