“You examined her?”
He nods. “The most notable injury was a laceration at the back of her head. It was a doozy and required four staples to close. There was a hematoma.”
“Blunt force?” I ask.
“That’s a likely scenario. Or she may have fallen and hit her head. Whatever the case, it was a forceful blow.”
“Sexual assault?”
“No indication of it.”
“She’s claiming memory loss,” I say.
“I’m aware.” But he looks skeptical. “The CAT scan came back normal. X-rays look good. She may have a minor concussion, which is why I admitted her, but there’s no indication of major swelling.”
“What about alcohol or medication?” I ask. “Drugs?”
“I did a simple immunoassay screen and it came back negative. Blood work looks good.” He glances down at the file in front of him. “She’s covered with abrasions, scratches, and bruises. As far as I can tell, she could have been assaulted; she could have fallen, or those injuries might have happened in a traffic accident.”
“I’m glad you’re helping to narrow things down.”
He laughs outright. “Anything to help, Kate.”
“What about the whole memory thing, Doctor Brumbaugh? Is it possible?”
“I’ve been a physician for twenty-six years and I’ve never seen a case of true amnesia. Not one.”
“Is she faking it?”
“I couldn’t profess to know what’s in her mind. All I’m saying is that true amnesia is extremely rare.” He slides his glasses onto his crown and rubs his eyes as if the long hours are catching up to him. “That said, in light of her head injury she could be experiencing some form of transient amnesia.”
“Transient amnesia?”
“All that means is that it’s a temporary condition.” His brows knit. “It’s sometimes called retrograde amnesia.”
“What’s the treatment?” I ask.
“Time. If she doesn’t start remembering basic things in the next twenty-four hours, I recommend she see a neurologist.”
* * *
Doctor Brumbaugh’s parting words ring in my head as I take the elevator to the third floor and head toward the nurse’s station. I have my badge at the ready. “I’m looking for the Jane Doe who was brought up from ER.”
The young nurse motions down the hall. “Room 308,” she tells me. “Last room on the right.”
I find the young woman lying supine in the bed, her head turned away, staring out the window. She’s not making a sound, but her cheeks are wet with tears. I give her a moment and then knock. “Hello.”
She startles, swipes quickly at the tears as if she doesn’t want anyone to see them, and pushes herself to a sitting position. “Oh, hi.” The smile that follows is more polite than genuine. “I was wondering if you were going to come back.”
“I’m a sucker for a good mystery.” I enter the room, pull out the chair next to her bed and sit. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
The word hangs uneasily for a second. The enthusiasm in her voice so obviously doesn’t ring true that she chokes out a laugh. “That’s a ridiculous answer,” she says. “I’m not fine. I’m scared because I’m lying here in this bed, wracking my brain, trying to remember something—anything—but it’s all just a big fat . . . blank. How can someone just . . . forget their life?”
“According to Doctor Brumbaugh, you sustained a blow to your head. He thinks you’ll start to remember within the next day or so.”
“What happened to me?”
“The doc thinks you may have fallen or been in a traffic accident.” I pause, watching her for a reaction. “Or someone could have assaulted you.”
A tremor passes through her body with such intensity that I can see her shaking beneath the blanket. “Someone did this to me,” she says.
“So you remember.”
“Enough to know I didn’t fall. Someone did this. The same person who was chasing me through that field.” She tightens her mouth. “I just don’t remember who.”
“Are you sure about that?” I ask. “The doc also told me that amnesia is extremely rare.”
Her gaze jerks to mine. “I don’t blame you for not believing me. If I wasn’t experiencing this myself, I wouldn’t be buying into it, either.”
“How do you know someone was chasing you?” I ask.
“I remember running from him.” She taps her chest with her hand. “I still feel the fear of it here.”
I take her through the same questions I asked earlier, posing them in different ways, trying to catch her in a lie or trip her up, but she’s unable to answer any of them.
“If you’re lying to me, I will find out,” I tell her. “Do you understand?”
“I have no reason to lie.” Looking defeated, she sinks more deeply into the pillows and pulls the covers up to her chin. “What am I going to do? What if I don’t remember? Chief Burkholder, what will happen to me? Where will I go?”
“Chances are you have family and they’re looking for you,” I tell her. “You speak Deitsh. That’s significant. It may help.”
We fall silent, the only sounds coming from the ringing of the phone at the nurse’s station in the hall and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes against the tile floor.
I look around the room, spot the small alcove closet in the bathroom. “Do you mind if I take a look at your clothes?”
“Sure.”
Rising, I go to the niche and retrieve two clear plastic bags containing the clothes she was wearing when she was admitted. Someone has folded the dress and headscarf, and tucked them inside. A second bag holds a single sneaker. A sticker on both bags reads “Jane Doe. Room 308.”
I didn’t get a thorough look at the dress this morning, but I saw enough to know that while it isn’t Amish, it’s modest and traditional, both of which are likely culturally significant. I take the bags to the bed and pull out the dress. “Speak up if any of this jogs your memory.”
She nods, looking a little too excited by the prospect of a breakthrough. “Okay.”
