“Thanks.” I duck beneath the tape, walk through knee high weeds, and enter the structure through the overhead door.
The last time I was here was on a bitter January night two years ago. It was during the Slaughterhouse Murders case, and I drove over here in the dead of night to see if Daniel Lapp’s remains were here—or if he’d somehow survived the shooting and returned to kill again. I found his bones that night. And John Tomasetti, who suspected I was hiding something and followed me, bore witness to my meltdown when I realized I had, indeed, killed Lapp in self defense all those years before.
The interior hasn’t changed. Dust motes fly in the slant of light coming in from holes in the roof and walls. Cobwebs hang like Spanish moss from every visible surface. The smells of dirt and rotting wood and the tart stench of guano from the bats that have taken up residence taunt my olfactory nerves. Pigeons coo from the overhead rafters. Three Coshocton County sheriff’s deputies, Chief Redmon, and a paramedic are standing around the boot pit. I recognize two of the deputies, but I don’t recall their names.
I smile as I approach the sheriff. My heart pounds a hard tattoo in my chest when I extend my hand.
“Nice to see you again, Chief Burkholder.”
I’ve met Arnie Redmon on several occasions over the years. He’s a charismatic man of about sixty and, from what I hear, a good sheriff—and even better politician. He’s got a reputation for being tough—but fair, not only in terms of his job, but in the way he manages his department, which he runs like some elite military unit. His salt-and-pepper hair is shorn into a crew cut. He’s sprouted a thin white mustache since the last time I saw him. It makes him look like someone’s favorite grandpa. But I know better; this man is as harmless as a sniper. He’s six feet tall and built like a prize bull—one that could feed a family of six for a year. Today he’s wearing dress navy slacks with a crisp white shirt and patriotic tie. His badge is clipped to his belt like some hard-earned medal.
I shake hands with everyone in the group and then I ask the obvious question. “Any idea who’s down there?”
Redmon shakes his head. “Techs are still gathering pieces. Bones scattered all over the place.”
Everyone looks into the pit, where a young African-American firefighter stacks old boards onto a polyurethane sheet. A second firefighter squats next to where a body bag has been unzipped, opened, and spread out on the floor. The technician from the coroner’s office—a middle-aged man in full biohazard gear—squats next to the bag. From where I stand I can just make out the sphere of the skull and the dull white length of a femur.
“Male or female?” I ask after a moment.
“The technician thought the skull looked male. Something about a pronounced brow bone.”
“Maybe it’s a Neanderthal,” one of the other deputies mutters.
The men laugh. I join in, but my voice grates like a rusty hinge.
“Maybe it’s that chick you brought to the barbeque last weekend,” one of the deputies says. “She had that female Neanderthal thing going on. What was she? Six one? Two fifty?”
“Don’t forget the mustache,” says a paramedic.
“Sounds like your mom,” the other deputy shoots back.
The men break into laughter again. I smile as I watch the technician pick a bone from the dust and set it on the body bag. But the back and armpits of my uniform shirt are soaked with nervous sweat.
“You guys suspect foul play?” I ask.
The deputy standing next to me shakes his head. “Hard to tell. The bones were kind of covered up with all that wood, so I don’t think he just fell in. Looks like someone covered them up.”
The paramedic leans forward and looks at me. “Firefighter said there’re rats down there, too.”
“That’ll fuck up a scene,” Redmon says absently.
“Anyone find a weapon?” I ask.
“Not yet.”
“What about an ID? Or clothes?”
The sheriff glances at me, curious about my questions. Sweat spreads to the back of my neck. “There are some old clothes down there,” he says. “Fabric’s deteriorated.”
I nod, make eye contact with Sheriff Redmon. “Let me know if there’s anything my department can do for you.”
“Appreciate it.” The sheriff holds my gaze. “You guys make an arrest on that hit-skip?”
“We’re working on it.” I step back, hating it that my knees are shaking.
As I start toward the door, I feel the men’s eyes burning into my back.
*
By the time I reach the Explorer, I’m in the throes of an all-out panic attack. I grip the wheel and suck in slow, deep breaths until it subsides. After a few minutes, I pull myself together, start the engine, and turn onto the road. A mile down I pull over and call Tomasetti.
He answers on the second ring with, “I knew you couldn’t stay away from me for long.”
“They found the bones,” I tell him.
A too-long pause ensues. “Lapp?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m scared.”