*
The interior of the trailer reeks of rotting food and backed-up sewage with the underlying redolence of moldy carpet. I’m standing just inside the door in a small living room. The kitchen is to my right. To my left is a hall that presumably leads to the bedrooms and bathroom. Leaving the door open for ventilation, I walk into the kitchen. The window is broken. The curtains are rain-wilted and discolored. On the floor, a single mushroom sprouts from threadbare carpet. To my left, a 1970s yellow refrigerator has been tipped onto its face. From where I’m standing, I see what had once been a package of cold cuts and a half gallon of ice cream dried to a sticky goo on the floor. The counters are covered with rat droppings and several mismatched plastic containers. A filthy dish strainer sits in the sink.
Slipping on my gloves, I start with the drawers, quickly going through each one. I find take-out menus. Plastic utensils. What had once been a loaf of bread, but is now an unrecognizable blue-green blob inside the wrapper. In the final drawer, I find an old phone book. Tucked inside, I discover an article from the Painters Mill Weekly Advocate newspaper about the murder of Willis Hochstetler, the disappearance of his wife, Wanetta, and the deaths of their four children. Because they were Amish, there are no photos of the family, just the burned-out shell of the house and a chilling headline: MURDER IN AMISH COUNTRY. It’s another connection, so I fold the article and put it in my pocket.
I’m not sure what I hope to find. At this point, any information would be helpful. Social security numbers. Aliases used. The addresses of employers or friends. Utility bills. A phone bill. But after a quick search of the two bedrooms, I realize neither woman left anything behind. All I have is the newspaper article and the name of a woman who seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
*
When a case breaks, the last place you want to be is on the road, two hundred miles away from home base. Unfortunately, that’s the position I find myself in as I hightail it toward Painters Mill. Once I hit the highway, I call Glock.
“Wanetta Hochstetler was alive up until a few months ago,” I begin without preamble. “She’s been living in Pennsylvania under the assumed name of Becky Weaver.”
“Holy shit. The kidnapped wife?”
I relay to him everything I’ve learned in the last hours. “Evidently, she was injured and may have suffered some kind of head injury or psychological trauma that affected her memory.”
“But if she’s dead, how does—?”
“She had a daughter. Ruth Weaver. Do me a favor and run both names through NCIC and LEADS, will you?”
“Got it.”
“These two women lived off the grid. We don’t have any information on Ruth Weaver, no address or phone number, known associates, not even a description. Poke around and see if you can find something. Mona’s pretty good on the Internet. Get her to help.”
“You think this Ruth Weaver is here in Painters Mill?”
“I think she’s there, and I think she’s making good on an old debt for her mother.”
“Shit.” He pauses and I can feel our minds zinging back and forth as we try to process the information. “Where you at?”
“Pittsburgh.”
“Pittsburgh?”
“I’m on my way. How did it go with Hoch Yoder?”
“I pulled him in. At the time Jules Rutledge was murdered, he was helping one of his neighbors move cattle and hogs due to flooding. I cut him loose.”
CHAPTER 26
Four hours and 160 miles later, I’m back in Painters Mill in the interview room with Glock and Blue Branson. Glock and I spoke several times during my drive, and he relayed the news that neither Becky Weaver nor her daughter, Ruth, were in the NCIC or the Ohio-based LEADS databases. Evidently, the two women kept their noses clean. As a result—and the fact that they were Amish—we have nothing.
Carrying the Hochstetler file, I seat myself across the table from Blue, who’s slouched in his chair, staring down at his hands. Glock holds his position at the door, assuming an unobtrusive presence. I set the file on the table and press the Record button on the tape recorder, recite the date and the names of everyone present. I read the Miranda rights to Blue from a printed card and then slide the card across the table to him.
“Do you understand your rights?” I begin.
“I understand.”
Using the same tactic I used with Norm Johnston, I open the file, making sure he can see the label and photos, and rifle through a few pages. “I spent the afternoon in Cambria County, Pennsylvania.”
“I don’t know where that is,” he says in a monotone voice.
“It’s near where you and your friends threw Wanetta Hochstetler down that well and left her for dead. Ring a bell?”
Blue Branson has as good a poker face as anyone I’ve ever met. But he can’t conceal his shock. He stares at me, unblinking, his mouth partially open, wondering how I could possibly know.