After the Storm (16 page)

“I just want to ask you some questions about his disappearance. You’re under no obligation to talk to me, but if you don’t, I’ll be back with a warrant.”

He glances quickly behind him, an indication that he doesn’t want us to see whatever lies on the other side of the door. “I’ll come out there.”

Glock and I move back simultaneously. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m aware of Glock keeping his hands loose and ready, maintaining a safe distance in case Underwood does something stupid.

The door swings open and he steps onto the porch. Even from two feet away I smell alcohol on his breath. He’s not falling-down drunk, but he’s not sober, either.

“I read about them bones found out to that old barn,” he says slowly. “They belong to Leroy?”

The question shouldn’t surprise me; news travels fast in a small town, especially if there’s a dead body involved. But it’s been my experience that when people have something to hide, the last thing they do is raise the subject I’m about to question them about. But then Underwood is smart enough to know how to play the game.

“We’re not sure yet,” I tell him.

“I reckon you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think it was him.” He shakes his head. “I’d always hoped he’d made it out of this shithole. Come back richer than God, and maybe share a little with his old buddy.” He wobbles a little as he moves from the doorway, sets his hand against the siding to steady himself. “What do you want with me?”

“When’s the last time you saw him?” I ask.

“Damn. Long time ago.” He scratches his head, loosening a shower of dandruff onto the shoulders of his T-shirt. “A couple of days before he disappeared. I was working at Quality Implement at the time. We used to hang out on the weekends. Cruise around in his souped-up Camaro and drink Little Kings.” His chuckle ends in a phlegmy cough. “He could put it away, that’s for sure.”

“Did the two of you ever argue?” I ask. “Have any disagreements about anything.”

“Nope and nope. Leroy was easygoing. He was fun to hang out with, and we got on just fine.”

“Did he have any enemies that you know of?”

Underwood shakes his head. “No way. Leroy was as laid back as they come. Funny as hell, too. Everyone liked him.”

“Was he ever in to drugs? Any illegal activity?”

“That was me.” His laugh is dark and unhappy. “We did our share of drinking, but Leroy never got into anything else. Didn’t even smoke weed.”

“Was he seeing anyone? A woman?”

His brows knit. “We’d pick up chicks occasionally. Take them out to that old covered bridge and … you know.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Damn, it’s hard to remember. We was so young.”

“You want to keep your hands where we can see them?” Glock says from behind me.

Underwood scowls at him but pulls out his hands, flashes his palms at us. “For fuck sake,” he mutters.

“Clarence, relax,” I say, putting a warning in my voice. “Just a few more questions, okay?”

“Whatever.” He leans against the house, crossing his arms in front of him.

“So, was Leroy seeing a girl?” I ask again.

“I can’t say for sure. He might’ve mentioned having a date once or twice. One thing I
do
remember is the last couple of months before he disappeared, he stopped going out to the bridge with me. He cut back on his drinking. It was like he found religion or something.”

“Do you think he was seeing a girl?”

“Maybe. And not the kind of girls we took to the bridge, if you know what I mean. Someone he respected.”

“Did he ever talk about her? Mention her by name?”

“Nope.”

I nod. “All right.” I offer a handshake. “Thank you.”

He looks down at my hand as if I’ve just passed him a hundred-dollar bill and his hand isn’t quite clean enough to snatch it up. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Do me a favor, Clarence, and behave yourself, will you?” I ask.

His grin reveals a missing eyetooth and a lower one that’s been capped in gold. “I’ll do my best, but I ain’t making any promises.”

Back on the street, Glock and I are standing between our vehicles, watching the group of boys play Horse. “You think Underwood was involved in Nolt’s disappearance?” he asks.

“I think he was up to no good for a lot of years,” I reply. “But I don’t think he knows what happened to Nolt.”

“Do you have any idea who Nolt was seeing?”

I shake my head. “No, but I’m starting to get curious. Nolt’s parents mentioned some mystery woman, too, but no one seems to know who she is.”

“Married?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I sure would like to find her, though. I bet she could fill in some of the blanks.” I pause. “Thanks for backing me up. You heading to lunch?”

He gives the group of boys a contemplative look. “I think I might shoot some baskets for lunch.”

