“Maybe he had a warrant,” Glock offers.
“Maybe the hog operation was breaking some law,” T.J. says. “Pollution or some EPA regulation.”
“We need to look at all of that.” I glance down at my notes. “Almost every witness I’ve spoken with about Leroy Nolt thought he was seeing a woman. Interestingly, he didn’t tell anyone her name or reveal her identity. Not to his family. Or his best friend. Or coworkers.”
Pickles shrugs thin shoulders. “First thing that comes to mind is that she was married.”
“Nolt’s sister, Rachel Zimmerman, saw him with an Amish girl a couple of weeks before he went missing,” I tell them. “Unfortunately, she can’t identify the girl. We need to ID her.” I pick up a photo of the ring Dr. Stevitch sent and hand it to Pickles. “The FA found this ring at the site. It looks like a woman’s engagement ring. We think the deceased had it on his person at the time of his death.”
Pickles tilts his head back and looks at the photo through his bifocals. “You know, there used to be a little jewelry store here in Painters Mill. Can’t recall the name, but they used to sell cheap jewelry. Closed years ago.”
My interest quickens. “How long ago?”
“Gosh, Chief, that place probably closed fifteen or twenty years ago. Only reason I remember is I bought Clarice a charm bracelet there once when she got pissed off at me.” He slaps the photo against his palm. “Daisy’s. That was the name.”
“See if you can run down the owner,” I tell him. “Show that photo and find out if they sold that ring. We need the name of the customer.”
Pickles’s chest puffs out a little. “I’m on it.”
“Chief, do you think this mystery woman was involved in his death?” T.J. asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “It’s something we need to look at.”
“Can’t see a female moving a body,” Skid says.
“Or body parts,” Glock interjects.
“The whole hog thing doesn’t sound like the kind of crime a woman would commit,” Pickles adds.
“The Nolt family is Mennonite, aren’t they?” Glock asks.
I nod. “If the girl was Amish, maybe he felt he couldn’t tell anyone because her parents didn’t approve.”
“Or his parents.” From her place at the door, Mona adds, “Could be a source of conflict between the families.”
A thought pings at the base of my brain. Something I’ve seen or heard recently. Something to do with the Amish. I reach for the thought, but it slips away and then it’s gone. “T.J., I want you to talk to the people who live near the barn on Gellerman. See if any of them were living there thirty years ago. Maybe someone remembers seeing something.”
“You got it, Chief.”
I tell them about my conversation with the surgeon who repaired Nolt’s broken arm. “Hopefully, the serial numbers will be a match and we’ll have a positive ID.” I gather my notes, tuck them into the folder, and look out at my team. “Thanks for coming in, everyone.” I glance over my shoulder at Mona. “Thanks for staying late to be here.”
She grins and gives me a funky salute.
Folder in hand, I leave the meeting room and start toward my office. I stop at the coffee station, distracted, trying to recover the thought that left me, when I hear someone come through the front door. I glance over to see a short man with a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard approach the dispatch station. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a slightly tattered fedora. He’s familiar; I’ve seen him around town, but I have no idea who he is.
Lois stands and addresses him. “Can I help you?”
“Chief Burkholder?” he asks.
Her eyes slide toward me. She’s wondering if I’m available. I set down the cup I’ve just filled and approach him. “I’m Chief Burkholder,” I say. “What can I do for you?”
He shoves a large white envelope at me. The instant my hands close around it, he grins. “You’ve been served. Have a nice day.”
I look down at the envelope. It’s addressed to me with the return address of a law firm. Even before opening it, I know what it is. The parents of Lucy Kester have filed a wrongful death lawsuit against me and, possibly, the police department and the township of Painters Mill.
Around me, the reception area has gone silent. Vaguely I’m aware of Lois speaking to a caller. Mona is standing between dispatch and the coffee station, where she’d been texting, but now she’s looking at me. Skid and T.J. and Pickles are standing outside their cubicle area, where they’d been talking. Even they have gone silent, all eyes on me.
Glock, who’d been at the coffee station, comes up beside me. “Everything okay, Chief?”
“Probably not,” I mutter.