Sue returns with a wicker tray containing three glasses and a paper plate heaped with oatmeal cookies. She sets the tray on the coffee table between us and looks at me. “We just heard about those Boy Scouts finding that skeleton,” she says with a shake of her head. “And I knew.”
“We’re not certain it’s your son,” I tell her.
“It’s him,” she says. “A mother knows these things.”
No one pays any attention to the tea or the cookies. They’re a formality. Good manners. A minute or two for both of them to mentally brace for the discussion we’re about to have. Or the news they’re about to receive.
“Several agencies are involved in the identification process,” I tell them. “The Bureau of Criminal Investigation may call you to make an appointment to take DNA samples. It’ll entail a quick swab of the mouth. They need a close relative to match it to.”
“Tell them to come any time,” Vern says. “We want to know if it’s him.”
I reach for the tea and sip. It’s cold and tastes of mint, exactly the way my mother used to make it when I was a girl. “So your son had a broken arm a few years before he went missing?”
Vern nods, then leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. “Like I said, he broke it at work.” He looks at his wife, who’s gone silent and still. “When he was about eighteen, Mama?” he asks.
“Seventeen, Papa,” she says. “Folks at the farm store were so nice. Paid for everything, and his boss gave him a hundred-dollar bonus for being such a good boy.”
“The remains found belong to a young man who could have been about your son’s age when he disappeared. There’s evidence that this young man had broken his right arm and had to have two plates with screws implanted to repair it.”
Sue gasps, presses her hand over her mouth as if to smother it. “It’s him. Oh, dear Lord.”
Vern gives a single hard nod, then raises his gaze to mine. “What happened to him?” he asks. “How did he die? He was so young.”
“We don’t know the manner or cause of death yet.”
Shaking his head, he looks down at the floor.
I give them a moment to digest the news and look around the room. On the end table is a framed photograph of an attractive young man with a mischievous grin, tousled hair and laughing eyes. “Is that your son?” I ask.
Vern nods. “Last picture we took of him.”
“He looks happy,” I say.
“Handsome, too.” Sue smiles at the photo. “Took the picture on his birthday.” A soft, sad sound squeezes from her throat. “Didn’t know it’d be his last.”
I pause, then go to my next question. “What’s the name of the doctor who did the surgery on your son’s broken arm?”
“Doctor Alan Johnson,” Vern puts in. “He’s a bone and joint doctor in Millersburg.”
I write down the name. “There’s a serial number on the plate, so we may be able to match it up with your son’s medical records.”
The old man nods. “I hope so.”
“Did Leroy know any members of the Strackbein family?” I ask. “They owned the farm on Gellerman Road where the remains were found.”
“Never heard him talk about anyone by the name of Strackbein,” Sue tells me.
“Did Leroy have any enemies that you know of?” I ask.
“Everyone loved our son,” she replies. “He was polite and conscientious. Had a good sense of humor. He was a hard worker, too.”
I turn my attention to Vern, who’s looking down at the cookies, his mouth working, and I sense he’s holding something back. “Mr. Nolt?”
The old man raises his head and looks at his wife. “He was putting in a lot of hours at the farm store. Trying to save enough money to go to the college in Goshen.”
“It’s an Anabaptist college,” Sue adds.
Sensing there’s more, I prod. “Did he ever get into any trouble?”
Vern sighs, and I hear something like resignation in that small release of breath. “Leroy was a good boy,” he says adamantly. “But there was a time, a few years, when he liked to live his life on the fast road.”
“Sometimes even good kids get into trouble.” I shrug, hoping he’ll elaborate, knowing that sometimes parents withhold details to protect their children. Or in this case, the reputation or memory of their child. “Sometimes that’s part of growing up.”
“Leroy went through a phase when he was drinking alcohol,” Sue tells me. “Smoking cigarettes. And he ran around with a few English girls.”
“Loose girls,” Vern adds.
“Did he have a girlfriend?” I ask.
Another long look between the elderly couple, and I realize they’ve been together for so long they can practically read each other’s minds.
“We don’t know for sure,” Vern says finally.
“Leroy was … quiet about such things,” Sue adds. “You know, private.”
“But we think he was seeing a girl.”
“Any idea who she was?” I ask.
Vern shakes his head. “I asked him about it once. Leroy just grinned like he always did and said he’d tell me when he could. I’m not one to pry so I let it be.”
“What led you to believe he was seeing someone?” I ask.