I want to hug him, but since anything so personal would be the epitome of unprofessional for a chief, I grin. “Have fun,” I tell him, and start toward my vehicle.

*   *   *

After leaving Glock, I drive to the Roselawn Cemetery for the funeral of sixty-two-year-old Earl Harbinger, the Painters Mill resident who was fatally injured when his car was flipped over by the tornado. He was a retired dentist and had lived his entire life in Painters Mill, leaving behind his wife of thirty-six years and four sons, all of whom still live in the area.

The funeral of Juanita Davis was out of town. Lucy Kester’s is tomorrow afternoon. I’d been thinking about her on and off all day, trying not to dwell too much. As chief, I’d wanted to attend the funerals of the dead to show my support for the families and the community. Because of the hostility displayed by the Kesters, I won’t attend.

I walk in the door of the police station to find it blissfully quiet. Lois is sitting at her desk, eating a turkey sandwich from LaDonna’s Diner. A glass of iced tea sweats atop a cork coaster next to her computer.

“What did you do with all the media people wanting to know about the human remains?” I ask as I pluck messages from my slot.

“I arrested them and put them down in the jail.” She takes a bite of the sandwich and rolls her eyes.

“Any luck getting contact info for Doctor Alan Johnson in Millersburg?”

Nodding, she swallows. “The bad news is he retired in 2004. The good news is his son, Alan Junior, took over the practice.” She passes me a handwritten note. “Phone number, address, and e-mail are there.” She glances at the time on her monitor. “Said he’d be there until five o’clock or so.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” I take the note and motion toward the sandwich. “Carry on.”

Two minutes later I’m at my desk, punching in the number for Dr. Alan Johnson Jr. An overly enthusiastic receptionist puts me on hold, and Barry Manilow fills the line for a full two minutes. I’m about to hang up and try again, when Johnson comes on the line. Quickly, I identify myself and give him the fundamentals of the case.

“Was Leroy Nolt a patient of your father’s?” I ask.

“I had my office manager check the archived records, and, yes, he was.”

“Doctor Johnson, I spoke with Leroy Nolt’s parents and they informed me their son had broken his right forearm and your father surgically implanted a plate to repair the fracture.”

I hear rustling on the other end of the line, and I get the feeling he’s not giving me his full attention. “What is it you need from me, Chief Burkholder?”

“I have the serial number of the implant,” I tell him. “I’m wondering if you can look at your records and tell me if the plate recovered was the one used for Leroy Nolt’s broken arm.”

“How long ago was the surgery done, exactly?” he asks.

“I think the surgery was performed in 1982 or 1983.”

“That’s a long time ago.”

“Do you have the records, Doctor Johnson? It’s important.”

He sighs. “Well, I don’t have them on the computer, but I bet we have them in archive. My dad was pretty good at keeping records.” Another sigh lets me know he’s put out. A doctor who has no time for the dead. “Let me put Diane to work on this, and I’ll have her call you.”

I give him my cell as well as the number of the station. “The sooner the better,” I tell him. “I’d like to positively ID this individual as quickly as possible.”

“Everyone’s in a hurry,” he mutters.

*   *   *

An hour later, I’m sitting at my desk, a ham sandwich from LaDonna’s Diner and an iced tea in front of me. Next to my dinner is the list of Holmes County hog farmers assembled by my dispatchers. Extracted from multiple government agency data, both county and state, as well as local veterinarians, the list encompasses the five-year period before and after Leroy Nolt’s disappearance. It consists of thirty-nine names with addresses and contact information. I doubt it’s a comprehensive list; I happen to know that many of the local Amish are resistant to reporting information to any government agency. But it’s all I have, and for now it’s enough to get started.

If Dr. Nelson Woodburn’s assertion is correct and Leroy Nolt’s body was partially consumed by domestic pigs, where did Nolt come into contact with them? According to Herb Strackbein, the barn where the remains were found was never used for swine, so he had to come in contact with them somewhere else. The hog operation where he worked?

It may be something as innocuous as his entering a pen to feed the hogs and collapsing from some medical condition—an aneurism, for example. Over a period of hours, the curious—and hungry—hogs may have begun to feed on his body. Or maybe he fell and was knocked unconscious—with the same end result. All semblance of benevolence ends there, because if we’re reading the evidence correctly—mainly the presence of the garbage bag—someone moved the body and made an effort to conceal it.

