I almost can’t believe my eyes. What are the odds of similar murders that happened thousands of miles apart touching the same man’s life twice? In some small corner of my mind, a memory pings my brain. A statement Glock made earlier.
Detrick used to be some big-shot hunting guide in Alaska.
That’s when I remember this isn’t the only place the sheriff’s name has come up in the course of my research. Curious, I go to the Holmes County Auditor’s Web site. An honest-to-God chill sweeps through me when I see that in September 1994, Nathan Detrick and his wife, Grace, sold their 2,500 square foot home in Millersburg.
I don’t dare acknowledge the connection my mind has just made. This has to be a coincidence. Nathan Detrick is a cop. To suspect him would go beyond ridiculous. He’s above reproach. Above suspicion.
Or is he?
Detrick is one of a handful of people who moved away from Painters Mill during the sixteen-year period. I now know he lived in Alaska where three similar murders occurred. I’ve been a cop long enough to realize this warrants follow-up.
I look down at my hands to find them shaking. I know I’m wrong about this. Coincidences do occur, and I’m an idiot for looking at Detrick. But the sheriff fits the profile far better than Jonas. My cop’s gut tells me to keep digging.
Remembering the list of snowmobile registrations I asked Pickles for yesterday, I quickly rifle through the papers on the table until I find it. It’s a typed list of names of people who own blue or silver snowmobiles registered in Coshocton and Holmes Counties. Midway down, Detrick’s name appears. He owns a blue Yamaha.
“No way,” I whisper. “No way.”
I go back to the computer and start looking at Detrick in earnest. Half an hour into my search, I discover a newspaper story in the Dayton Daily News from June 1986 about a bright young police officer who recently relocated from Fairbanks, Alaska, to join the Dayton Police Department. Donning full dress uniform, flanked by his wife, a handsome young Detrick smiles for the camera. The story is dated two months after the last murder in Alaska.
I begin looking for similar murders in and around Dayton during the time Detrick was there. I hit a dozen Web sites, one leading to the other—newspaper, television and radio Web sites, a few nonrestricted law enforcement sites, even a Crime Stoppers—but I find nothing. Only when I expand my search to the surrounding states do I hit pay dirt. A story in the archive section of The Kentucky Post from March 1989 snags my eye.
BODY FOUND ON RIVERBANK IDENTIFIED
The nude body of a woman found last week by a jogger on the bank of the Ohio River has been identified as twenty-year-old Jessie Watkins. According to Kenton County Coroner Jim Magnus, the woman’s throat was cut. Covington Police and the Kenton County Sheriff’s Office are “aggressively seeking the perpetrator,” said an unnamed law enforcement source on Monday. Watkins, a known prostitute, was last seen leaving a bar in Cincinnati. Investigators have no suspects at this time.
I pull up a map Web site and plug in the cities of Dayton, Ohio, and Covington, Kentucky. Covington is about an hour’s drive from Dayton. Doable in one evening with time to spare.
Next, I do a random search for similar crimes in Michigan, but I strike out. Undeterred, I try Indiana. For an hour, I go from site to site to site. Just when I’m about to give up, I find a buried story on the murder of a young migrant worker, whose body was found in a cornfield between Indianapolis and Richmond.
MIGRANT WORKER FOUND MURDERED
Police have few clues in the murder of thirty-one-year-old Lucinda Ramos, whose body was found in a cornfield not far from Interstate 70 near New Castle on Monday. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life,” said Dick Welbaum, the farmer who nearly ran over the body with his tractor. An anonymous source with the Henry County Coroner’s office said there were “ritualistic carvings” on the victim’s body. When asked about the possibility of a cult, Mick Barber with the Henry County Sheriff’s Office offered no comment. He did say that the sheriff’s office is working in conjunction with the New Castle PD as well as the State Police to find the person or persons responsible.
The term ritualistic carving sticks in my mind. A check of the map site tells me New Castle, Indiana, is an hour and twenty minutes from Dayton. I pull up the Indiana State Police Web site and dial the main number. Within minutes I’m on the phone with Ronald Duff in the Criminal Investigation Division.
I identify myself as the chief of police and cut right to the chase. “I’m wondering about a murder you investigated back in 1988. Vic’s name was Lucinda Ramos.”