An hour later, Tomasetti and I are back in the interview room of the Trumbull County sheriff’s department. He’s slumped in a chair, looking grouchy and bored, pecking on the keyboard of his laptop. I’m standing at the rear of the room with my cell phone stuck to my ear, listening to Auggie Brock lament the injustice of his son’s ongoing legal saga. I make all the appropriately sympathetic noises, but I know what he wants and there’s no way I’m going to compromise my ethics because his seventeen-year-old son has the common sense of a snail.
The rest of the deputies are out in the field, working various angles. I can hear Sheriff Goddard in his office down the hall. He’s loud when he’s on the phone, and now he’s embroiled in a conversation that involves securing a warrant for the home of Frank Gilfillan, the leader of the Twelve Passages Church. Evidently, the judge on the other end doesn’t see things the way the sheriff does, and Goddard isn’t taking it well. So far, we’re batting zero and the frustration level is rising.
“Kate, for God’s sake, are you listening?” Auggie asks.
“I’m listening,” I reply, lying.
“My son’s life is at stake here. If he’s tried as an adult and convicted, his life is all but over.”
For an instant, I entertain the notion of telling him I’ll do what I can, just to get him off the phone. Then Sheriff Goddard comes through the door, looking like he’s had the crap beaten out of him, and saves me from stepping into that particular pile. “Look, Auggie, the sheriff just walked in. I’ve got to go.”
“Will you at least think about what I said?”
I hit END and frown at Goddard.
He frowns back. “Looks like your day might be heading in the same direction as mine,” he says.
“You mean to hell?”
“Thereabouts.”
I smile. “Any luck with the warrant?”
Goddard sighs. “Judge says the Twelve Passages is a church and they got the right to worship any way they see fit.” Another sigh. “It’s a damn cult, if you ask me.”
“Judge isn’t a member, is he?”
Goddard gives me a look, as if I might be serious, and then erupts with a belly laugh. “I don’t think so, but I swear to God, nothing would surprise me these days.”
“Did you talk to Gilfillan?”
“We did, and let me tell you he’s a weird son of a bitch. Got a weird belief system and bunch of damn weird followers. A lot of them aren’t much older than our missing teens. He’s recruited some Amish young people, too.”
That snags my attention. “Does he have a record?”
“Not even an arrest.”
“Hard to ignore the Amish connection.”
“Well, it ain’t over till it’s over.” He glances at Tomasetti. “You guys have any luck with Karns?”
“He’s worth keeping on the radar,” I tell him. “He shoots nude photos of kids, has an unusual interest in the Amish.”
“Maybe I’ll have better luck getting a warrant for his place.”
“Judge isn’t an art fan, is he?”
He chortles. “Chief Burkholder, you’ve got a mean streak.”
A few feet away, the pitch of Tomasetti’s voice changes, drawing our attention. I glance over at him and find his eyes already on me. I can tell by his expression that he’s got something. I wait while he thanks the person on the other end of the line and sets down his phone. “Remember those queries I put into VICAP?” he asks. “Analyst found a cold case with the same MO.”
Goddard looks baffled. “We checked similars,” he says. “Ran a search through OHLEG. Nothing came up.”
“That’s because it didn’t happen in Ohio,” Tomasetti explains. “Happened in Sharon, Pennsylvania.”
“That’s just across the state line,” Goddard says.
“How old is the case?” I ask.
“Four years. Fifteen-year-old Amish female.” Tomasetti glances down at his notes. “Ruth Wagler. She was selling bread alongside the highway and disappeared. Body was never found.”
“Suspects?” I ask.
“Sheriff’s office looked at her boyfriend. Looked at her stepfather. But nothing panned out and no arrest was made.”
I look at Goddard. “How far is Sharon from here?”
“Forty-five minutes in traffic, and there ain’t no traffic.”
“We need to talk to the parents.” Tomasetti looks at me. “You up for a trip?”
“Yeah.” My cell phone vibrates against my hip, inducing a flash of annoyance. Expecting Auggie Brock, I glance down. Surprise slips through me when Glock’s name appears on the display.
Turning away from the two men, I answer. “I’m glad you’re not Auggie.”
“Not as glad as me.” He doesn’t laugh, and I feel some internal radar go on alert. Some instinct that tells me he’s not calling to chat. “I just took a call from the Amish bishop, Chief. Your sister and her husband are at his place. William Miller’s niece is missing.”
Something akin to an electrical shock goes through me. My surroundings fade to gray. The voices of Tomasetti and Goddard dwindle to babble. “Sadie Miller?” I ask.
“Right. Fifteen-year-old Amish female.”
His words barely register. I see Sadie as she was the day on the bridge—so defiant of society’s rules, so sure of herself, and so utterly certain the world would be hers if she just had the chance to conquer it. Simultaneously, the image of Annie King’s body tangled in the tree roots on the creek bank flashes in my mind’s eye.
“When?” I hear myself ask.