I’m anxious to get moving on the identification process, but I’m well aware it will be a tedious endeavor and could take weeks or even months. Still, Painters Mill is a small town. I know if I take a look at missing person reports, there’s a decent chance I may be able to come up with a few names, especially if I can narrow it down by sex and the number of years they’ve been missing. Unless, of course, this individual was from a larger city and dumped.…
“Doctor Stevitch,” I begin, “Doc Coblentz estimated these bones might have been here a decade or more, and that the deceased is probably male. Do you agree?”
Bending, Stevitch picks up the skull, weighing it in his hands. “The pronounced supraorbital ridge isn’t foolproof, but at this early stage and without looking at the hip bones, I can say with relative certainty that the deceased was probably male.” He gives Doc Coblentz a nod of approval. “As far as how old they are…” He shrugs. “… Ten years is a solid estimate. But until I get them cleaned up and under some decent light, I’m afraid I can’t narrow it down any more than that.”
I glance at Tomasetti. “What’s the usual procedure for manner and cause of death in a situation like this?”
“The FA does the excavation,” he tells me. “Then we send everything over to the local morgue, where the coroner as well as a forensic osteology expert will take a look. We’ve got a guy from Lucas County on our resource list.”
“John Harris,” Doc Coblentz chimes in. “I know him. John and I went to med school together. He’s good. One of the best.”
Tomasetti nods. “From there, we’ll ship everything down to the University of North Texas Health Science Center in Fort Worth to see if they can extract mitochondrial DNA.”
Something sinks inside me when I realize a definitive ID is, indeed, going to take some time. I look at Dr. Stevitch. “Is there any way you can tell me how old he was when he died?”
“Again, anything definitive is premature at this point, but I might be able to give you a range.” He runs his finger across the top of the skull, from front to back. “See this squiggly line that runs the length of the skull?”
I move closer. “I do.”
“That’s the sagittal suture.” Using his finger, he taps another barely discernible ridge of bone, this time from left to right. “This one is the coronal suture. Neither are fused, which tells me this person was relatively young.”
“How young?”
“Are you comfortable with a guess?”
“If it’s a good one.” I smile at him.
“I’d say between sixteen and thirty-five.” He spreads his hands. “I’m sure Doctor Harris will be able to give you a more definitive answer.”
I motion toward the femur. “Height or weight?”
“I’m afraid not, Chief Burkholder.” But he grins.
Stevitch goes back to work. I step away from the scene and call Lois.
“Hi, Chief.”
“I want you to pull all open missing person reports for Holmes County that are ten years or older. Go back forty years. We’re looking for a male sixteen to thirty-five years of age. If you strike out with Holmes County, expand your search to Coshocton and Wayne Counties. If you’re still not getting anything, add Cuyahoga County.”
“Will do.”
I pause. “Everything okay there?”
“Phones are ringing off the hook. Some of the folks without power are starting to get antsy. And people are finding out about the bones and starting to call with questions.”
“Word travels fast.”
“You know kids and technology. Half the town knows by now.”
“Let me know if you come up with a name.”
“Will do, Chief.”
I’ve just ended the call, when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel. At first I think it’s Steve Ressler, publisher of the local newspaper, wanting a scoop on the remains. It’s not Ressler’s Ford Focus but an older Thunderbird with wide tires on aluminum wheels, oxidized paint, and a hail-damaged hood. A middle-aged man with sandy-colored hair gets out. He’s wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt. Without looking at me, he crosses in front of the vehicle, opens the passenger door, and bends to help a woman exit.
Something quickens inside me when I spot the crutches. The woman has blond hair that hasn’t seen a cut in some time. She’s wearing faded jeans and a pink blouse with the sleeves rolled up. The cast on her right leg stretches from just below her knee to her ankle. It’s the woman from the Willow Bend Mobile Home Park. The one with the compound fracture, whom Tomasetti carried out. The woman whose baby later died.…
Paula Kester.
She’s standing beside the car, leaning heavily on her crutches, staring at me. No smile. No spark of recognition or any indication that she remembers me. I don’t know why she’s here. To thank Tomasetti for saving her life? Thank us for trying to save her child? Or is she here to rage at us because her baby died? I know all too well that when you lose something precious, you always look for someone to blame.