The criminology texts will tell you that a murderer always returns to the scene of the crime. As I leave the city limits of Painters Mill and head south toward Coshocton County, I realize I’m no different. I wonder if other killers have an all-consuming need to know what the police are doing so they can plan their next move and stay one step ahead.
The grain elevator is the last place I want to be—the last place I should be, considering my involvement—especially when I’m in the midst of a difficult case that requires all of my time and energy. I tell myself I’m duty bound to make an appearance and offer up the resources of my department, even if the offer is token. The truth of the matter is, I can’t stay away. I need to know what’s happening with the investigation. I need to know which agency will be primary. I need to know if in the terror and panic of that night, my datt or brother left something behind that could lead the police back to me.
Caution whispers sweet warnings of impending disaster in my ear as I turn onto the desolate stretch of road where the elevator juts from the earth like some massive rock formation. I remind myself that I’m going to have to be careful. I know things about this scene, this case, this murder, that other people don’t; it would be easy to let that knowledge slip. Many a killer has hung himself by revealing information he shouldn’t have known.
The triple concrete silos of the old Wilbur Seed Company elevator loom into view as I make the turn into the gravel lot. The place had once been bustling with farm trucks and grain haulers loaded with corn or soybeans. Now, the lot is overgrown with weeds and saplings as tall as a man. Three cruisers from the Coshocton County Sheriff’s office are parked haphazardly outside the overhead door. The coroner’s van idles nearby, the rear doors standing open to welcome the dead. An ambulance from Coshocton County Memorial Hospital is parked a few feet away from the van. A fire truck from the volunteer fire department sits behind the ambulance, its diesel engine rumbling.
I wonder if the coroner’s office has bagged and loaded the remains. I wonder if those remains are on their way to the crime lab in London, Ohio for identification. I have no idea if the bones still contain DNA or if Daniel Lapp’s DNA is on file anywhere for a comparison analysis. I don’t know if he ever had any dental work done or if there are records that could conceivably identify him. The one thing I do know is that people will remember Lapp’s disappearance. Some thought he left to escape the Amish. But not his family. Lapp’s parents are dead now, but his brother, Benjamin, will undoubtedly remember my parents’ farm was the last place Daniel was seen alive.…
I experience a moment of déjà vu upon spotting a television news van from a station out of Columbus parked on the shoulder. A blond-haired woman wearing skinny jeans, stiletto heels, and a hot pink jacket finger-combs her hair. I wonder how much press the case will draw. Enough, I think. People love a good mystery, especially if it involves a dead body, and there’s an Amish connection to boot.
I park well away from the other vehicles and start toward the grain elevator. I’ve made this pilgrimage a thousand times in my nightmares, but never as a cop, never in an official capacity. Invariably, when I dream of this place, I’m either the victim, trying to save my life—or the killer, to cover my tracks. When it comes to murder, there is no in-between.
An appearance by me won’t be deemed unusual. Cops generally tend to be a nosy bunch; we like to be in the thick of things. I try hard to slip into my chief-of-police persona, but for the first time in recent memory, it’s not a good fit. I feel like a charlatan.
A flock of crows caw from the roof of the structure, mocking me as I approach. Yellow caution tape has been strung haphazardly around the area. I recognize a young deputy from the Coshocton County Sheriff’s office. We worked together during a charity event a couple of years ago. The two of us spent a freezing cold afternoon sitting on the dunking tank chair to help raise funds for an animal rescue group after twenty-eight dogs were rescued from a puppy mill near Walnut Creek. It had been a multi-jurisdictional sting on an animal cruelty case, and I got to know some of local cops in the process.
The sheriff’s deputy smiles when I reach him. “How’s it going, Chief?”
His name is Fowler Hodges, but everyone calls him Folly. We shake hands. “I heard about the remains,” I begin. “Thought I’d stop by and see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“Couple of kids playing in the boot pit found a skull a few hours ago. They called their parents. Parents called us. Sure enough, the bones are human.”
“Any idea who it is?”
He shakes his head. “Coroner’s down there now. We’ll probably start checking cold cases.”
I nod. “Kids okay?”
“They’re fine. I suspect they’re going to be talking about it for a while.”
“I would be.”
We laugh at that, then I say, “Do you mind if I take a look?”
“Knock your socks off. Sheriff Redmon just got here a few minutes ago.” He lifts the tape. “Watch your step.”