Page 7 of Shamed

I hit my lapel mike and hail Dispatch. “Possible ten-thirty-one-D,” I say, using the ten code for kidnapping in progress.

I look at Mona. “We need to look around, talk to the parents,” I tell her. “Confirm if the girl is missing.”

If we were dealing solely with a likely homicide, my first priorities would be to protect the scene, limit access, set up a perimeter, canvass the area, and get started on developing a suspect. The possibility of a kidnapped minor child changes everything. The living always take precedence over the dead.

“Did the little girl say anything else?” I ask.

“Couldn’t get much out of her, Chief. She’s pretty shaken up.”

I take a final look at the victim, suppress a shudder. “Let’s go talk to her.”

CHAPTER 2

I find the girl huddled in the backseat of a Holmes County Sheriff’s Department cruiser. Someone has draped a Mylar blanket across her legs, given her a bottle of water, and a teddy bear to hold. Some cops, my small department included, carry a stuffed animal or two in the trunks of our official vehicles for situations exactly like this one, when we want to keep a child as calm and comforted as possible.

I make eye contact with the deputy as I approach. I’ve worked with him before; we had Fourth of July parade duty last summer. He’s a good guy, a father himself, and a decent cop. We shake hands. “She say anything?”

“Been crying mostly, Chief. Said something in Dutch.” He shrugs. “Wants her mom, I think.”

I tell him about the possibility of a missing sister. “Best-case scenario she got scared and ran home.”

The door to the backseat stands open. I go to it and kneel so that I’m eye level with the girl. “Hi there,” I say. “My name’s Katie, and I’m a policeman. Can you tell me what happened?”

She looks at me, her face ravaged and wet with tears. “I want my mamm.”

She’s a tiny thing. Blue dress. Blue eyes. Light hair. Blood on baby hands. Smeared on the bottle of water, which she isn’t drinking. She’s shaking violently beneath the blanket. I switch to Deitsch, try to kickstart her brain. “Who did that to your grossmammi?”

“Da Deivel.”

The devil.

The words put a chill between my shoulder blades. They’re words no child should ever have to speak. A scenario no kid should ever have to witness or recount. “A mann?”

She nods.

“Do you know his name? Have you seen him before?”

She shakes her head.

“Is your sister with you?”

“Elsie.” She whispers the name as if she’s afraid to say it aloud. “He took her.”

“Do you know where they went?”

She closes her eyes; her face crumples. “I want my mamm.”

I ignore the tears, all too aware of precious minutes ticking away, and I press for more. “Just one man?”

A nod.

“What did he look like?”

She stares at me.

“Was he English? Or Plain?”

“I want my mamm.”