Page 37 of Shamed

He grimaces and I know even before he speaks that the news isn’t good. “Same as the girls.”

I wince inwardly, knowing what that means: that the girl could have been stabbed or cut—or worse.

“We don’t have DNA back yet, but the lab matched the type. The kid had a tonsillectomy a couple years ago. She’s O-negative—”

“But it’s possible the blood belongs to the killer.”

“Maybe.” He says it for my benefit; he doesn’t believe it. “That’s not a common blood type. Look, we’re running DNA now, but the lab is backed up. It’s going to take a few days. I got some things shuffled around, put some other cases on the back burner, so we’ve got priority.”

“What about the footwear impressions?” I ask. “The size-thirteen work boots? Any unique marks on the sole? Leads on manufacturer or retailer?”

“We got tread, but not enough detail to pick up unique marks.”

I nod, disappointed, trying not to think about the girl, possibly injured and bleeding, and I feel overwhelmed by all the things I don’t know and the sheer volume of things I need to do.

We eat in silence. When I walked into the house twenty minutes ago I wasn’t hungry. Now I’m starving and I eat with relish. After the shower and a clean uniform, I feel human again, my mind fresh. As I down my second cup of coffee, my thoughts take me through the conversations I had overnight. The family dynamics. The one exchange that keeps coming back to me is the odd commentary between the Helmuth children, Becky and Bonnie, about their missing sister.

Mamm says Elsie was a gift.

I’ve known that since the day Bishop Troyer brought her—

When I asked them to clarify, they clammed up. Why? Later, when I asked the bishop’s wife if he was there the day Elsie was born, she told me he was not. It’s a small discrepancy, but it bothers me enough so that I’m thinking about it. And what about Elsie being the only baby in the family that Martha Hershberger didn’t deliver?

“You’re thinking about something awfully hard,” Tomasetti says as he gathers dishes and takes them to the sink.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m probably not very good company this morning.”

“Anything you want to share?”

I set down my mug, give him my full attention, the words looping in my head, a record skip I can’t seem to stop. “I think there’s something going on with the Helmuth family.”

He sips coffee, looking at me over the rim. “The parents?”

I tell him about the girls’ comments. “Bonnie, who’s ten, cut off midsentence. It was as if she knew she’d broached a subject she wasn’t supposed to discuss.”

“You think the parents are withholding information?”

“I think they’re not telling us something that may or may not be relevant to the case. I don’t know what it is or why they’d keep secrets when their child is missing. But those kids aren’t very good liars and it was quite an odd exchange.”

It’s the first time I’ve said the words aloud. As dubious as they sound, it strengthens my belief that there’s something amiss.

I tell Tomasetti about my conversations with Miriam Helmuth and, later, with the midwife, Martha Hershberger.

“She delivered all of Miriam’s babies, except for Elsie.”

“So what aren’t they telling you?” Tomasetti asks.

Between the caffeine, the food, and the shower, my brain has clicked back into place. I look at him, thinking aloud now. “The Helmuths have eight children.”

“That’s not unusual for an Amish family, though, right?”

“Two of the girls are seven years old.”

“Twins?”

I shake my head. “Miriam says no.”

“Could be Irish twins. It’s technically possible.”