A Hidden Secret (2 page)

“Kate?”

I look toward the bed to see John Tomasetti flip on the light. For an instant we squint at each other. “I caught the tail end of the conversation.” He throws back the covers and steps into trousers. “What’s up?”

I tell him about Mona’s call.

“Abandoned?” he asks.

“Apparently.” I feel the grimace overtake my face. “I’ve got to get out to the bishop’s farm. If it’s a newborn, it may need medical attention.”

“You want some company?”

“You mean officially?”

“Or unofficially. Whatever works.”

Usually, when dealing with the Amish, I prefer to do it alone. They’re more likely to speak freely to me than to my counterparts, mainly because of my Amish roots and the simple fact that I’m fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch. But there’s nothing usual about this call and I think it might be best to bring a partner along. Especially since John Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation.

I smile at him. “You think you’ll manage to behave yourself?”

He snags a shirt from his closet and shrugs into it. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s a likely story.” But I grab my equipment belt off the chair and buckle it at my hip. “Let’s go.”

*   *   *

Bishop David Troyer and his wife live on a farm just south of Painters Mill. I’ve known the bishop for as long as I can remember. When I was twelve, my
datt
caught me smoking a cigarette with a neighbor boy by the name of Brodie Mathis. It was a serious offense for an Amish girl, made worse by the fact that Brodie was five years my senior and an
Englischer,
to boot. It wasn’t my first show of disobedience, and my
datt
delivered a robust “smacking” when he got me back to the house. The following Sunday after worship, he made it a point to put me before Bishop Troyer, who proceeded to lecture me on the importance of obedience and the benefits of being a “good child.” The bishop possesses a powerful presence and, in my twelve-year-old heart, he was the closest thing to God I’d ever encountered. It was a formative experience. After that day, my opinion of him hovered somewhere between terror and awe. It wasn’t until I’d graduated into adulthood that I realized while he can be judgmental, his words sometimes harsh, he is also kind and generous and fair.

I take the long gravel lane of the Troyer farm with a little too much speed. Ahead, the windows of the old farmhouse glow yellow with lantern light.

“Any idea who might’ve left their baby here?” Tomasetti asks as I pull up beside a ramshackle shed.

“Since it was left with the bishop, I suspect she’s Amish.” I consider that as I put the Explorer into Park and kill the engine. “Then again, if an Amish woman or girl had an unplanned pregnancy and felt she couldn’t handle a newborn, it seems like the most likely place to leave a baby would be with her parents.”

“Unless there are problems at home.”

I glance at him and nod. “Hopefully the bishop will be able to shed some light.”

I grab my Maglite, and Tomasetti and I take the sidewalk to the back door. I’ve not even knocked yet when the door opens and I find myself staring at the bishop. Clad in black with a long, steel-wool beard, eyes as dark and penetrating as mica, he’s still got that powerful presence that intimidated me so completely as a child.

“Katie.” His usually stern face is a mask of worry this morning.

“Bishop.” I look past him toward the kitchen. “Thank you for calling me.”

“It seemed like the right thing to do.” His eyes flick to Tomasetti.

Extending his hand for a shake, Tomasetti introduces himself, using his official title. “Is the baby healthy?” he asks.

“If that baby’s cry is any indication, she’s as healthy as a horse.” Stepping back, the bishop ushers us inside. “This way.”

The mudroom is dimly lit, too warm, and smells of coffee and frying scrapple, an Amish breakfast staple. The plank floor creaks beneath our shoes as we cross to the kitchen. I find the bishop’s wife, Ada, standing at the sink, cradling a small, wriggling bundle against her generous bosom.

“
Guder mariye,
Ada.” I bow my head slightly. Good morning.

She nods, but doesn’t smile. “
Wie bischt du heit
, Katie?” How are you this morning? The elderly woman’s eyes flick to Tomasetti and only then do I realize the discomfort on her face is due to the fact that she’s wearing a plain flannel nightgown, with an oversize cardigan and well-worn socks.

I cross to her and look down at the bundle. Tomasetti holds his ground just inside the doorway. Ada opens a flap, exposing a tiny, wrinkled face and cloudy blue eyes. “She’s a pretty little thing,” the Amish woman tells me.

