I arrive home to a dark house that smells of coffee and stale air. I go directly to my bedroom, removing my holster as I go and dropping it along with my .38 on the night table. My shirt finds its place on the floor. I step out of my trousers, toss them on the bed. Boots are kicked into the closet. In the dresser, I find a pair of ratty sweatpants and an oversized tee-shirt and put them on.
The evening is cool, so I spend a few minutes walking the house, opening windows to let in some fresh air. I startle when I spot the orange tabby sitting on the brick sill outside the kitchen window, looking at me expectantly. He’s a stray that’s been coming around for months now. I’m no cat person, and this particular feline is neither pleasant to be around nor pleasing to the eye. But he’s a survivor and he’s loyal, two traits that usher me past the old battle scars and nasty personality.
When he mewls, I walk to the pantry and snag the bag of dry food I keep on the shelf in the back. I find his bowl in the sink strainer, fill it, and push open the screen. “You know you eat better than I do, don’t you?”
I hear him purring as I set the bowl on the sill.
I’m standing at the refrigerator with the door open, hoping I can find something edible inside, when a tap at the back door startles me. I spin, my hand going automatically to where my .38 usually rests. Then I spot the familiar figure through the window and the stress of the day falls away.
I walk to the door, swing it open, and smile at Tomasetti. “You know you’re on the verge of becoming predictable, don’t you?”
“What can I say, Kate? I’ve got an addictive personality, and at the moment you’re at the top of my most-wanted list.”
“You’re putting it out there this evening, aren’t you?”
“Or piling it on, depending on your point of view.” His voice is light, but he’s looking at me a little too closely. He’s worried about how I’m reacting to the discovery of Daniel Lapp’s remains, I realize, and what that discovery could mean if they’re identified.
“You busy?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Come in.”
He enters the kitchen and goes to the table. I feel silly because I was expecting … something else. Pretending I wasn’t, I join him at the table.
“I thought you might want to talk about those remains,” he begins.
“You mean in addition to the possibility that I’m in deep shit?”
He scowls at me. “Who’s the investigating agency?”
“Coshocton County.”
“You know them?”
I shake my head. “I’ve met the sheriff, but I don’t know him. We’re not friends.”
“We received a call from someone down there today,” he tells me. “Bones are already at the lab. They want DNA.”
Of course I’d known that would happen. But hearing the words spoken aloud sends a quiver of anxiety through my gut. “What are the odds that they’ll get it?”
“Seventeen years is a long time for DNA to survive, but it’s not out of the question.” He shrugs. “It depends on how well the bones fared. The pit is dry, and that bodes well for the preservation of DNA. If it was a wet, muddy area, probably not. There might be DNA in the teeth.” He gives me a direct look. “Since I’ve worked this area in the past, it won’t be deemed unusual for me to stay on top of it.”
While it will be good to be kept abreast of any developments, forensic or otherwise, we both know there’s nothing we can do about the outcome.
“Kate, do you think Lapp had dental records? I mean with him being Amish?”
“The Amish generally don’t have a problem with going to the dentist if they’re having problems, like a toothache or something. That said, they’re not big on preventative tooth care. Daniel was young; I’m betting he hadn’t yet been to the dentist.”
“That could work in our favor.”
“Even if they are able to extract DNA,” I say, “don’t they need something to compare it to? A hair root or something?”
“Or a close relative.”
“He’s got a brother. Benjamin.”
“Keep in mind that because of the relatively small gene pool, that kind of analysis could be difficult to interpret,” he points out.
“Benjamin knows Daniel worked at my parents’ farm that day,” I tell him.
“Are the parents still around?” he asks.
“They passed away a few years ago.”
He falls silent, thinking. “Do you know if they filed a missing person report when Lapp disappeared?”
“They did, but waited almost forty-eight hours before going to the police.”
“Why did they wait so long?”
“Lapp was on rumspringa. I guess it wasn’t unusual for him to stay out all night. By the end of the second day, they got worried and started looking, went to the police when they didn’t find him.”
“Was he a drinker?”
“Sometimes.”
“Devout?”
“Not really.”
“So as far as anyone knows, anything could have happened to him. He could have fallen in with bad company. Gotten involved with drugs. Met with a bad end somewhere else.”
I nod, understanding. “There was talk that he’d wanted to leave the Amish.”
He considers that for a moment. “Do you have access to the file?”