The garment is blue plaid—a print that would not be worn by an Amish woman here in Holmes County. It’s sleeveless—another feature that tells me she’s not Amish. A second garment I hadn’t noticed spills out. It’s a white blouse with elbow-length sleeves and a club collar. There’s also an apron that matches the fabric of the dress.
I look at the young woman. “Are these clothes familiar to you?”
She can’t seem to stop looking at the dress. “The blouse is worn under the dress,” she tells me.
“Like a jumper?” I ask.
“Right.”
I pluck the scarf from the bag. It’s large; about two feet square. The fabric is black with tiny white dots. I hand it to her and watch as she folds it into a triangle, slips it over her head, and ties it at her nape.
Her eyes meet mine. “I’ve done that a thousand times.”
“I can tell.”
I’m about to fold the bag when I notice the key. Upending the bag, I let it fall into my palm. It looks like a typical house key. “Do you recognize this?”
She stares hard at the key, as if by the sheer force of her will, the memories will emerge. “Why can’t I remember?” Putting her face in her hands, she begins to cry.
I give her a moment, and then say, “There are a couple of things I can do that might help.”
She raises her head. “Like what?”
“For starters, I can take your fingerprints and run them through AFIS, which is a law enforcement database system. If you’ve been fingerprinted—or arrested—your prints will be on file, along with the rest of your information.” I watch her carefully for a response to the word “arrested,” but she gives me nothing.
She brightens. “Let’s do it.”
“I can also use the media and circulate a photo of you,” I tell her, “along with your story in the hope that someone recognizes you and steps forward.”
She considers that a moment and then shakes her head. “What if whoever did this to me sees my photo? What if he comes after me?”
It doesn’t elude me that she has consistently referred to her attacker as a male. “I’ll talk to security here at the hospital.” I tilt my head, snag her gaze. “If they’re comfortable with all this, are you game?”
“I’ll do anything.” She offers a tremulous smile. “I just want to go home.”
“Good girl.” Tugging out my phone, I snap several photos of her, front and profile. When I’m finished, I hand her one of my cards. “I’ll be sending someone in to fingerprint you.”
“Okay.”
“If you remember anything else, even if it doesn’t seem important, call me. Day or night.” Reaching out, I give her shoulder a squeeze and start toward the door.
“Chief Burkholder?”
I stop in the doorway and turn to her.
“What’s going to happen next? I mean, I have no money. I obviously can’t stay here at the hospital.” She makes a sweeping gesture to encompass the room. “They’re probably wondering how I’m going to pay my bill.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I tell her.
* * *
He spent the day pacing, icy sweat slicking his skin, nerves crawling. With every creak of the house, every car that passed, he imagined the police coming for him. By the time dusk fell, he was ready to jump right out of his skin. What was going on? Why hadn’t they come for him?
It wasn’t until he turned on the computer that the answer materialized. He almost couldn’t believe his eyes.
Do you know who this woman is?
The Painters Mill Police Department is asking for the public’s help in identifying this woman. “Jane Doe,” as she has been dubbed, was discovered by a local Amish couple early this morning when she showed up at their farm with a minor head injury and no idea who she is or where she came from. Left without identification, she’s counting on you for help . . .
If he hadn’t been so damn scared he might have laughed. What the hell? He read the article twice. In the back of his mind, he wondered if it was some kind of trap. But he didn’t think so. Not in small-town Ohio. The cops simply weren’t that sophisticated.
Everything wasn’t lost. There was still time to salvage what he’d worked so hard for. All he had to do was find her. Finish what he’d started. In a town the size of Painters Mill, he didn’t think that would be too difficult.
* * *
The police station is quiet most evenings and tonight is no exception. My second-shift dispatcher, Jodie Metzger, is at her station with the radio turned up a little too loud. I’ve spent most of the day working my Jane Doe case. I forwarded her photo to eight media outlets, including The Columbus Dispatch, The Plain Dealer out of Cleveland, and the radio station in Dover. I also contacted a social worker in the Holmes County Department of Job and Family Services. If worse comes to worst and Jane Doe’s memory doesn’t return, they’ll assist her with housing and a job.
It’s just past 7:00 p.m. I’ve spent the last hour hitting various websites in an attempt to identify Jane Doe’s headscarf and clothing. It’s a complex endeavor. There are numerous Anabaptist denominations and subgroups. They share many similarities, mainly the practice of adult baptism. But there are distinctive differences, too.
For example, most people know the vast majority of Amish eschew the use of electricity and motorized vehicles and dress traditionally. Most Mennonites, however, have no problem driving cars, using electricity and technology, and many forego traditional dress. The Amish do not proselyte; the Mennonites evangelize and are involved in missionary work around the world.
The tenet that differentiates the Hutterites is the practice of “communal” living. Most colonies consist of multifamily structures. The community prays, lives, and works together.
So far, my Jane Doe’s dress and scarf most closely resemble the traditional garb of the Hutterites. The problem is, the nearest settlement is in Wisconsin; the vast majority is in Canada.
I’m reading an article on Ohio’s German Baptist community when my cell phone erupts. Without looking away from the screen I pick it up, thinking it’s Tomasetti. Instead, I hear a woman’s frantic whisper.