“A girl?” I ask.

The woman nods. “I checked. And brand-new, too. Cord is still attached.”

I stare down at the small, alienlike creature and a combination of affection and uneasiness presses into me. I’ve not spent much time around babies. In fact, I’ll be the first to admit I’m more than a little out of my element. Even so, there’s nothing more heartrending than to look into the eyes of such a tiny and vulnerable human being and know someone abandoned her.

“I’ll just let you hold her while I get dressed.”

Before I can object, the Amish woman places her gently in my arms. She must have sensed my hesitation—or maybe the instant of panic in my eyes—because she chuckles. “Keep her head in the crook of your arm to support it.” Bending slightly—ignoring my discomfort—she coos at the baby. “Just like that.”

Tugging the cardigan around her, she nods at Tomasetti and leaves the kitchen.

I’m staring down at the baby in my arms, relieved she’s not crying. I’m already looking to hand her off to someone else. I’m aware of Tomasetti moving closer to get a look at her face.

“She doesn’t look very old,” he says.

For a second I wonder how he could know that, then I realize he was a father of two before we met. “How old?” I ask.

“If the cord is still attached”—He shrugs—“a few hours. ER doc should be able to narrow it down.”

Bishop Troyer sidles up to me. “I’m very glad she stopped crying.”

Alarm niggles me at the thought of holding a screaming baby, but I shove it aside. “Bishop, do you have any idea who might’ve left her with you?”

The three of us stare down at the baby. “I don’t know,” he says, looking baffled.

“Do you know of any expectant mothers who might’ve been confused or frightened about having a baby?” I prod. “Troubled marriages, maybe?”

“No, Katie,” he tells me. “Nothing like that.”

I nod, knowing that even in the Amish community, some secrets are tightly held.

“Bishop, can you take us through exactly what happened?” Tomasetti asks.

The old man relays the story from the moment he was awakened until he opened the door and discovered the laundry basket on the front porch. “I think there was a knock, but I can’t be sure.”

“Did you see or hear anything else?” I ask. “A car? Or a buggy?”

He nods. “When I stepped onto the porch, I heard something or
someone
on the other side of the lilac bushes. I called out, but they ran away.”

I recall the tall bushes that grow alongside the lane. “Did you see anyone?”

He shakes his head. “It was too dark.”

“Any idea how long the baby was on the porch?” Tomasetti asks.

“Not too long,” the bishop replies. “Once I was awake, I got up right away and came downstairs.”

Tomasetti nods down at the baby in my arms. “The quilt was with her?”

“Yes.”

I look closely at the quilt. It’s a pretty patchwork of rose and cream. “It’s Amish,” I tell him.

“A nine patch.”

I glance up to see the bishop’s wife approach, fully dressed and toting a second crib blanket. “To keep her from catching a chill.”

“Ada, do you recognize the workmanship on this quilt?” I ask.

She examines the fabric. “Hmmm. I don’t recognize the stitching. Or the pattern or color combination. And there are no initials. It’s well made, though.”

I turn my attention to the bishop. “Was there anything else with her?”

The Amish man picks up a wooden rattle off the table and hands it to me. “I believe this is
Amisch,
too. My uncle made several just like it for our children.”

“Sometimes the women will crochet a little cover for the newborns,” Ada adds. “Makes it softer for the tender gums since they like to put everything in their mouths.”

The rattle is made of wood—maple or birch—and constructed with a four-inch-long smooth dowel with one-inch round caps on either end, and three rings around the center.

I turn my attention to the bishop. “We’re going to need to take that.”

Tomasetti reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and removes a small evidence bag. He holds it open and the bishop drops the rattle inside. “Probably need the laundry basket, too,” he says.

“Of course,” the bishop says.

The infant in my arms begins to cry. I try jiggling her gently, but the movement feels awkward and unpracticed. The baby isn’t appeased. Slowly, the cries transform to wails. I break a sweat beneath my jacket.

Everyone seems to take it in stride, but it rattles my nerves, and I realize everyone in the room has experienced this at some point in their lives. To me, this is as foreign as a trip to the moon.

I look helplessly at Tomasetti.

“You look like you could use some backup, Chief,” he says in a low voice.

