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had one.”
    It’s an old-fashioned flip phone. The kind you can buy at any discount department or electronics store. “Any idea where it came from?” I ask.
    She shakes her head. “Too many Amish youngsters are using the phones these days.”
    “Do you mind if I take it back to the station with me?” I ask. “I’d like to find out who he talked to.”
    “I have no use for a phone. But since it belonged to Noah, I’d appreciate it if you brought it back.”
    “Of course I will,” I assure her.
    *   *   *
    Back at the police station, I take the phone directly to my office and flip it open. The first thing I notice is that while it has the capability to send and receive texts, Noah Fisher didn’t utilize either. I page through the recent calls, sent and received, and I immediately notice nearly all the calls were to or from a local number, right here in Painters Mill.
    Bingo.
    If Noah Fisher were still alive and suspected of committing a crime, I’d have to secure a search warrant before looking through his cell phone to collect information. Since Noah is deceased and I received express permission from his mother, I’m free to use whatever information I find.
    Picking up my desk phone, I dial the number in question. A girl’s voice picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
    Young, I think. Teenager. Possibly pre-teen. “Hi,” I begin. “I’m trying to figure out if I dialed the correct number.” I recite the number back to her. “Who’s this?”
    “Chloe,” she replies uncertainly. “Who are you trying to reach?”
    “What’s your last name, Chloe?”
    She makes a sound of annoyance. “Why are you asking me that? How did you get that phone?”
    “Chloe, this is Kate Burkholder, the chief of Police in Painters Mill. Is your mom or dad there? I’d like to speak with them.”
    A quick intake of breath and then the line goes dead. Either she didn’t believe me when I identified myself, or she knew exactly why I was calling and panicked. I’m betting on the latter.
    My interest piqued, I enlist the help ofa reverse number lookup database and enter the number. Four dollars and ninety-nine cents later, I have a name and an address: Damon Atherton.
    I’ve never met Chloe but her father, Damon Atherton, is a respected pediatrician at Pomerene Hospital. I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard the name. More recently, I recall one of the nurses mentioning him the morning I brought in Baby Doe.
    I spend a few minutes digging up everything I can find on Chloe Atherton. She just turned sixteen years old. She’s had her driver’s license for two months. No citations. No arrests. She’s on the Painters Mill High School track team and holds the record for the mile run. According to a recent newspaper story highlighting outstanding high school students, she’s an honor roll student with a 4.0 GPA—and aspirations for med school. Just three months ago she was awarded the People Helping People Award for her volunteer work at the local retirement home.
    Is it possible this girl—Chloe—is Baby Doe’s mother? Did this young overachiever become pregnant, somehow hide the pregnancy for nine months, and give birth without anyone knowing? The scenario doesn’t seem plausible. Especially with her father being a physician. But experience tells me it’s not only possible, but it happens more often than most people realize.
    Committing the Atherton address to memory, I grab my keys and head for the door.
    *   *   *
    In 2001, Ohio enacted a Safe Haven law, which basically allows any parent who feels they are unable to care for a newborn to leave the child with a peace officer or medical worker without legal ramifications. The law was adopted to keep mothers from leaving their newborn babies in places that might endanger the child.
    I don’t know if Chloe Atherton is the person I’m looking for. If she is, I need to be prepared. While Baby Doe was found healthy and unharmed, the infant was not left with a