But it’s the more sinister possibilities that haunt me this early evening. Did someone assault Nolt and throw his unconscious—or dead—body into the pen? Did they do it because they believed the animals would consume the body and in the process hide any evidence of foul play? Or did someone simply lock him in a pen with aggressive and hungry animals in an attempt to commit the perfect murder?

I think back to my own experience with hogs as a kid. We didn’t raise them, but over the years we kept a few for butchering. My
datt
would buy the occasional piglet at the auction in Millersburg—cute little pink babies my ten-year-old self fell in love with on sight. But those pink babies grew quickly into four-hundred-pound animals, not all of which had amicable personalities. The boars in particular, which commonly weighed in at five hundred pounds or more, became aggressive. When I was eight years old, I remember one of our big sows finding a chicken in her pen. She chased the hen down, cornered it, and proceeded to eat it alive while I screamed for her to stop. In the context of Leroy Nolt’s death, the memory makes me shudder.

It’s been a busy, eventful day, and so far I’ve been relatively successful in keeping my personal problems at bay. Tomasetti has called twice; both times I let his call go to voice mail. I know it’s stupid. I’ve been living with him for seven months now. I love him. I trust him. He’s my best friend and confidante. Despite all of those things, I don’t know how to tell him about my pregnancy. I want to believe it will be a happy moment for both of us, but I honestly have no idea how he’ll react.

Setting the list aside, my appetite for the sandwich waning, I pick up my phone and dial his cell. I nearly hang up after two rings; in some small corner of my mind I’d hoped it would go to voice mail. Then I hear his voice, and in that instant I’m certain everything’s going to be all right. Good or bad or somewhere in between, we’ll deal with this.

“I was starting to think you were avoiding me,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice.

Usually we share an easy camaraderie that includes a good bit of verbal jousting. But for an instant I can’t conjure a comeback, and I feel a slow rise of what feels like panic because I don’t know what to say. Finally, I land on the truth, hoping it comes out right. “I was.”

“If it’s about my eating that last Hershey’s Kiss…”

“So you’re the culprit.”

“Busted.” But his words are halfhearted. He’s an astute man; he knows something’s up.

We fall silent. I can practically feel his concern, gentle fingers coming through the line, pressing against me to make sure I’m all right.

“What is it?” he asks.

“I need to talk to you. I mean, in person. Tonight.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” I say automatically, then think better of it and add, “I’m not sure … exactly.”

“Okay.” A thoughtful silence ensues. “You want to talk now?”

“Not over the phone.”

“Do you want me to drive into town? I can be there in half an hour.”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’ve got a couple of things to tie up here before I can leave.”

He sighs. “Kate.”

“Look, I’ve got to run. Seven o’clock or so?”

“Sure.”

I disconnect before either of us can say anything more.

CHAPTER 12

There’s no more beautiful place in the world than northeastern Ohio in the summertime. The drive to A Place in Thyme Bed-and-Breakfast is as calming and picturesque as a Bill Coleman photograph. Rolling hills of farmland with big red barns and neat farmhouses interspersed with thick forests and ponds alive with weeping willow and cattails. By the time I arrive, I’m feeling settled and optimistic.

The cottage is nestled in a wooded area just off of Spooky Hollow Road. I take the narrow gravel drive and park next to a golf cart adjacent to a small garage. I emerge from the Explorer to a cacophony of birdsongs—cardinals and sparrows and red-winged blackbirds.

The Tudor-style cottage is storybook pretty with a steeply pitched roof, cheery yellow paint, and shutters the color of old brick. Red geraniums bloom in profusion at the base of the screened front porch. Flowers with delicate pink blooms overflow from earthenware pots set on concrete steps. A gingerbread picket fence surrounds the front yard. I’m walking through an arbor dripping with antique roses, when a voice calls out: “If you’re looking for a rental, we’re booked through August!”

I look to my left to see a plump woman in a floppy hat rising from her place on the ground where a flat of petunias are in the process of being planted. I guess her to be in her late forties. Clad in blue jeans and an oversize denim tunic, she pulls off leather gloves and starts toward me.