“The thought crossed my mind,” I mutter.

“I’d take her off your hands, but I was going to grab the Maglite and take a look around outside.”

I nod, hoping he doesn’t notice the sweat beading on my forehead.

Finally, Ada takes pity on me. “I’ll take her, Katie, if you need to do your police work.”

“Thanks.”

With the ease of a woman who’s carried out the maneuver a thousand times, Ada sets both hands beneath the crying child and scoops her into her arms. “Come to
grossmudder,
” she whispers. Grandmother.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Tomasetti go through the front door.

“Maybe she’s hungry,” the bishop offers.

Ada holds the child against her, rocking and humming softly. “I got a teaspoon or so of goat’s milk down her earlier.”

A knock sounds. Relief flits through me when I realize the social worker from Children’s Services has arrived. The bishop leaves us to answer the door.

“Chief Burkholder?”

A young woman with curly red hair and a navy pantsuit walks into the living room in front of the bishop. “I’m Carly Travis with Children’s Services.”

She looks capable and professional in her chic suit and briefcase/purse slung over her shoulder. I introduce myself as I cross to her and we shake hands. “Thanks for getting here so quickly.”

The social worker’s face softens into a smile upon spotting the wriggling, crying bundle. “Oh, my.” Her eyes meet the Amish woman’s. “Can I have a peek?”

Smiling, Ada peels back a corner of the quilt. The social worker actually giggles. “I think that’s the cutest newborn I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“They’re not all pretty like this one.” The Amish woman uses her pinky finger to tickle the little roll of fat beneath the infant’s chin.

Leave it to a baby to bring the most unlikely people together, I think. “Carly, do you have a baby seat in your vehicle?”

“Never leave home without it.”

I nod. “I thought we should get her checked out at the hospital first thing.”

“Definitely.” Carly makes eye contact with Ada and holds out her arms. “May I take her?”

“Oh, I kind of hate to see this one go.” But the Amish woman relinquishes the baby.

Carly expertly takes the child into her arms. “Even when you haven’t known them for long, it’s always hard to let them go,” she says softly. “Isn’t it, pretty girl?”

“What will happen to her now?” the bishop asks.

“We’ll take her to the hospital for a checkup,” I tell him. “Once we make sure she’s stable and healthy, she’ll probably be placed in a foster home. In the meantime, I’m going to try to find her mother and father.”

The old Amish couple exchange a look that betrays their concern. For the baby. Maybe for the mother, especially if she’s Amish.

I nod at the social worker. “Tomasetti and I will follow you to the Hospital.”

Taking a final peek at the newborn, Carly flips the corner of the quilt over the baby’s head. “Since we’re getting a police escort, I’ll get her buckled in.”

*   *   *

I spend an hour in the emergency room of Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg with the abandoned newborn—now dubbed “Baby Doe.” The social worker and I talk shop while the baby is thoroughly examined. A blood sample is taken from her little heel for DNA that will, hopefully, be matched with the mother’s DNA when—or if—she’s found.

Once the infant girl is deemed stable and given a clean bill of health, I leave her in the capable hands of the social worker and make my way to the OB department to speak with the RN on duty.

I find Louann Zeigler at the nurse’s station, her fingers flying over the keyboard of a sleek laptop. I’ve met her a couple of times over the years in the course of my job. She’s friendly, capable and, luckily for me, always seems to have a pretty good handle on the goings-on inside the hospital.

She looks up from her computer screen and smiles when I approach. “Hi, Chief Burkholder,” she says. “How can I help you?”

I tell her about the abandoned newborn.

“I just heard,” she says with a shake of her head. “Doctor Atherton—he’s the head of pediatrics here at Pomerene—is looking at her now. He says you probably got her here just in time. Any longer and we might have been dealing with dehydration issues or even hypothermia.”

“I’m wondering if you’re aware of any expectant moms who were upset by their pregnancy or troubled or confused about having a baby,” I begin.

“Not off the top of my head.” Her brows knit. “Occasionally, we’ll have a patient get upset when her pregnancy is confirmed. Usually, a case like that is a young woman who’s not married or she’s not ready for kids, and the pregnancy is unplanned. I’ve seen it happen to women in unhappy or abusive relationships, too.”