Rasmussen nods. “There’s no shortage of meanness out there. We’ve seen it focused on the Amish before.”
I’m still turning over the road rage angle. “Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with this particular family. Maybe it was more about opportunity. It was dusk. They were alone on a little-used back road. Their paths crossed.” I’m tossing out ideas, trying to make sense of something that makes absolutely no sense.
“We did have that rash of hate crimes last year,” he says.
I think about the kids and shake my head, unable to wrap my brain around that kind of hatred. “This takes hate to a whole new level of ugly.”
“I’ll get that invoice to the lab, see what comes back.” He sighs. “In the interim, I’d say we probably ought to keep our options open.”
I nod, but in the back of my mind I know we’re no longer dealing with a simple DUI or hit-and-run or even a case of vehicular homicide.
We’re now investigating three counts of premeditated murder.
CHAPTER 8
I’m sitting in the conference room, working on my second cup of coffee, and going through my sparse collection of notes on the Borntrager case, as the rest of my team files in for an impromptu briefing. It’s going to be a short meeting because we basically don’t have shit in terms of information or suspects.
As usual, Pickles is the first to arrive and stakes his claim at the table adjacent me with a to-go cup from LaDonna’s Diner in front of him. From where I sit, I can smell the cigarettes and English Leather. He’s one of the few who actually enjoys these meetings. It’s an added bonus if someone is getting their ass chewed.
Two chairs down, Glock has the case file open in front of him, various reports and photos spread out on the table, reading. On his left, Skid leans back in his chair, gobbling up the final remnants of a burrito. At the head of the table, T.J. thumbs some urgent message into his Droid. I can tell from the grin on his face it doesn’t have anything to do with police business. Frank Maloney, the accident reconstructionist from the sheriff’s office, stands at the whiteboard, his back to the rest of us, finishing a sketch of the scene in blue marker. Mona stands just inside the doorway, talking quietly to Lois, who’s manning dispatch and listening for the phone. I put Mona in charge of overseeing the hotline, which has already given us our first lead. I’m hoping for more.
“You ready, Maloney?” I ask.
The deputy steps away from the sketch and sighs. “I’m a damn good reconstructionist, but I suck at drawing.”
The sketch is a crude rendition of the accident scene, replete with intersection labels, a north-south directional symbol, the ditch, mile marker, and the location of the stop sign. He’s indicated the final resting place of the buggy, the direction in which it was traveling, along with the point of impact. The victims and horse are depicted with stick figures.
Taking a final swig of coffee, I go to the half-podium at the head of the table and open the briefing with the only good news I’ve gotten since the accident. “Before we begin, I wanted to let everyone know David Borntrager is going to be fine.”
Everyone gives a short round of applause along with an enthusiastic “Fuckin’ A” from Glock.
I motion toward Maloney. “I think most of you have met Frank. He’s going to give a short presentation on what we believe happened the night Paul Borntrager and his two kids were killed.”
“Emphasis on short,” Skid mutters.
I glance down at my notes. “First, I wanted to run through everything we’ve got so far, give assignments, and get reports.”
I run through the list of information and evidence we’ve amassed so far. The as-of-yet unidentified pin and the side-view mirror. The hexagonal impression in the piece of wood buggy maker Luke Miller discovered. Then I face my team and tell them about Rasmussen’s and my trip to the Voss Brother’s Body Shop in Wooster.
“I made copies of the invoice for everyone. The original has been sent to BCI lab in London on the chance we can pick up some latents.” I scan the room. “I believe it’s relevant to the case that the work performed on the truck included having a quarter-inch-thick steel plate welded to the front end. If that vehicle is, indeed, the hit-skip, this adds premeditation and changes our case from vehicular homicide to murder one.”
“You get a description on this guy?” Glock asks.
I quote Bob Voss. “Nice looking young man and dresses like a yuppie.”
“That narrows it down,” Skid says dryly.
“What about cameras?” Pickles asks. “A lot of them body shops have security cameras.”