The Devil's Closet by Stacy Dittrich Page B

floor-length dress with long sleeves, a white bonnet, and black shoes. A helicopter flew over us as we neared the scene.
    “The perfect victim,” I mumbled, looking out the window.
    “What did you say? Do I turn here?”
    “No, turn left at the next road. I said she’s the perfect victim. With all the media attention right now, the suspect needs to be careful. A brilliant stroke to choose an Amish child. No one pays attention to the Amish, they don’t read or watch news, they’re not overly cooperative with law enforcement, and they’re isolated. The perfect victim. He has long thought this out ahead of time.”
    “I do believe you’re right, Detective,” Michael muttered, pulling onto Planktown Road.
    The sheriff was already on scene and saw us coming down the road. He waved us over.
    “How’s the family doing?” I asked the sheriff, nodding in the direction of the farm.
    “You know them, CeeCee. When the officers first got here, the father insisted on discussing the matter with the Amish elders first, before talking with us. I guess it was the wife who spoke up, surprisingly, and started prodding her son to tell the officers what he saw.” He took his eyeglasses off and peered through the lens before putting them back on.
    “I don’t know what to do.” He sighed. “We’ve got to figure something out. I know it’s the FBI’s party right now, but this is still my county and these children live in it. I feel responsible for them. CeeCee, please.” He lowered his voice as if there were a million people around; there wasn’t one, “I don’t care what you have to do to find this asshole, but do it. And I don’t care how. I’m a parent, too. Do you hear what I’m telling you? I’ll take the fall.”
    I heard him loud and clear. The Sheriff of Richland County had just ordered me to forgo all laws, ethics, and morals, if necessary, to catch a child murderer. And when it was all said and done, let the chips fall where they may, he would take responsibility. If the life of one child was saved, it would be worth taking the risk.
    Frankly, what the sheriff just asked me to do was nothing compared to what I’ve done in the past. I’m by no means some rogue, dirty, or corrupt cop, but I’ve had my share of sins. The worst were trotted out last year in West Virginia when I almost died. I’d shot an unarmed man in the head on Murder Mountain and would do it again in a heartbeat, no questions asked. Eric, Michael, and Coop watched me do it, but none of them have ever brought it up, not once. And it will remain unspoken.
    I told the sheriff I understood very clearly what he meant. He patted me on the back as we walked toward the farm. I went to see what Michael was doing. He was still standing by the car and had just hung up from call. He looked upset.
    “That was my boss—the bigwig from Quantico himself. He’s sending forty-five agents down here in the next twenty-four hours to scour every inch of this county. This is a nightmare, and he’s keeping me in charge of it. He said I’m doing a good job. Can you believe it? Three kidnappings, one attempted, and one body found—oh, yeah—I’m doing a hell of a job!” he said with an amount of sarcasm unusual for him.
    I gently touched his arm. “Michael, you’re the best they’ve got. You are doing a hell of a job.”
    He just shook his head while leaning back against the car, arms folded. The Amber Alert had been put out on the radio five minutes ago, sixty-five minutes after the kidnapping—a world record. We were getting good at this.
    “CeeCee, I’ll tell you first before I tell the sheriff. My boss specifically wants local law enforcement involved only in the search. Not the investigation itself.”
    Hardly a surprise. The FBI can be a real group of assholes when it comes to local law enforcement. They waltz in, take all the information you’ve worked hard to get, and then leave, barely taking your phone calls afterward.
    “Frankly, I’ve