“I was just asking your wife about your property on Gellerman Road,” I tell him.
“Knew that barn was going to go down one day,” he says. “We inherited it from my mom when she passed in ’eighty-eight. Randy Smith leases it from us, puts in corn or soybeans every year.”
“There was a Boy Scout troop cleaning up out there, and a couple of boys discovered human remains in the crawl space of your barn.”
The man’s eyes widen. “What?”
Mrs. Strackbein gasps. “A body?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it on the news,” I say.
“We were without power for two days,” he tells me. “I heard something about bones on the radio, but didn’t realize it was on our property.”
“Who is it?” Mrs. Strackbein adds.
“We’re trying to identify the remains,” I tell them. “I’m wondering if either of you have any idea who it might be or how they may have gotten into that crawl space.”
The two shake their heads. “No earthly idea,” Mrs. Strackbein says.
I turn my attention to Mr. Strackbein. “Did your parents ever mention the crawl space?” I ask. “Did they ever say anything that might explain who died down there or why? Or did any friends or family ever go missing?”
Pulling a blue kerchief from his rear pocket, he blots sweat from his forehead. “No, ma’am. They never said a thing. That property’s been in our family for as long as I can remember. I grew up in the house that used to be there. Played in that old barn, too.”
“I understand the house burned back in 1982?” I ask.
“Mom was living there by herself back then. Couldn’t take care of the place. Fire marshal said it was some kind of electrical fire.”
“She moved in with us after that,” Mrs. Strackbein adds.
“How long has…” He grapples for the right word. “… it been there?”
“Many years.” I pause, watching for any signs of nervousness or discomfort, but I get neither. These people are genuinely shocked. “Did your parents ever quarrel with anyone that you know of? Did they have any enemies?”
“Not that I know of.” Mr. Strackbein scratches his head. “My dad was kind of a crotchety old guy. You know, rubbed folks the wrong way sometimes. But that’s just the way he was.”
“What about your mom?”
“She was a real quiet gal. Nice, though. Baked a lot. Everyone really liked her.”
“Didn’t stand up for herself enough if you ask me,” his wife puts in. “But everyone loved her.”
“Have both of your parents passed away?” I ask.
“Dad in 1981. And mom in ’eighty-eight.”
I nod, trying not to be disappointed. “Did you ever see anything unusual or strange in the barn or on the property?” I ask.
He shakes his head adamantly. “I spent many a day exploring that dusty old place.” He huffs a laugh. “Thought I knew every inch of it, but I never went down into the crawl space. I guess you never know about a place, do you?”
*
I swing by LaDonna’s Diner for a coffee-to-go, and I’ve nearly reached the station, when my phone vibrates against my hip. A glance at the display tells me it’s Nelson Woodburn, the wildlife biologist with the Columbus Zoo. I fumble with my Bluetooth and catch the call on the third ring. “Mr. Woodburn?”
“Yes, hello, Chief Burkholder. I understand you’ve got a mystery on your hands down there in Painters Mill.”
“The more we learn about the remains, the more questions that arise.”
“Well, I’ve never met a mystery I didn’t enjoy, and I must admit with regard to this one my curiosity has bested me.” He has a soft, scholarly-sounding voice with a hint of Kentucky. “Doctor Harris e-mailed me the images of the teeth marks in some of the large bones. I downloaded them immediately and set to work enlarging and trying to identify them.”
“I appreciate your getting to this case so quickly.” I have a whole new appreciation for science nerds. “Any luck identifying the tooth marks?”
He pauses with a smidgen too much drama. “I believe so, which I did mainly by ruling out the usual suspects, the domestic dog and the Canis latrans thamnos, a subspecies of coyote present in this part of Ohio.” Another dramatic pause. “I looked at the dental formula of these mammals and I was quickly able to rule them out.”
“So, if it wasn’t a coyote or dog, what kind of animal was it?” In the back of my mind, I’m terrified he’s going to tell me human, which would undoubtedly add another layer of creepiness to an already creepy case.
“Interestingly, I just finished writing a paper on livestock and animal predation identification. I believe those marks were made by one or more Sus scrofa domesticus,” he tells me. “Or the common domestic swine.”
“Pigs?”
“That’s correct.”
“Feral?”