Page 38 of Shamed

My mind is already racing ahead. “Tomasetti, I took the physical description of Elsie. Brown hair. Brown eyes.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t think much about it at the time. But when I walked in to the Helmuth house and got a good look at the other children … Tomasetti, they’re strawberry blond and green-eyed. I mean, not all kids look like their parents or their siblings, right? But in light of some of the other things that have been said…” I shrug. “There’s something there.”

I pick up my cell, hit the button for the station, aware that he’s watching me with an expression that’s part skeptical and part perplexed.

Mona picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Chief.”

“Get me vital statistics on the Helmuth children,” I say. “Birth dates. Place of birth.”

“All of them?”

“All eight.” I rattle off the names from memory. “I need it yesterday.”

“Warp factor one.”

“Who’s on duty this morning?” I ask, pulling out my notebook.

“Everyone. I mean, in light of the missing kid…”

“I’m heading that way. Briefing in my office in an hour.”

“I’ll let everyone know.”

I glance down at my notebook, flip the page. “Mona, one more thing. See if you can find anything on Mary Yoder’s sister. First name is Marlene. I think she lives south of here. No city.”

“You got it.”

I end the call to find Tomasetti’s eyes still on me. A look I’m all too familiar with. “You think I’m barking up the wrong tree,” I say.

“I think if those two seven-year-old siblings were born any closer than nine months apart, the parents have some explaining to do.”

We fall silent. I see the wheels of his mind working out the timeline, putting all those messy details into some order that makes sense in terms of the crime.

“When we talked to the witness child, Annie, do you remember what she told us the man who took Elsie said?” I ask.

He nods. “‘She’s mine.’”

“I didn’t think of the statement in terms of a literal meaning,” I tell him. “Deranged individuals say all sorts of crazy things that don’t make sense.” I shrug. “Maybe I should have. Maybe it means something.”

“Like what?”

“What if, for whatever reason, this male subject thinks that girl is … his.”

“I think there’s a higher probability that the son of a bitch is a nutcase.”

“I know that. I do. Still, I’m going to do some poking around.” I can tell by his expression he doesn’t concur. It’s not the first time we’ve disagreed on a case. Fortunately, both of us are confident enough in our respective positions, with our experience and perspectives, to admit it when we get it wrong.

“In the interim,” he says, rising, “I’m going to round up that composite artist. She’s in Parma, so give me a couple hours.”

I get to my feet, pick up my duty belt from the table, buckle it around my hips. “Call me and I’ll meet you at the Helmuths’.”

“You got it.” Leaning close, he kisses me. “Don’t spend too much time looking for ghosts.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I tell him, and start toward the door.

One of the pitfalls of being a cop—or one of the advantages, if you’re a glass-half-full sort—is that you look at the things people say with a healthy dose of skepticism. You look at the things they don’t say with suspicion. It’s not that you think everyone is a liar; you just happen to know from experience individuals lie with more frequency than most people realize, especially in times of crisis. My general rule of thumb is that if it doesn’t make sense or if conflicting information begins to pile up, there’s a problem. At the very least it’s worth a second look.