Neither of us mentions my pregnancy, but the fact is as glaring and palpable as a physical presence.
I tell him about Doc Coblentz’s assertion that Lucy Kester’s injuries were more than likely a result of shaken baby syndrome. “He was going to get a second opinion, but that was his finding.”
Tomasetti grinds his teeth. “That fucking Kester doesn’t want to go down for that.”
“He tried to blame me. His wife blames me.…”
“She probably doesn’t know he abused the child, and he wants to keep it that way. It’s a damn farce.”
I try to smile. To let him know I’m okay. That I can handle this. All I manage is a twisting of my lips and a smile that feels like a lie.
CHAPTER 25
It takes five hours for the CSU to process the scene, which basically consists of the kitchen, living room, hallway, stairs, and bedroom. The largest piece of evidence recovered was the slug he dug out of the wall, which will be sent to the lab in London and analyzed. During a search of the woods at the rear of our property, Skid found a man’s boot print in a muddy area. A Wayne County deputy discovered tire tracks in the dirt near a gravel pullover on the road just north of our property. The CSU successfully captured impressions of both. All the evidence will be analyzed and, if the case goes to trial, used in conjunction with my testimony to put Nick Kester behind bars. Of course, we have to find him first.…
Despite the efforts of every law enforcement agency in the three-county area, Nick and Paula Kester have been eerily elusive. I suspect that after the shooting at the farm, Kester hightailed it to his vehicle and fled the scene before roadblocks could be set up. Some in law enforcement believe they fled the state. Tomasetti isn’t buying into that theory; neither am I. I think they’ve found a safe haven and are hiding out nearby. Sooner or later they’ll turn up. The question is when and whether anyone will get hurt.
Being a stickler for personal safety—especially mine—Tomasetti suggests we spend the night at the Marriott in Canton. We leave the farm at just after 4:00 P.M. and end up having a nice dinner at a steakhouse not too far from the hotel. After a stressful, frustrating, do-nothing day, it’s a nice break.
*
This morning, however, it’s back to reality. I’m a day behind on everything—no closer to determining the whereabouts of Nick Kester, solving the mystery of Jeramy Kline’s death, or determining what might’ve happened to Leroy Nolt.
My third-shift dispatcher greets me with an animated “Chief!” as I come through the front door at just after 7:00 A.M.
“Hey, Mona.”
She rises as I approach her station. “I heard what happened yesterday.” I don’t miss the hint of misplaced adoration in her eyes. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
I feel myself stiffen slightly when she throws her arms around me. “Thank you.” Awkwardly, I hug her back. “I’m fine.”
Pulling away, I pluck messages from my slot, trying not to notice the two-inch-wide streak of blue in her hair and the shadow of a reentry stamp from a bar in Akron on her left hand. She’s wearing a black skirt that’s a couple of inches too short and has paired it with a red bolero jacket. Despite her dubious wardrobe—and that unexpected show of affection—she is, as usual, all business this morning.
“Anything on Kester come in overnight?” I ask.
“Several people called the hotline with sightings, but nothing panned out.”
I’m disappointed but not surprised. He’s dug in somewhere, and sniffing him out isn’t going to be easy. “I want you to send a message to the team. Make sure everyone is still wearing vests. Pickles, too.”
“Roger that.”
I glance over at the officers’ cubicles. “You here by yourself?”
“Sorry, Chief. T.J.’s wrapping up an accident over on County Line Road.”
But I sigh because my small department is perpetually undermanned. “If we don’t have an armed officer here, I want you to keep the front door locked. Until further notice. If people want inside, they can knock and you’ll have to let them in.”
“No problem.”
“Get T.J. on the radio and tell him I need him when he’s finished.”
“Okay.”
I grab coffee on the way to my office and pull the file on the Nolt case. There’s a message from the coroner, so I call him while my computer boots.
“I heard there was some excitement up at your place in Wooster yesterday,” Doc Coblentz begins. “Everyone okay?”
“We’re fine, but I’ve still got a suspect at large.” Not for the first time I’m reminded of how fast word gets around.
“I just wanted to let you know I’ve got the Kline autopsy on the schedule for this afternoon.”
I tell him about finding the pokeweed at the Kline farm and about my conversation with Chuck Gary. “Some Amish cook and eat pokeweed, but if it’s incorrectly cooked, it can be toxic.”
“That’s why you were asking about toxicology.”