Bates shakes his head. “Nada.”

“Anything at any of the scenes?” I ask.

“We don’t have a scene,” Tomasetti replies. “These kids disappeared without a trace. We don’t know where the actual kidnappings—if, in fact, that’s what we’re dealing with—took place.”

I look down at the file. The part of me that is a cop is intrigued by the puzzle. I want to know what happened and why. I want to find the person responsible, go head-to-head with whoever it is. I want to stop him. Bring him to justice. But the more human part of me—the part of me that is Amish and knows the culture with such intimacy—is outraged by what has been done and frightened by the possibilities. “What about the victims? Aside from being Amish, do they share any other common threads?”

“Not that we’ve found, but we’re still gathering information,” McNinch says.

“Analyst is looking at everything now,” Tomasetti adds. “Once we arrive on-scene, we’ll talk to the families. That’s where you come in.”

I nod. “That’s where we’re going to get the brunt of our information. The families. Friends.”

“We haven’t been able to get our hands on photos,” Bates adds.

“Most Amish won’t have photos of their children,” I tell him.

He stares at me blankly, and I realize he’s probably not an Ohio native. “Most Amish don’t like to have their photos taken,” I tell him. “They feel it’s a vain display of pride. Some of the more conservative have biblical beliefs that keep them from having any kind of likeness done.”

“We’ve brought in the state Highway Patrol,” Bates says. “They wanted photos, but all we could give them were physical descriptions.”

“If the parents will cooperate, we may be able to get a sketch done,” I offer as an alternative. But everyone knows a sketch takes time and isn’t as helpful as a photo.

“Say the word and we’ll get someone down there,” Bates says.

Tomasetti glances at his watch, and I know he’s sending his superiors a not-so-subtle message to hurry this along so we can get on the road.

“Has local law enforcement talked to the parents?” I ask.

Tomasetti nods. “I talked to the sheriff. He didn’t get much. Apparently, the parents are as baffled as we are.”

McNinch scrubs a hand over his head. “No reflection on small-town law enforcement, but I suspect these people are out of their league. You know, small departments with minimal resources. They’re under-staffed. The sheriff sold vacuum cleaners before he took the job, for Chrissake. No offense, Kate, but the majority of these guys just don’t have the experience for this kind of investigation.”

“None taken.” I smile at him. “Just FYI, I’ve never sold vacuum cleaners.”

McNinch chuckles. “Then you’re not out of your depth.”