Kate Burkholder: Her Last Breath Part 10

The men laugh. I join in, but my voice grates like a rusty hinge.

"Maybe it's that chick you brought to the barbeque last weekend," one of the deputies says. "She had that female Neanderthal thing going on. What was she? Six one? Two fifty?"

"Don't forget the mustache," says a paramedic.

"Sounds like your mom," the other deputy shoots back.

The men break into laughter again. I smile as I watch the technician pick a bone from the dust and set it on the body bag. But the back and armpits of my uniform s.h.i.+rt are soaked with nervous sweat.

"You guys suspect foul play?" I ask.

The deputy standing next to me shakes his head. "Hard to tell. The bones were kind of covered up with all that wood, so I don't think he just fell in. Looks like someone covered them up."

The paramedic leans forward and looks at me. "Firefighter said there're rats down there, too."

"That'll f.u.c.k up a scene," Redmon says absently.

"Anyone find a weapon?" I ask.

"Not yet."

"What about an ID? Or clothes?"

The sheriff glances at me, curious about my questions. Sweat spreads to the back of my neck. "There are some old clothes down there," he says. "Fabric's deteriorated."

I nod, make eye contact with Sheriff Redmon. "Let me know if there's anything my department can do for you."

"Appreciate it." The sheriff holds my gaze. "You guys make an arrest on that hit-skip?"

"We're working on it." I step back, hating it that my knees are shaking.

As I start toward the door, I feel the men's eyes burning into my back.

By the time I reach the Explorer, I'm in the throes of an all-out panic attack. I grip the wheel and suck in slow, deep breaths until it subsides. After a few minutes, I pull myself together, start the engine, and turn onto the road. A mile down I pull over and call Tomasetti.

He answers on the second ring with, "I knew you couldn't stay away from me for long."

"They found the bones," I tell him.

A too-long pause ensues. "Lapp?"

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm scared."

"We probably shouldn't discuss this on the phone. Do you want me to drive down?"

"I'm working this. .h.i.t-skip. Give me a few hours to get some things done."

"In the interim, will you do me a favor and stay the h.e.l.l away from the scene?"

"Too late, Tomasetti."

"Kate." He growls my name.

My laugh is a frazzled, anxious sound. But knowing he cares, knowing I can count on him if the situation takes a turn for the worse, goes a long way toward calming me down.

"They don't know anything," I tell him.

Tomasetti doesn't respond to that. Maybe because we both know that could change in a blink.

"Sit tight," he tells me. "And stay the h.e.l.l away from that scene."

He disconnects without saying good-bye.

CHAPTER 10.

I spend the afternoon at the station, poring over the list of names Pickles and Skid a.s.sembled on the registered owners of 1996 gray Ford F-250 trucks living in Holmes, Wayne, and Coshocton Counties. So far, everyone they've talked to has alibis for the time of the hit-and-run. None of the vehicles they've checked are damaged or have reinforced front ends. But I'm giving the task only a fraction of my attention. I can't stop thinking about the discovery of those remains in the grain elevator.

At 5:00 P.M., I head for the Bra.s.s Rail Saloon to talk to the bartender. The parking lot is jam packed with vehicles. I want to believe people stop in to wind down with a beer after work or maybe indulge in a burger-and-fries dinner before heading home for the day. It's an optimistic offering. The beer is watered down, the burgers are barely fit for human consumption, and about half of these vehicles have been here since noon. The truth of the matter is there's a faction of people in the county who'd rather drink their day away than earn an honest wage. The methamphetamine trade is at pandemic levels and rural areas have been hit particularly hard. While Amish country might be the poster child for wholesome living, it hasn't escaped the scourge.

I park next to a newish Toyota SUV that's been keyed from headlight to taillight on the pa.s.senger side. I try not to notice the baby seat in the rear as I walk past. Ten yards from the door, the ba.s.s rumble of music vibrates the ground beneath my feet. By the time I step inside, I can feel it pulsing in my bone marrow.

The interior of the bar is dark as a cave and smells of cigarette smoke, cooking grease, and an unpleasant combination of aftershave and body odor. An old Talking Heads rocker blasts from dual speakers the size of caskets mounted on either side of a dance floor where a thin young man wearing a DeKalb cap humps a girl who's more interested in her beer than him.

Most of the patrons are young and male, an a.s.semblage of tee-s.h.i.+rts and jeans, with the occasional leather jacket, which is good for secreting a weapon. Chances are I won't run into any problems; most of the people who frequent this bar aren't looking for trouble with the police. But I've been chief long enough to know even pretty, small towns have an underbelly, and that sometimes even the most benign of individuals can turn on you.

A pool game is in full swing at the rear. Cigarette smoke hovers like fog beneath the dim light of a stained-gla.s.s chandelier. A blond woman in snug yellow shorts leans across the table to make a difficult shot, drawing every male gaze within eyeshot. A couple of the pool players have noticed me. I stare back as I make my way to the bar, knowing it's never a good sign when a police uniform outstrips short shorts in a perfect size six.

I recognize the barkeep. Jimmie Baines is a small-time hood who keeps all the wrong company. He's in his mid-thirties with the rangy build of a welterweight. Word around town is that he enjoys his meth. From the looks of him, a little too much. He's balding on top with a precision-cut goatee and a missing canine on the left side. He's wearing a black tee-s.h.i.+rt with the sleeves torn off. The tattoos on his biceps jump as he dries a shot gla.s.s with a moldy-looking towel. He's staring at me with the lazy nonchalance of an alligator sunning itself on a muddy bank while watching some fat rodent come down for a drink.

