sheriff sold vacuum cleaners before he took the job, for Chrissake. No offense, Kate, but the majority of these guys just don’t have the experience for this kind of investigation.”
“None taken.” I smile at him. “Just FYI, I’ve never sold vacuum cleaners.”
McNinch chuckles. “Then you’re not out of your depth.”
CHAPTER 4
Fifteen minutes later, Tomasetti and I are on the road in his Tahoe, heading east on the Ohio Turnpike toward Buck Creek, Ohio, where the most recent disappearance took place. The town is located near the Mosquito Creek Wilderness area in the northeastern part of the state. It’s about an hour from the Richfield office, through pretty countryside dotted with small towns, farms, and miles of tall hardwood forest. Tomasetti drives well over the speed limit, which takes a bite out of the drive time. At Newton Falls, we cut north on Interstate 5 and pass through Cortland, then take a less-traveled state highway toward Buck Creek.
Fifteen minutes later, a sign welcomes us: THE HUNTING CAPITAL OF OHIO, POPULATION 1,200. The first thing I notice about the town are the trees. Ancient buckeyes, maples, and elms line the main drag, their massive trunks nearly obscuring the buildings from view. We pass a manufacturing park where Erie Overhead Door and Whittle Plastics share a gravel lot that’s jam-packed with cars and trucks. The downtown area is quaint, with redbrick storefronts, hanging pots over-flowing with petunias, and an old-fashioned cobblestone street. We pass half a dozen antiques shops, two sporting-goods stores, a bank that looks like something out of the Bonnie and Clyde era, and
We turn left at the traffic light, pass a massive Lutheran church and the Buck Creek High School, home of the Fighting Panthers, and then we’re on a twisty two-lane road, heading out of town. Trees encroach onto the shoulders of the road, the canopies blocking the sun, so that only the occasional shaft of light flashes across the windshield. It’s cooler here, perhaps because of our proximity to the lake, and Tomasetti flicks off the air conditioning. I’m in the process of opening my window when his cell erupts.
He thumbs a button, then growls his name into his Bluetooth. “Where?” he snaps after a moment. Then: “We’re on the way.”
He ends the call, then shoots me a look. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” he asks.
“Let’s start with the good,” I reply.
“I just took a call from the sheriff. We have our first scene.”
“That is good news.” Other than catching someone red-handed, or finding the missing, having a scene from which to extract evidence is the best news we could receive at this point. “What’s the bad news?”
“There’s blood. According to the sheriff, a lot of it.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Anything else?”
“Locals are there, looking around. I’m going to get a CSU down here.”
“How far?”
“A couple of miles from here.”
“That’s one of the things I like about small towns,” I tell him. “Never far to the scene of the crime.”
A mile down the road, we turn onto a narrow asphalt track. A quarter mile in, a Trumbull County sheriff’s cruiser with its emergency lights flashing is parked on the gravel shoulder. Two additional cruisers straddle the road at haphazard angles, blocking both lanes. A uniformed deputy drops orange caution cones to divert traffic. Another strings yellow crime-scene tape, using the trees that grow alongside the road and the tops of the cones to cordon off the area.
Tomasetti stops a good distance from the scene and pulls onto the gravel shoulder. We exit simultaneously and head toward the nearest cruiser.
The air is cool and clean and filled with a cacophony of birdsong. We’re in the midst of a forest that turns midday into twilight. The thick underbrush forms a seemingly impenetrable wall on both sides of the roadway. The area is shadowed and humid and has the feel of some vast wilderness—or a place where something bad could happen and no one would ever know. Aside from the occasional crackle of a police radio, it’s so quiet, I can hear the buzz of insects.
“I’m sorry, folks, but the road’s closed.”
I look up to see a large man in plainclothes striding toward us, his expression grim. He’s about forty years old, with a military buzz cut and a handlebar mustache that looks touched up to cover the gray. He’s wearing khaki trousers, a white shirt with the underarms sweated through, and a leather shoulder holster with a nice-looking Taurus .380 sticking out of its leather sheath. He looks more like the Hollywood version of a private detective than a county sheriff, and I get the impression he’s a hit with the ladies—a fact that doesn’t elude him.
He motions in the direction from which we came. “You’re going to have to turn around and take the township road.”
His voice trails off when Tomasetti holds up his identification. “We’re with BCI.”
The man’s expression softens and I see a flash of relief. “I thought you two looked kind of official.” Chortling, he sticks out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Bud Goddard.”
Tomasetti makes the introductions, and I show my temporary ID, which was issued to me just this morning.
Goddard pumps my hand with a little too much enthusiasm, and I know he’s genuinely glad we’re here. “You’re that Amish police chief nabbed that serial killer a few years back.” His voice is as deep and melodic as that of a bass opera singer.
“Formerly Amish,” I tell him. “Agent Tomasetti thought I might be able to lend a hand.”
“Well, them Amishers do prefer to keep to themselves.” He motions toward the scene, where a deputy is talking on his cell. I wince upon spotting what looks like dirty motor oil from a blown engine spilled on the road. But I know it’s not. “As soon as we finish up here,” he tells us, “I’d like to drive out there and talk to the family. They don’t have a phone. Sure would appreciate it if you came along. They’re the damnedest lot to interview, if you know what I mean.”
The words come at me like a cockeyed blow, not a direct hit, but just enough to chafe my sensibilities. He’s right, but that doesn’t make me like the generality any less.
Tomasetti is staring in the direction of the stained roadway. “Who discovered the scene?”
“Motorist spotted a bag on the road about an hour ago. When he got out to take a look, he found all that blood. He remembered hearing about the missing girl and called nine one one.”
“That’s a lot of blood,” I say.
The sheriff grimaces. “If it’s hers, I suspect that girl’s either hurt bad or dead. Course, we got a lot of deer around here. Damn things get hit all the time. We looked around and didn’t find a carcass, but I suppose it’s possible it ran off. You guys got any kind of field test that will tell us if it’s animal or human?”
Tomasetti nods. “Not with me, but I’ll call the CSU and tell them to grab an RSID kit. It’s pretty quick, so we should get an answer right away.”
“That’d be a tremendous help. At least we’ll know what we’re dealing with.” Goddard looks toward the bloodstain and shakes his head. “We think the bag belongs to the missing girl. During the initial interview, her parents said she was carrying one. We’ll run it over there and see if they can ID it.”
As if by some unspoken mutual agreement, the three of us start toward the pool of blood. Around us, the tempo of the forest seems to increase, pulsing with birdsong, cicadas, and other insects. The
The stain is a red-black slick nearly four feet in diameter, mostly dry now, except for the center. I can smell the deep copper scent of it. At least one vehicle has driven through it, leaving a decent impression of the tread. The CSU will take tire-tread imprints, but my gut tells me that more than likely they were made by an inattentive motorist who simply didn’t notice. At some point, some small animal left paw prints at a place where it may have
