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.