But we know the majority of crash victims rarely remember the minutes preceding a crash, especially if they’ve sustained a head injury or lost consciousness.
“With this kid being Amish,” I begin, “even if he saw the vehicle and remembers it, he may not be able to tell us the make or model.”
“Well that’s just fucking peachy,” Rasmussen mutters. “We need to find this son of a bitch, people.”
CHAPTER 4
Deputy Maloney, Sheriff Rasmussen, and I spend several hours walking the scene, photographing, video-recording, sketching, and surmising. At 2:00 A.M., Glock shows up with four large coffees from LaDonna’s Diner, and we swarm him like zombies seeking flesh. It’s hours before his shift starts, but he possesses a sort of sixth sense when it comes to showing up when he’s needed. He never seems to mind putting in the extra time, even though he’s got two babies and a wife at home. I’m invariably glad to have him on scene and unduly thankful for the caffeine.
I’m standing next to my Explorer when a Painters Mill volunteer fire department tanker pulls onto the shoulder. I watch the young firefighter disembark, link the hose, and begin to flush the blood from the road and grassy areas. A few yards away, local farmer and town councilman Ron Jackson arrives in his big John Deere to haul the dead horse to the landfill.
Glock wanders over and we watch a big Ford dually back a twenty-foot flatbed trailer to the debris field. A red-haired man from a local wrecker service contracted by the sheriff’s department gets out. Maloney and Rasmussen don gloves and begin picking up pieces, dropping them into bags, and loading them onto the trailer.
For several minutes Glock and I stand there, sipping our coffees, watching.
“Hell of a way to start the day,” he says.
“Coffee helped.” I smile at him and he smiles back.
“You get anything from the vehicle?” he asks.
I tell him about the lack of debris and he shoots me a look. “That’s weird,” he says.
We stare at each other, our minds working that over. “Maloney thinks this guy was going upwards of eighty miles an hour,” I say.
“There should have been debris.”
“A lot from the buggy,” I say.
“Maybe the debris from the vehicle got mixed in with it.”
Even as he says the words, something tugs at my brain, worrying me like a child yanking at his mother’s dress to get her attention.
“Seems like the impact would have fucked up the grille of a vehicle,” Glock surmises. “Or busted out a headlight or signal light or something.”
The feather touch of a chill brushes across the back of my neck, and I realize the lack of debris is the thing that’s been bothering me all along. “They’re going to haul everything down to impound, take a closer look under some lights.”
Rasmussen approaches us. “I think we’ve got everything loaded up.”
I address the sheriff. “Did you find any more debris from the vehicle?”
“Just the side-view mirror so far,” Maloney replies.
I see a creeping suspicion enter the sheriff’s eyes. “If that son of a bitch was going as fast as you say, he should have left pieces scattered all the way to Cleveland.”
“Even with the work lights and generator, it’s dark as a damn cave out here,” Maloney says. “Maybe we missed something. Maybe it got tossed in with all those pieces from the buggy.”
“Driver might have had a brush guard on his front end,” Glock offers.
Rasmussen nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Even with a brush guard, he would have busted out a headlight or knocked off some plastic. Vehicles have a lot of plastic these days.”
“Maybe it’s some kind of homemade job,” Glock offers.
Maloney tosses him an interested look and adds, “All you need is a welder and some steel.” He turns to me. “Any vehicles from around here come to mind?” he asks. “Souped-up truck, maybe?”
“Or a fuckin’ tank,” Glock mutters beneath his breath.
Images of a hundred vehicles scroll through my mind. Stops I’ve made. Citations I’ve issued. Recent DUIs.
“A lot of farm trucks,” I tell them. “I’ll see if I can come up with a list.”
“A lot of them farm boys got welders,” Maloney adds.
The sheriff makes a sound of frustration. “We’ll take a closer look at everything in the morning. In the interim, if you see something that fits the bill, make the stop.”
He tips his hat and the two men start toward their respective vehicles.
I glance at my watch, surprised to see it’s almost 3:00 A.M. “You want body shops or farms?” I ask Glock.
“Body shops.” He grins. “Amish don’t trust me for some reason.”
“That’s because you cuss too much.”
He grins. “Now that makes me feel misunderstood.”
“Hit every body shop or auto shop that does collision work, including anyone who works out of a home shop or keeps a can of Bondo on his workbench. If someone brings in a vehicle with a messed-up grille, I want to know about it.”
“I’m all over it.”