I’m no stranger to crime or the knowledge of the things human beings can do to each other. Even for an experienced cop, it’s unsettling to stand in a place where you know someone died, especially when their death was at the hands of another. I wonder about the girl’s final moments. Did she come out here alone and lose her way? Was the snow coming down too hard for her to find her way home? Was she lost, alone and afraid? Did she know she wasn’t going to make it out of these woods alive? Or did someone make sure she didn’t? Someone who, for reasons unknown, didn’t want her to survive?

I don’t expect to make some profound discovery simply by looking at the scene; nothing’s ever that easy. But I’ve heard it said that some places have memories. I’m not sure I believe it, but it’s almost always useful to visit a crime scene. I spend fifteen minutes walking the area, trying to get a feel for it, the logistics of the surroundings, gain some sense of what might’ve transpired. Why would a fifteen-year-old Amish girl wander into the deep woods during a snowstorm? Where was she coming from? Where was she going? Was she alone? Running away from someone? To someone? I think about her recent pregnancy, the possibility of a home abortion. Did she do it herself? Or did someone help her? And who supplied her with the OxyContin that showed up in the tox screen?

I know one thing for certain: Rachel Esh kept a lot of secrets.

I make a mental note to ask Suggs about the OxyContin trade in the area, have him cross the names with some of the Amish I met today, see if any of them intersect. I walk the area a final time, but there’s nothing there. Just the remnants of a police presence, the knowledge of a life lost before its time, and an unsolved mystery that will be forgotten all too soon if someone doesn’t uncover the truth.

“What happened to you?” I whisper, my voice sounding strange in the silence of the forest.

I’ve just started toward the trailer when the toe of my boot nudges something beneath the snow. Kneeling, I brush away snow and pull out a faceless Amish doll. It’s about eight inches long. The fabric is tattered and dirty. Stitched into the material are the words LIFE BEYOND DEATH.

The odd inscription gives me pause. No one puts words like that on a child’s doll. More than likely they were sewn into the fabric subsequent to Rachel’s death and left here as some kind of tribute after the crime scene people left. Someone had cared about Rachel Esh. Mourned her death. Her parents? Her best friend, Marie Weaver? Her boyfriend? Or is this something else? The response of a guilty conscience from someone unknown?

I don’t have an evidence bag, so I drop the doll into my coat pocket. I’ll pass it off to Suggs later. Chances are it won’t tell us anything, but it’s worth a closer look.