A Dark Path #2
That was when he spotted movement behind his friend. The shifting of shadows. Not just one, but two. Too dark to make out any detail, but he thought it was a person.
“What the hell, dude?” Kevin cried.
“Shut up and run!” Aaron whispered. “They’re coming!”
The holiday season is a quiet time in Painters Mill.
The time of year when, even though my small police department is understaffed, my officers actually have the time to take the vacations they’ve been denied through the summer and fall, when the tourists show up en masse to enjoy the bucolic countryside of Ohio’s Amish country.
My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the chief of police.
I was born Amish and raised in this pretty little town of 5,300 souls, a third of whom are Amish.
It’s three days before Thanksgiving and nearly eight P.M. My second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, is on vacation.
Mona, who divides her time between patrol and dispatch—at least until I can get a new dispatcher hired—has come in to cover for her.
I’m in my office, looking over a résumé.
My candidate is due for her interview any moment.
“Chief?”
I glance up to see Mona appear in the doorway. “Your appointment is here,” she tells me.
“Send her in.”
Giving me a thumbs-up, she disappears. I’m scanning the highlights of the résumé, mildly impressed, hoping this doesn’t take too long, when another voice comes from the doorway.
“You look like you’ve had a long day.”
I look up to see a woman of about sixty enter.
Friendly expression. Confident, but not pushy.
Good eye contact. Her silver-brown hair is cut short.
Wire-rimmed glasses. Tasteful skirt that reaches just below her knees.
Practical shoes. Hose. According to her résumé, she spent six years dispatching for the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office.
Last month she graduated from the Citizens’ Police Academy in Millersburg and realized she missed hanging out with cops.
I rise and we shake hands. “Thanks for coming in so late.”
“Life doesn’t always cooperate with our schedules. Mine’s pretty open right now.” She takes the chair across from my desk. “I understand you’re in need of an experienced dispatcher.”
“Full time,” I tell her, pleased she wants to get right down to business. “Gets busy at times. Can be slow, too, though. Shift might vary.”
“When you’ve raised two children and six grandkids, you’re plenty used to a busy schedule and varying shifts.” She cocks her head. “Overtime?”
“On occasion.”
“Well, that’s a plus. I do prefer to stay busy.” She’s direct, but personable. Not a nerve in sight. She might look like a cookie-baking, baby-coddling grandmother, but I get the impression she’ll dress you down as quickly as she’ll hand out an attaboy.
She passes me a sheet of paper. “I forgot to attach this to the résumé. I’m kind of rusty on all the new technology. Hope that’s not a problem. It’s a letter of recommendation from Sheriff Rasmussen.”
I take the letter, skim it, and try not to be too impressed. “Mike’s a good cop.”
“Good man, too.” She studies me intently. “Cares about the community. His deputies. That’s important.”
“Yes, it is.” For the first time I feel as if I’m the one being interviewed, and I add “judicious” to the growing list of things I like about her. In the back of my mind, I wonder how she might fit in with the rest of my team.
“Chief?”
I glance toward the door to see Mona rushing in.
“Sorry to interrupt.” She casts an apologetic look to the woman sitting in the visitor chair and then back to me.
“I just took a call from Monica Dennison. She and her husband are on their way here. Their eleven-year-old son is missing. Didn’t come back from fishing this afternoon and he’s not answering his cell. ”
“How long has he been missing?” I ask.
“He was supposed to be home at five.”
Three hours isn’t terribly long, but enough time to cause concern, especially for an eleven-year-old.
“Any idea where he was fishing?” I ask.
“Painters Creek. Down by the icebox,” she tells me, referring to a large pool of water that’s a local favorite for swimming and fishing. “Mr. Dennison walked the area, but there’s no sign of him.”
“Some deep spots down that way.” This from the woman sitting across from me. When I look at her, she gives me a knowing look, her expression concerned. “My grandkids swim there in the summer.”
The area is heavily wooded, too. The greenbelt is a mile wide in places and runs north and south for most of the county.
It’s several hundred acres of old-growth trees, thick brush, ravines, and feeder creeks, and I find myself hoping that either the boy shows up or we’re able to locate him quickly.
I reach for the yellow pad I keep next to my phone. “Who’s on patrol this evening?” I ask Mona.
“Skid.”
The switchboard dings with a series of incoming calls. Simultaneously, the bell on the front door jangles, telling us we have a visitor, likely the Dennisons.