“He’s here! Chief Burkholder!”
Jane Doe. I stand up. “Where are you?”
“In my room. He’s coming!”
“Where is he?”
“He walked by my door. He looked at me, but kept going. I’m scared. He’s going to come back.”
“Use your Call button. Tell the nurses. Run out to the nurse’s station if—”
A yelp cuts me off. The call drops.
“Are you there?” I say.
No answer.
“Shit.” I call out to my dispatcher. “Jodie!” Then I hit the number for the hospital’s security office.
Jodie slides up to my door. “Chief?”
“Get county out to Pomerene Hospital. Now. Room 308. Domestic situation.”
“Got it.” She runs back to her desk.
Snatching up my keys, I start toward the door. One ring. Two. “Come on.” Three rings.
“Security.”
Quickly, I identify myself. “Get an officer up to room 308. Expedite. There’s an unidentified male. Possible domestic situation.”
In the background I can hear the bark and hiss of his radio. “On my way,” he says.
I jog to reception. “You get county?” I ask Jodie.
“Deputy’s a block away.”
“Keep me posted. I’m on my way.”
Then I’m through the door and into the night.
* * *
I arrive at Pomerene Hospital to find a Holmes County cruiser, lights blazing, parked outside the emergency entrance. I park just off the portico and run inside.
“Where’s the deputy?” I ask the person manning the desk.
“Third floor.”
The elevator is occupied, so I go to the stairwell and take the stairs two at a time to the third level. I’m breathless when I step into the hall.
The first thing I see is a Holmes County sheriff’s deputy, two nurses, and a uniformed security officer standing outside room 308. All eyes fall on me when the stair door slams.
“Is Jane Doe all right?” I ask as I start toward them.
“She’s okay.” The deputy grimaces. “He got into her room. They struggled, but she made it out and ran.”
“You get him?” I say.
He shakes his head. “Got away, Chief.”
I peer into the room. Jane is sitting on the bed, shaking and pale faced, talking to a deputy and a nurse. I go back into the hall. “How did he get in?”
“We think he came up those stairs.” He motions toward the illuminated Exit sign at the end of the corridor. “Went out the same way.”
“Anyone get a look at him?”
The nurse speaks up. “I saw a man in the hall, but we were busy and I didn’t pay much attention to him.”
I make eye contact with the deputy. “Anyone check with the clerk downstairs? If our intruder came in that way, he would have had to walk past her to get to the stairs.”
“I talked to her,” he tells me. “She saw him. Said he came in as if he knew where he was going. Waved to her. By the time she finished her call, he was gone.”
“Was she able to give a better description?”
“Male. Six feet. Two hundred. She thought he might’ve been wearing a hat.”
I think about Jane Doe’s traditional clothes. “Beard?”
“She didn’t notice.”
I turn my attention to the nurse. “How’s Jane Doe?”
“Pretty shaken up, as you can imagine. She ran out to our work station like the room was on fire.”
“Did anyone else see him?”
She shakes her head. “Most of the patients were sleeping. Nurses were busy. Sorry, Chief Burkholder.”
I thank them and head toward room 308. I find
Jane Doe fully dressed, standing next to the bed, tying the headscarf at her nape. Some kind soul has given her a pair of sneakers. She turns to me and her eyes meet mine. “I can’t stay here,” she tells me. “He’ll be back. Next time he’ll kill me.”
“Do you remember him?”
She shakes her head and I notice the red marks on her neck. “All I know is I’m terrified of him.”
Reaching out, I move the collar of her blouse aside with my finger. “He hurt you?”
She looks away, nods.
I pat the bed. “Sit down and tell me what happened.”
Sighing, she lowers herself to the mattress. “The first time I saw him, he walked by my room and kept going. I called you. I was on the phone with you when he came back.”
“What did he do?”
“He came in. Had this crazy light in his eyes. Like . . . rage. He closed the door behind him and he just came at me fast, pushed me onto the bed, put his hands around my throat.” She runs out of breath, takes a moment to gulp air. “I could hear his teeth grinding.” She closes her eyes, fingering her throat. “I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. I’d hit the Call button. When it buzzed, he scrambled off of me and ran.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He was sort of snarling, but I think . . .” Her brows draw together. “He said something like, ‘Keep your mouth shut.’”
I pull my notebook from my pocket. “What did he look like?”
“Older. Like Mr. Fisher. Heavy, but not overweight. Dark hair. Gray on the sides.”
I write all of it down. “What was he wearing?”
“A dark jacket.” She shakes her head. “It happened so fast.”
“Hat?”
“Black felt, I think.”
“Beard?”
Her eyes find mine. “Yes. It was . . . trimmed. Gray. How did you know that?”
“Beards are traditional for some Anabaptist men.”
We fall silent. She sags, looks around the room. “Chief Burkholder, what am I going to do?” she says quietly. “I don’t think I can stay here. It’s not safe, but I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
I’d decided earlier to take her to the women’s shelter in Millersburg. But in light of the as-of-yet unidentified male who attacked her, I’m hesitant to leave her unprotected—and possibly endanger women and children, many of whom have already been traumatized.