Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

means.
    “We’re going to search the entire property. Sheriff’s office is going to bring in some cadaver dogs.”
    I sigh, wondering if we’ll ever get the full story of what happened and why. “Have you talked to Noah Mast?”
    He nods. “One of the troopers and I did while we were waiting for the ambulance. Kid’s a mess. Doesn’t even know what year it is.”
    I struggle to wrap my brain around that. The conditions were truly horrific—dirty, unsanitary, damp. The hostages were malnourished and filthy. I can’t imagine the psychological toll nine years would take.
    “Does he know his parents are dead?” I ask.
    “Not yet.”
    A snatch of memory pushes at the back of my brain. “All of this makes me wonder what really happened to the sister.”
    Tomasetti nods. “We asked Noah about her. Evidently, the parents blamed him for her death.”
    “But it was a suicide.”
    “Maybe. We’ll need to take a look at the autopsy report. Maybe even exhume her body.”
    I’m still thinking about the parents and how they could lay blame on their son. “Did Noah say why they blamed him?”
    “We didn’t get that far. EMS took him to the hospital in Mayfield Heights. He’ll probably spend at least one night there. Once they get him set up in a room, we’ll do the interview.” His face darkens. “You get anything from the girls?”
    “Not much. They were pretty shaken up.”
    “We need to talk to them.”
    “They took Bonnie Fisher and Ruth Wagler to the same hospital as Noah. Sadie went to Pomerene, in Millersburg, so her family could be there.”
    For a moment, the only sounds are the crack of police radios and the patter of rain against the ground. “Tomasetti, what the hell was going on here?”
    He shakes his head in a way that tells me not only does he not know but the depravity and insanity are so far beyond his grasp, he can’t imagine.
    “The Masts seemed so fucking normal,” I say.
    “Except they kidnapped at least five teenagers, killed at least three people, and imprisoned their own son for nine years,” he growls.
    We fall silent, our thoughts zinging between us, and watch a trooper in a yellow slicker turn away a young reporter. But my mind is still on Bonnie Fisher, Sadie Miller, and Noah Mast. Tomasetti’s right: They’re going to be our best source of information. Our only source now that the Masts are dead.
    I hope they know enough to tell us why.
    There are innumerable rewards that come with the closing of an investigation. First and foremost is the knowledge that a dangerous individual—in this case, two—has been taken off the street and won’t be harming anyone else. But there are other rewards, too. The personal satisfaction of knowing you did your job to the best of your ability; that the time and energy you’d invested paid off. Then there’s the intellectual reward of finally having the question of “why?” addressed.
    That, more than anything, is the engine driving us as Tomasetti and I walk through the emergency entrance of Hillcrest Hospital in Mayfield Heights, a small community east of Cleveland.
    We don’t speak as we ride the elevator up. The doors whoosh open to a brightly lit nurses station. A heavyset woman wearing pink scrubs sits at the desk, staring at a computer monitor. She glances up when we step off the elevator. She doesn’t speak, but her mouth firms into a thin, unpleasant line, and I suspect she’s not happy about the police questioning her new high-profile patients.
    Beyond, a wide tiled hall is lined with doors. We don’t have to ask which rooms belong to the victims. Two Lake County sheriff’s deputies and a state Highway Patrol trooper stand outside rooms 308 and 312, dr inking coffee and talking quietly, eyeing us with the territorial glares of a pack of dogs. Another local cop sits in a plastic chair, reading a magazine.
    Since the crimes were committed in rural Lake County, the case falls under the jurisdiction of the sheriff’s office. But Tomasetti and I have been part of this investigation since the task force was formed. I don’t think there will be a problem with our sitting in on the interview.
    All eyes fall on us as we approach. I recognize two of the deputies from the scene at the Mast farm earlier. Their expressions aren’t hostile, but they’re not friendly, either, and I’m reminded they’ve lost a fellow officer today.
    Tomasetti slides his badge from his pocket, and I do the same. The deputy I don’t recognize