Mona glances over her shoulder toward reception, waits.
“Get Skid on the radio,” I tell her. “Tell him to head out that way. Notify County and ask them to stand by.”
“Roger that.”
The phone on my desk lights up. The display tells me it’s John Tomasetti, my significant other and an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. I ignore the call and glance at the woman sitting across from me.
“I suspect this is one of the ‘when it pours’ moments,” she says, rising.
I smile. “We’re going to have to do this another time.”
“Of course you are.” She sticks out her hand. “Wish I could help. Don’t like the idea of an eleven-year-old not being accounted for, especially with heavy weather moving in.”
I nod, my thoughts heading in the same direction. Temperatures were in the fifties today, but according to the National Weather Service, the first snow of the season is due tonight and it’s going to be a doozy.
We shake hands. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let some other department steal you away until we’ve had time to talk.”
She gives me a mock salute. “Roger that.”
I sense the tension radiating off the couple the moment I enter reception.
Jeff Dennison paces near the door, checking his watch every couple of seconds, free hand shoved into the pocket of his trench coat.
His wife, Monica, stands next to the reception desk, wringing her hands.
They’re in their forties and live in a big Victorian house a few blocks off Main Street.
Jeff has worked at the Painters Mill Bank as long as I can remember.
Monica teaches geometry at the high school.
She coaches track and took her team to the state finals last year.
Both of them look as if they’re still wearing their work clothes.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dennison,” I say as I stride toward them. “I hear your son is missing.”
The couple swivels toward me. Worry is etched deeply into their features.
Monica rushes to me, her husband coming up behind her.
“It’s Kevin,” she says. “He went fishing today and hasn’t come home.
He was supposed to be home at five. He’s never late, especially when dinner’s on the table.
” The words tumble out of her in disarray.
She’s talking too fast. Breathless. Brain clogged with anxiety.
“Officer Skidmore is on his way to Painters Creek.” I motion to the row of chairs along the wall. “Let’s sit so I can get some information from you.”
In unison, they cross to the chairs, but they don’t sit. They’re wound tight. Nerves on edge. Their concern for their son is palpable.
“When did you last see Kevin?”
“This morning,” she tells me. “School’s closed for Thanksgiving, but I went in to catch up on some things. He was having cereal. That was at nine or so.”
“Was he okay this morning?” I ask. “Normal?”
“He was fine. Getting his fishing tackle ready.”
“Said he was going to catch some bass for dinner,” Jeff adds with a tight smile.
I turn my attention to the husband. “Do you know where exactly on Painters Creek he was fishing?”
“He usually goes to that deep pool half a mile from the covered bridge,” Jeff says. “Out by all those Amish farms.”
“The icebox?”
He nods. “He says that’s where all the big ones are.”
“Was he alone?” I ask.
The two exchange a look that tells me there’s more to the story. I wait.
“He didn’t mention anyone else,” Jeff says. “But he’s been hanging out with that Amish kid. The Kuhns boy, Aaron. We’ve been trying to nip it in the bud. I mean, they’re not exactly compatible.”
I’m not sure what he means, but I can tell by his expression he’s not happy about the relationship. “They’re friends?” I ask.
“Unfortunately,” he growls.
I look from Jeff to Monica. “Has the friendship between the boys been an issue?” I ask.
He grimaces. “Look, Chief Burkholder, I know they’re your people.
Nothing against the Amish, but I’d just prefer Kevin got in with a different crowd.
Used to be he was interested in football and NASCAR.
Now, all he wants to do is hang out in the woods with that damn Amish kid, go fishing, and read those weird comic books. ”
I nod, knowing that when people use the nothing-against-the-Amish phrase, they usually do harbor some grudge they don’t want to admit to. Kids rarely have the same biases as their parents. If only they could hold on to that.
“Have you talked to Aaron’s family?” I ask.
“They don’t have a damn phone,” he snarls.
“There are several Amish families in the area with the last name of Kuhns,” I tell them. “Do you know the names of his parents? Or have an address for them? I’ll send someone out there to talk to them.”
“They own that dairy farm off Hogpath Road,” Monica tells me. “The one with the two silos out front.”
“Smells like a cesspit,” the man grumbles.
His wife nudges him with her elbow. “I’ve never met his parents, but his mom’s name is Susie. Not sure about his dad.”