Page 11 of Shamed

“I do everything myself,” Ivan says.

I give the questions a moment to settle, and shift gears. “How many children do you have?”

Miriam raises her head, fear and misery boiling in her expression. “Eight.”

“Any problems with any of them?”

“Of course not,” Miriam snaps. “We are Amisch.” As if that explains everything. In a way, it does.

“Have you noticed any strangers in the area? Any cars or buggies you didn’t recognize? Anyone on the road? On your property?”

Ivan gives another head shake. “No.”

“I just want my baby.” Miriam begins to cry. “She must be so frightened.” She raises her gaze, her eyes beseeching. “Please, Chief Burkholder. Elsie is … special. Sweet and innocent. She won’t understand what’s happening.”

The word “special” gives me pause. “Elsie is special needs?” I ask.

“She’s a slow learner. We took her to the clinic and she was diagnosed with Cohen syndrome when she was four. Please, we’ve got to find her. She’s so sweet. So innocent.”

Cohen syndrome is a rare gene disorder that’s slightly more common among the Amish owing to marriage patterns and a smaller gene pool. It carries with it a host of problems, including delayed physical development and intellectual disability.

I set my hand on the Amish woman’s arm. “Do you have a photo of Elsie?”

“We do not take photos of the children.”

“Can you tell me what she looks like? What was she wearing?”

She describes the girl—seven years old, blue dress, brown hair and eyes. Slightly overweight. Thick, round eyeglasses. I jot everything in my notebook. All the while I feel as if I’m being pulled in a dozen different directions. The urge to get back to the scene is powerful. The need to work the case eats at me. I need to look at the evidence. Find it. Churn it. Answer the questions pounding my brain. No one does something like what was done to Mary Yoder without some perceived reason, without leaving something behind. It’s my job to find it—and fast.

More than anything, I want to find the girl. That need is tempered by the knowledge that the information-gathering phase of the investigation—speaking with family and friends and possible witnesses—is critical. The majority of homicide victims know their killers. Most kidnappings are committed by family members. If either of those statistics is true in this instance, the most vital information I receive will come from the people closest to Elsie: her family, right here and now.

“Mr. and Mrs. Helmuth, you mentioned Mary and your two daughters went to the house to pick up walnuts. Has Mary ever had any problems there? Any strangers hanging around? Or signs of vandalism? Graffiti? Tire tracks? Anything unusual?”

Miriam shakes her head. “She never mentioned anything. I just can’t believe…” Looking as if she’s going to be sick, she presses her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear Lord.”

Ivan nods. When his gaze meets mine, his expression is grim. “She had words with the Graber boy once. He lives over to Rockridge Road.”

“Big Eddie,” Miriam says in a small voice.

The mention of “Big Eddie” garners my attention. The Graber farm abuts the Helmuth property; they share the back fence. The family is Amish. Eddie is a teenager; I’ve seen him around town or walking along the road. He’s a troubled kid with a tragic story. A near drowning a decade ago left him with brain damage.

The one and only time I ever had reason to interact with him was an incident at the Butterhorn Bakery. According to owner Tom Skanks, Big Eddie bought six apple fritters, and proceeded to eat all of them before leaving the bakery. Some non-Amish teenagers made fun of Eddie and a fight broke out. By the time I got there, Eddie had two of the kids on the ground, and they were bloodied and bruised. It was a nasty scene with an ugly origin: the bullying of a mentally challenged teenage boy. No charges were pressed, but the incident put Eddie on my cop’s radar.

“What happened with Big Eddie?” I ask.

“We caught him spying on the girls when they were swimming down to the creek,” the Amish woman blurts. “He tried to get our oldest to … take off her underwear and go into the woods with him.” She looks away, shakes her head. “Asked her to ‘show him her thing.’”

“Did he touch her?” I ask.

The Amish woman shakes her head. “No.”

“Did you talk to Eddie’s father?”

Ivan raises his gaze to mine. “I told him about it. He said he’d keep an eye on him.”

“Anything since?” I ask.

“Last year. Eddie was walking by the old Schattenbaum place. Our boys were there, gathering walnuts. There was a fight. I found out later our boys threw some walnuts at Eddie while he was walking by.” The Amish man looks down, ashamed.