“My God, this guy was fucking flying,” I say to no one in particular.
Maloney points to the place where Paul Borntrager had died just a few hours earlier. “Adult male was thrown fifty-three feet.”
Rasmussen shakes his head. “Youngsters were thrown even farther.”
“What about skid marks?” I ask. “Or tire imprints?” Sometimes, if the skid marks are clean enough to get a measurement of the tire, we can use that information to help identify the offending vehicle. On rare occasions the tread is visible. Photos are scanned into a computer. From there, they can sometimes be matched to a manufacturer or retailer and, in some cases, if there is some identifiable mark on the tire—a cut or defect in the rubber, for example—a specific vehicle. Combined, those things can be invaluable to the identification process. Not to mention the trial.
Maloney and Rasmussen exchange looks that makes the back of my neck prickle.
“There are no skid marks,” Maloney says.
“Not a single one,” Rasmussen reiterates.
Something cold and sharp scrapes up my back. “The driver made no attempt to stop?”
“Looks that way,” Maloney replies.
“The road surface was wet,” I tell him, thinking aloud. “Is it possible he tried to stop, but couldn’t due to conditions?”
“That son of a bitch didn’t even tap the brake,” Rasmussen mutters.
“Could we be dealing with some kind of mechanical failure?” It’s an optimistic offering, but I pose the question anyway.
Maloney shrugs. “It’s possible, I guess.”
“If someone’s brakes fail and they slam into a fucking buggy, you’d think they’d stop and render aid,” Rasmussen growls.
Maloney nods. “Even if they get scared and panic, they’d call 911.”
“Unless they’ve got something to hide.” I say what all of us are thinking. What we already know. “We’re probably dealing with a DUI.”
“That’s my vote,” Rasmussen says.
“Or some idiot texting,” Maloney puts in.
I think of Paul Borntrager’s last minutes. He’d been broken and bleeding and yet his only concern had been for his children. I think of Mattie, holding vigil at the hospital, waiting for word on the condition of her only surviving child. I think of David, an innocent little boy, hurting and frightened and fighting for his life. I think of the three lives lost and the countless others that will be destroyed by their passing. I think of the pain that has been brought down on a community that’s seen more than its share of heartbreak in the last few years. And gnarly threads of rage burgeon again inside me.
I study the scene. My mind’s eye shows me a horse and buggy approaching the intersection. I hear the clip-clop of shod hooves against the asphalt. The jingle of the harness. The creak of the buggy. The chatter of the children, oblivious to the impending tragedy. Dusk has fallen. It’s drizzling. Visibility is low. The road surface is wet. Concerned about the coming darkness, Paul would have been pushing the horse, hurrying home. Around them, the symphony of crickets from the woods fills the air.
There would have been a flash of headlights. An instant of horror and disbelief as Paul Borntrager realizes the vehicle isn’t going to stop. He plants his feet, hauls back on the reins. A firmly shouted, “whoa!” Then the horrific violence of the impact. No time to scream. An explosion of wood and steel and debris. The horse is killed instantly, the harness rigging ripped from the buggy. The victims are ejected, their broken bodies violently impacting the earth.
“A lot of the Amish try to avoid the busier roads after dark,” I say.
Both men look at me as if I’ve inadvertently spoken the words in Pennsylvania Dutch. I add, “They know it’s dangerous.”
“We’ve all seen how impatient some of these damn drivers can be,” Rasmussen mutters.
“I cited some guy from Wheeling a couple of days ago for passing a buggy on a double yellow line,” Maloney says. “I’d like to show him some photos from this scene.”
The three of us nod and then Rasmussen glances at his watch. “It’s too late to canvass.”
“I’ll get someone out here first thing in the morning.” I think about that a moment. “The driver might be looking for a body shop in the next few days.”
Rasmussen nods. “We’ve got five or six body shops in Millersburg. I’ll send a couple of my guys out first thing in the morning.”
“There are three in Painters Mill,” I tell him. “We might include Wooster, too.”
“I’ll notify Wayne County,” Rasmussen offers.
“Let’s pull past DUIs, too,” I suggest.
“Can’t hurt.” Rasmussen’s eyes sharpen on mine. “Any chance the kid saw something?”
“It’s possible, but he was in critical condition and in surgery when I left the hospital.” I glance at my watch. “I’ll find out and keep you posted.”