He steps back, grinning an ugly smile, and walks backward to the door. There, he turns on his heel and leaves without closing it.
I stand there for a moment, my pulse thrumming hard, staring at the door. I’m aware of T.J. striding to it, closing it. The switchboard ringing incessantly. Mona’s voice as she answers.
“Come on, folks,” T.J. says. “It’s over.” He looks over at me and frowns. “You okay?” he says in a low voice.
I pull myself out of my fugue, glance over at the young journalist, who’s staring at me as if I’ve just become the story. She shoves the mike at me. “Chief Burkholder, do you want to comment on Lucy Kester or any of those allegations against you?”
“Leave your e-mail address,” I tell her, “and I’ll make sure you get a copy of that press release.”
As I start toward my office, I hear her whisper to her photographer. “Did you get all that?”
CHAPTER 8
Two hours later I’m in my office poring over the files of the six missing persons from Holmes County. Throughout the morning, I’ve received calls from friends and family members of several missing individuals from as far away as Indianapolis. So far, none of them have matched the profile of my John Doe. Nineteen-year-old Jennifer Milkowski went missing in Cleveland four years ago. No, I told her mother; this individual was male, but thank you for calling. Forty-eight-year-old Raymond Stein disappeared from Montgomery County last year. It’s not him, I told his father; this individual was no older than thirty-five. Twelve-year-old Caroline Sutton has been gone thirty years. No, she’s too young and female, I tell her elderly mother. Seventy-seven-year-old Rosa Garcia wandered away from her daughter’s home two years ago, and no one has seen her since. No, I told the weeping woman, these remains are male. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
How many times have these people heard those words from law enforcement?
Disappointment, delivered in massive doses over a period of years, has a unique sound over the phone. It’s a silent echo with the power to crush the final, desperate remnants of hope. It’s like a living, contagious cancer, and I feel it spreading and growing inside me with every call.
I read the six files multiple times. I look at every aspect of each case. Race. Gender. Age. The circumstances of the disappearance. Relationships at the time of their disappearance. Clothing. Jewelry. Dental work that may have been done. I look at old injuries with particular interest, because the one thing I know for certain is that this individual had a broken arm at some point in his life. It’s the one element that could ID the remains and break the case wide open.
In the course of my career, I’ve worked several missing person cases—runaways and kidnappings mostly. The sheer number of missing never ceases to unsettle me. I honestly don’t know which would be worse: knowing a loved one had been killed, or not knowing if they were dead or alive. With the missing, there’s always hope. But the thing about hope is that with every day that passes without resolution, the heart is devastated a little more. It’s a vicious cycle of hope and devastation. Family members left with a lack of closure. Too many never move on with their lives.
The families of these six missing persons have been interviewed dozens of times by multiple law enforcement agencies, including the local PD, the sheriff’s department, and BCI. Still, I’m anxious to speak with them again. You never know when someone will mention some seemingly unimportant detail that ends up solving the case.
Using the contact information my dispatchers collected, I spend two hours contacting friends and family members of the six males missing from Holmes County. The instant I identify myself, I hear the hope leap into their voices. Did you find him? Is he still alive? Each time, I ask first about the broken arm. No, he never broke his arm. And I crush their hopes one more time.
I’ve just left a message for the final family, when my cell phone chirps. I glance down to see CORONER on the display, and I hit SPEAKER. “Hey, Doc.”
“Don’t get too excited,” he tells me. “We’re not finished with the autopsy. But we’ve found an irregularity I thought you might want to see.”
“I’m on my way.”
*
Ten minutes later, I arrive at Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg. I park outside the ER and take the elevator to the basement. The overhead lights buzz as I walk a narrow hall past the yellow-and-black biohazard sign and a plaque that reads MORGUE, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. At the end of the hallway, I push open dual swinging doors and traverse a second hall to the clerk’s desk. Dr. Coblentz’s assistant, Carmen, rises and offers a smile when I enter the reception area. “Hi, Chief. How’s the storm cleanup coming along?”
“Slowly,” I tell her, but I soften the word with a smile. “The good news is everyone’s accounted for.”