“No.”
The prickling sensation augments into a creeping suspicion that drops into my gut like a stone. “I’ve got a make and model to add to the APB. Gray Ford F-250, 1996.”
“I’ll get it out ASAP.”
“I also need ROs for all ’96 Ford F-250 trucks in the three-county area: Holmes, Coshocton, and Wayne.”
“I’m on it.”
“Thanks.” I disconnect to hear Billy saying, “… he was probably forty years old. I wish I remembered more, but it’s been two weeks and we get quite a few customers in here.”
“How exactly did you modify the truck?” Rasmussen asks.
“That’s the reason I remembered this guy,” Billy says. “He had us remove the bumper and install a quarter-inch slab of steel and weld it to the frame with I-beams. When I asked him why, he mentioned the stump. Later, he said it was just for pushing things around. You know, kind of vague. I figured it was just a farm truck and he was going to let his kid drive it around or something.”
I look down at the invoice, spot the illegible scrawl at the bottom. “Is that his signature?”
Billy tries to slide the invoice around for a better look, but I stop him. In the back of my mind I’m wondering if the lab will be able to raise some latents. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you mind if we take this with us?” I ask, adding, “I’ll make sure you get it back.”
Both men stare at me as if they’ve just now realized this is serious and they’re mentally working through all the dark possibilities.
“You think this guy killed them people down there in Painters Mill?” Bob asks.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I think it warrants looking into.”
“You got any other paper on this guy?” Rasmussen asks.
“No sir.” Billy shakes his head. “That’s it.”
Rasmussen reaches into his jacket and pulls out an evidence bag containing the sheared pin. “This look familiar to either of you?”
Both men shake their heads.
Bob squints at the bag. “Looks like a three-quarter-inch L pin.”
“Any idea what that kind of pin is used for?” I ask.
“Hard to say,” Billy says. “One that size … could be from a tractor.”
“I seen ’em on farm implements,” Bob adds. “Could be off a pivot bracket on a rototiller or mower. Honestly, since we don’t know the length, could be for just about anything.”
Frowning, Rasmussen drops the bag back into his pocket. “How exactly did you guys attach the steel plate?”
“We removed the bumper and welded it to the frame,” Billy explains.
“Did you use any type of pin or bolt?” I ask.
“No ma’am.” Bob shakes his head. “We welded it. Solid as a rock, too.”
Pinching the invoice between two fingers at its corner, the sheriff picks it up and slips it into the folder. “We’re going to need a description of the customer.”
“Do you guys have security cameras?” I ask.
Bob Voss nods. “In the yard out back where we park the vehicles we’re working on. We’ve had thieves come over the fence at night a couple times. Took some rims once and a fuel pump a few months back, so we had cameras installed.”
“Did this customer go into the yard?” I ask.
“Wish we could help you there,” Billy says, “but he was only here in the office and the shop.”
It takes another ten minutes to wrangle a description from the two brothers. They disagree on the color of the guy’s hair and the type of shirt he was wearing. But we walk away with height, eye color, and the general impression that he was a “nice looking young fella” and “dressed like a yuppie.”
As Rasmussen and I clamber into the Explorer, he turns to me and sighs. “Not to throw a wrench into such a straightforward case, but I’m pretty sure there is no Fourth Street in Killbuck.”
Nothing about the address had struck me as odd, but now that he mentioned it, I realize he’s right. “He gave a bogus address, too.”
“People who give false information usually have something to hide,” he says. “And he didn’t just have body work done. He had the front end of a big-ass truck with a big-ass engine reinforced with a big-ass slab of steel.”
I pull onto the highway and glance at Rasmussen. “He’s our guy.”
“It would explain the lack of debris.”
“He had the work done two weeks ago. That shows premeditation.”
“Premeditated what?”
We look at each other for a moment, then he says, “I can’t see someone murdering an Amish man and two kids. I mean, the way this was done—with a vehicle—a lot of things could have gone wrong. He risked a witness seeing him. He risked the victims surviving to identify him. The impact could have disabled his truck and stranded him, gotten him caught. Hell, he could have killed himself.”
“Maybe what we’re dealing with was more of a road rage situation,” I say.