The pond itself is a good-size body of water. People swim here in the summer. They ice-skate in winter. Lovers park here at night. Teenagers drink and smoke dope. The area is secluded with no official parking area. The only thing that keeps the place from getting crowded is that you have to walk half a mile down a wooded path to get to the water.
Ed Beachey’s place was on the way, so Tomasetti and I stopped by to ask him if Mary Plank had sought his help. The Amish man claimed she never contacted him. I believed him. I wanted to assure him his secret was safe with me, but I’ve learned the hard way not to make promises I might not be able to keep. Another dead end.
I told Tomasetti about my conversation with Aaron on the drive over. Neither of us is very optimistic about finding the tree with the initials. But with the case stalled and the clock ticking, he wasn’t opposed to a quick look-see.
“Pretty heavily wooded area.” He parks in front of the guardrail.
“I thought we could walk the path, see if anything pops out at us.” I slide out of the SUV. It’s so quiet I can hear the bees buzzing around the goldenrod and dandelions in the bar ditch.
Tomasetti gets out and slides on his sunglasses. “If you’re thinking foot-wear impressions or tire treads, we’re a month too late.”
Our gazes meet over the hood of the vehicle. “I know it’s a long shot, but if we can find the initials, it could help.”
He nods, but I can tell he’s not sold on the idea. “If we don’t find the initials, at least we have a good supply of trees to bang our heads against.”
“Pragmatist.”
The Tahoe is parked in gravel. The asphalt ended about a quarter mile back. There’s not much room for parking, but I can tell by the amount of trash on the ground that plenty of people come here. Where the weeds meet the gravel, broken glass shimmers like hot diamonds beneath the sun. I see dozens of tire tread imprints. Candy bar wrappers. A used condom. Most people are pretty good about picking up after themselves. But not the slobs. I’ve been standing in the sun for less than a minute and already I’m sweating beneath my uniform.
“Okay. So we’ve got a few thousand trees to check.” He opens the Tahoe door, digs around for a moment, emerges with two Wal-Mart bags, passes one to me. “Here’s your evidence bag.”
“You’re pretty resourceful, Tomasetti.” I take the bag. “You a Boy Scout?”
“Got kicked out for smoking when I was nine.”
“Figures.” But I smile. “You wouldn’t happen to have gloves, would you?”
He ducks back into the Tahoe and comes out with a handful of tissues. “These’ll have to do.”
“You BCI guys are high tech all the way.” I take a couple of the tissues, tuck them into my back pocket.
Sighing, he works off his suit jacket and tosses it onto the front seat. He is wearing a light blue shirt beneath the jacket. The armpits and back are wet with sweat. He takes a moment to loosen his tie. I see chest hair peeking out of his collar and it reminds me he’s got just the right amount of it.
“Anything else we should be looking for while we’re here?” he asks.
I shake my head. “They came here several times. They drank wine, had sex.”
“The boyfriend smoke?”
“She didn’t mention it, but Evelyn Steinkruger said Mary came back to work once smelling of cigarettes.”
“Even if we find a butt, chances are there won’t be any DNA. Even if there was, it isn’t against the law to smoke out here. Won’t do us any good in terms of the case.”
“Unless the DNA matches the DNA found inside her body.”
“Good point.” He rolls up his shirtsleeves. “Let’s see if they left us anything to work with.”
We begin in the gravel parking area. I walk the perimeter where flying insects swarm in hip-high weeds. It’s late in the season so everything is yellow and dry and coated with a thin layer of gravel dust. Tomasetti walks the dirt track that leads back to the main road, checking the bigger trees along the way. I use one of the tissues to pick up a candy wrapper and place it in the Wal-Mart bag. All the while my brain chants the word futile.
It takes us fifteen minutes to scour the area. I’ve netted a handful of candy and gum wrappers, a plastic water bottle and a crushed Skoal can. Wiping a drop of sweat from my temple, I look around, trying to put myself in Mary’s head. Ten feet away, Tomasetti looks the way I feel: hot and discouraged.
“She was breaking the rules by being here,” I say. “She would have wanted privacy.”
“He probably wouldn’t want to be seen with her.” He walks over to me. “Let’s check the woods.”
We head down the dirt path cut into the woods. The trees offer shade, but the mosquitoes have decided we’re fair game. No one officially maintains the path; it stays open due to the amount of foot traffic. Once or twice a year, one of the local farmers cuts down any overgrown saplings or bushes with his tractor and Bush Hog.
As we trudge into the woods, I try to put myself in Mary’s shoes. She was young, Amish and involved in an illicit love affair. Where did they walk? What did they touch? Did they leave anything behind?