Sleep is a precious commodity in the course of any homicide investigation, mainly because the first forty-eight hours are so crucial in terms of solving the case. I know better than to allow the things going on in my personal life to interfere with my job. But I have a feeling I’m not the first cop to let it happen anyway. Luckily, I’m pretty good at operating on little sleep and staying focused when I have other issues zinging around inside my head.
Tomasetti and I didn’t get much settled last night, not in terms of talking, anyway. We didn’t broach any of the topics I brought up. I didn’t ask for some magic solution and he offered none. We didn’t even talk about the case—and I would have very much appreciated his insights. Despite all of that, this morning I’m feeling optimistic that the kinks we’ve encountered will smooth out. I’m going to have to trust him and I’m going to have to be patient. Neither of those things comes naturally to me, so I’m going to have to work on them.
It’s 7 A.M., and I’m already buzzed on coffee and in that mental zone I find myself in when I’m embroiled in a case. In addition to the two homicides, I’ve been unable to account for Jerrold McCullough for nearly twenty-four hours. It’s possible he became frightened and left town. But I have a bad feeling in my gut.
Questions and scenarios pummel my brain as I climb into the Explorer. Ten minutes later, I’m on the gravel track that runs parallel with Painters Creek, heading toward McCullough’s place. I slow for the bridge, and I’m dismayed to see that the water is just a foot from the center span. There aren’t many homes in this area, but if any more rain falls, the road will be under water.
I park next to McCullough’s Riviera and cut the engine. I can see his house from where I’m sitting. The porch light is on, but there are no lights on inside. I hail Mona on the radio.
“I’m ten twenty-three Jerrold McCullough’s place.”
“Roger that, Chief.”
“Will you do me a favor and call the mayor. Tell him I think we’re going to have some flooding out here and we should probably put out some kind of bulletin to let folks know.”
“Will do.” She pauses. “Glock just brought in doughnuts. Do you want me to save you one?”
“That’s affirm.” Smiling, I get out.
The first thing I’m aware of is the roar of the water from behind the house. Painters Creek is usually a meandering stream with deep fishing holes and shallow crossings where the water trickles over rocks. This morning it’s latte brown and swollen to three times its normal size. The rain has stopped, but the sky to the west is black and ominous looking, telling me there’s more on the way. What I wouldn’t do for just one day of sunshine …
I pause to look through the driver’s-side window of the Riviera. I see a pile of magazines in the backseat. A Coke can on the floor. A Netflix movie that probably needs to be dropped at the post office. I take the same path Glock and I took last night, hopping between pieces of plywood and chunks of concrete to avoid the mud. I reach the porch and knock hard on the storm door. “Jerrold McCullough! It’s Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill PD. Come to the door, please. I need to speak with you!”
I shout the words not only to be heard above the roar of water, but because it’s still early and I know there’s a possibility McCullough is asleep. That would be a best-case scenario. I don’t believe he came home last night. I don’t believe he’s here now. I knock a second time, using the heel of my hand. Upon his arrival yesterday, Glock found the door open. But for security reasons, we locked it when we left.
When there’s no answer, I brave the mud and go around to the rear of the house. I pause at the living room window, cup my hands and try to see inside. But the curtains are pulled tight, so I continue around.
The sight of the creek gives me pause. The water has encroached thirty feet into the yard, swirling amid mammoth tree trunks, carrying debris—logs and branches and trash—as it rushes toward its end journey to Sugar Creek and the Tuscarawas River. And I know in my heart there’s no way McCullough would have left when flooding is a threat to his home. He’s an I’m-going-down-with-the-ship type, even if we’d called for a mandatory evacuation.
“Jerrold McCullough! Police Department!”
I look out across the water. Fifty feet away, a good-size log is jammed against a stand of trees that, so far, have withstood the force of the current. The branches have captured a sizeable amount of debris: leaves and brush and what looks like an old tire. Nearer, the wooden deck is inches from being completely submerged now. When the creek is at normal levels, the deck is twenty feet from the bank and the perfect place to lounge in a chair with a book or maybe barbecue brats and burgers. I know it won’t be long before the torrent gobbles it up and sends it downstream. I’m about to head back to the Explorer, when I notice something pale bobbing just beneath the surface a foot or two off the deck, and I get a bad feeling in my gut.