“I don’t blame you. I don’t see how you cops deal with stuff like this day in and day out. I hope you find the bastard that done it.”
“I’m going to need a statement from you. Can you hang around for a little while longer?”
“You bet. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”
I turn away from him and start toward the road to see a Holmes County sheriff’s department cruiser glide onto the shoulder, lights flashing. An ambulance pulls away, transporting the only survivor to the hospital. Later, the coroner’s office will deal with the dead.
I step over a chunk of wood from the buggy. The black paint contrasts sharply against the pale yellow of the naked wood beneath. A few feet away, I see a little girl’s shoe. Farther, a tattered afghan. Eyeglasses.
This is now a crime scene. Though the investigation will likely fall under the jurisdiction of the Holmes County Sheriff’s office, I’m going to do my utmost to stay involved. Rasmussen won’t have a problem with it. Not only will my Amish background be a plus, but his department, like mine, works on a skeleton crew, and he’ll appreciate all the help he can get.
Now that the injured boy has been transported, any evidence left behind will need to be preserved and documented. We’ll need to bring in a generator and work lights. If the sheriff’s department doesn’t have a deputy trained in accident reconstruction, we’ll request one from the State Highway Patrol.
I think of Mattie Borntrager, at home, waiting for her husband and children, and I realize I’ll need to notify her as soon as possible.
I’m on my way to speak with the paramedics for an update on the condition of the injured boy when someone calls out my name. I turn to see my officer, Rupert “Glock” Maddox, approaching me at a jog. “I got here as quick as I could,” he says. “What happened?”
I tell him what little I know. “The driver skipped.”
“Shit.” He looks at the ambulance. “Any survivors?”
“One,” I tell him. “A little boy. Eight or nine years old.”
“He gonna make it?”
“I don’t know.”
His eyes meet mine and a silent communication passes between us, a mutual agreement we arrive upon without uttering a word. When you’re a cop in a small town, you become protective of the citizens you’ve been sworn to serve and protect, especially the innocent, the kids. When something like this happens, you take it personally. I’ve known Glock long enough to know that sentiment runs deep in him, too.
We start toward the intersection, trying to get a sense of what happened. Delisle Road runs in a north-south direction; County Road 14 runs east-west with a two-way stop. The speed limit is fifty-five miles per hour. The area is heavily wooded and hilly. If you’re approaching the intersection from any direction, it’s impossible to see oncoming traffic.
Glock speaks first. “Looks like the buggy was southbound on Delisle Road.”
I nod in agreement. “The second vehicle was running west on CR 14. Probably at a high rate of speed. Blew the stop sign. Broadsided the buggy.”
His eyes drift toward the intersection. “Fucking T-boned them.”
“Didn’t even pause to call nine one one.”
He grimaces. “Probably alcohol related.”
“Most hit-and-runs are.”
Craning his neck, he eyeballs Andy Welbaum. “He a witness?”
“First on scene. He’s pretty shaken up.” I look past him at the place where the wrecked buggy lies on its side. “Whatever hit that buggy is going to have a smashed up front end. I put out a BOLO for an unknown with damage.”
He looks out over the carnage. “Did you know them, Chief?”
“A long time ago,” I tell him. “I’m going to pick up the bishop and head over to their farm to notify next of kin. Do me a favor and get Welbaum’s statement, will you?”
“You got it.”
I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t meet his gaze. I don’t want to share the mix of emotions inside me at the devastation that’s been brought down on this Amish family. I don’t want him to know the extent of the sadness I feel or my anger toward the perpetrator.
To my relief, he looks away, lets it go. “I’d better get to work.” He taps his lapel mike. “Call me if you need anything.”
I watch him walk away, then turn my attention back to the scene. I take in the wreckage of the buggy. The small pieces of the victims’ lives that are strewn about like trash. And I wonder what kind of person could do something like this and not stop to render aid or call for help.
“You better hide good, you son of a bitch, because I’m coming for you.”
CHAPTER 2