Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

conviction.
    “Edna, there is much comfort in that,” the bishop adds.
    I see the struggle waging within her, the war between absolute faith and the terror of knowing something horrific may have happened to her daughter. “It cannot be Annie,” she whispers. “Not Annie.”
    Tomasetti snags my attention and motions toward the Tahoe. I take a step back and we start down the sidewalk.
    “I have to go with them,” Levi tells her. “Be strong, Edna. Get breakfast for the children. I’ll be back before you’ve washed the dishes.”
    “Levi . . .”
    I hear her crying softly, but the Amish man turns away. Stone-faced, staring straight ahead, he starts toward the Tahoe.
    Behind him, his wife falls to her knees, clenches handfuls of grass in both hands, and cries out her daughter’s name.
    The drive to Trumbull Memorial Hospital takes twenty-five minutes, but it seems like hours. The sense of dread inside the vehicle is palpable. Bishop Hertzler and Levi King ride in the backseat and spend much of that time in silent prayer or speaking quietly. Mostly, they talk about Annie—her youth and goodness, her love of God and family, the possibility that the body isn’t hers and that another family will be needing their prayers. Levi returns to that theme again and again, and I know he’s clinging to that hope with the desperation of a man trying to save his own life. In a way, he is.
    By the time we park in the garage across the street from the hospital, the men have fallen silent. No one speaks as we disembark. The two Amish men draw some attention as the four of us take the skyway from the garage to the hospital. It’s always hard for me to believe there are people living in Ohio who’ve never seen an Amish person. Once inside, we take the elevator to the basement, where the morgue is located.
    The elevator doors open to a reception area with pale yellow walls, a blue sofa and chair, and a couple of large areca palms. The coffee table holds a vase filled with silk peonies. A flat-screen television mounted on the wall is tuned to the Fox News Channel. As I take in the decor, I can’t help but think that someone tried a little too hard to make a dismal place seem normal.
    A middle-aged woman in a fuchsia skirt and jacket sits behind a glossy oak desk with a headset on. She offers an appropriately somber smile. “Can I help you?”
    Tomasetti steps ahead of us and shows his identification. “We’re here for a viewing.”
    “We’re expecting you. I think they’re ready back there.” She eyes the two Amish men as she hands him a clipboard. “Just sign at the bottom.”
    Tomasetti scribbles an illegible signature on the form and returns the clipboard to her.
    She rounds her desk. “This way, please.”
    With Tomasetti and I behind her and the two Amish men trailing, she takes us around the corner. We pass by a windowless gray door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY . Above the door, a sign printed in an Old English font reads MORTUI VIVIS PRAECIPIANT . It’s not the first time I’ve seen those words. I don’t read Latin, but I know the translation by heart: “Let the dead teach the living.”
    The hall opens to a small, starkly furnished room painted an eye-pleasing beige. A sofa table holds a small lamp and a box of tissues. Above the table, a cheap southwestern print in an oak frame is hung a few inches too high. A ceiling-to-floor curtain drapes the fourth wall. Next to it, a small round speaker with a red button is set into a niche. Behind the curtain, I know, is the viewing window.
    “I’ll let them know you’re here,” the woman tells us.
    Bishop Hertzler and Levi King stand near the sofa table, looking out of place, not making eye contact with Tomasetti or me. Neither man acknowledges the curtain, as if pretending it isn’t there will make whatever’s on the other side disappear.
    The urge to move, to pace the confines of the small space, is strong. I stand there waiting, impotent.
    “Never doubt in the dark what God has shown you in the light,” the bishop says. “He will take care of His children.”
    No one responds. No one knows what to say. Those of us in law enforcement know that sometimes God sits back and lets Fate have her way. We know sometimes God’s children die before their time.
    Levi shoves his hands into his pockets and looks down at the floor. A few feet away, Tomasetti stands near the curtain, looking as if he might tear it aside himself if it doesn’t open