"How's it going, Jimmie?" I say.

"Fair to middlin'." He doesn't look pleased to see me. Judging by the way his eyes are jumping around, I'd venture to say my presence is making him nervous. I'm not surprised. People like Jimmie are always up to no good. He leads a life of crime and spends most of his time trying to keep people like me from finding out about it.

"You're not going to ruin my day, are you?" he asks.

"That depends on you." I smile. "You got any coffee made?"

"Anything for you, Chief." Turning his back to me, he snags a carafe from beneath the bar and slides it into an ancient-looking Bunn coffeemaker. "What brings you out here this afternoon?" he asks, scooping grounds from a Sam's-size Folgers can.

I turn, set my elbows on the bar, and scan the room. The people at the rear have resumed their pool game, a few s.h.i.+fty gazes still flicking my way. The couple on the dance floor are swaying in time to Neil Young & Crazy Horse, oblivious to everything except the spot where skin meets skin. A young woman sits alone at a table, arguing with her iPhone.

"Did you hear about that accident out on Delisle last night?" I begin.

"You mean that buggy wreck?" He turns to the cabinet behind him and pulls down a white mug.

"There were three people killed."

"Man, I hate to hear that." He checks the mug to make sure it's clean and sets it on the bar in front of me. "Them d.a.m.n buggies is hard to see at night."

I want to tell him they are particularly hard to see if you're knuckle-dragging drunk and doing eighty, but I hold my tongue. "Did you work last night?"

"I'm here 'bout every night." He doesn't meet my gaze as he pours coffee into the mug. "You want creamer, Chief?"

"Black's fine." I reach for my wallet, but he stops me.

"It's on the house."

"Thanks." I pick up the mug and sip. The coffee is weak, but it'll do. "Jimmie, do you remember who was in here about this time yesterday?"

"Aw, we were so d.a.m.n busy, I couldn't even get away to take a p.i.s.s." He picks up a gla.s.s that's already dry and starts wiping. I can tell by the way he's concentrating on the task that he knows where my line of questioning is going and he doesn't want any part of it.

"Anyone overly intoxicated?"

"Not that I noticed. Pretty mellow crowd out here most days." He wipes the gla.s.s faster and harder. "I cut off anyone gets out of line."

"So you say."

Jimmie sets down the gla.s.s, picks up another.

"The Bra.s.s Rail isn't too far from where that wreck happened," I tell him.

"I wouldn't know anything about that, Chief."

"We think the driver might have been intoxicated," I say conversationally. "If someone left here and headed toward Painters Mill, they would have had to cross that intersection."

He dries faster, harder, and sc.r.a.pes at a spot with a dirty thumbnail.

"Do any of your regulars drive a Ford F-250?" I ask.

"I dunno."

"Jimmie." I say his name sharply.

He looks up from the gla.s.s and meets my gaze. His mouth is slightly open and in that small s.p.a.ce between his lips I see he's got a bad case of meth-mouth. "What?" he says.

"There's a five-hundred-dollar reward for information."

He tries not to look interested, but he doesn't quite manage. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Any information that leads to an arrest and conviction."

"Can they stay anonymous?"

"Far as I know."

He turns away, picks up another gla.s.s and runs his towel over it. "Leland Dull was in here 'bout seven last night. Had some big fight with his old lady. He was all s.h.i.+t-faced and mean. You know how he gets. You didn't hear it from me, okay?"

I'm familiar with Dull. He and his wife live in Painters Mill, a small house by the railroad tracks. My officers have been called to their address several times in recent months. Leland has been arrested twice for domestic violence. Both times were alcohol related. If he was here last night, he would have had to pa.s.s the intersection where the accident occurred in order to get home.

"What time did he leave?" I ask.

"'Bout seven-thirty, give or take."

"What was he driving?"

"Don't know about that."

I pull a ten-dollar bill from my wallet and lay it on the bar. "Behave yourself, Jimmie."

"Hey, don't forget about me if this pans out," he says.

I don't look back as I start toward the exit.

Leland Dull and his wife, Gail, live on a tree-lined street of circa 1960 bungalows that might have been quaint if not for the tumbling-down chain-link fences and yards trampled to dirt. The neighborhood would have been redeemable if not for the railroad tracks fifty yards from their front doors and the freight trains that rattle by four times a day.

I asked my second s.h.i.+ft dispatcher, Jodie, to run his name for outstanding warrants. He comes back clean, but I discover a twelve-year-old conviction for vehicular manslaughter. According to police records, he was driving home late one night, missed a curve in the road, and drove through a house, killing the homeowner, a seventy-year-old woman. The county attorney dropped the charges down from vehicular homicide to vehicular manslaughter, and Dull pled guilty. He was sentenced to two years at the Mansfield Correctional Inst.i.tution, but ended up doing nine months.

Chances are Leland Dull wasn't involved in this particular accident. But considering his history of drinking and driving, his proximity to the scene on the night in question-and the fact that he drives a truck-I'm obliged to check him out.

I find the house with no problem and park in the driveway, behind an old Dodge pickup. I can't see the front end of the truck from where I'm sitting. I hail dispatch, let them know I'm 10-23, get out and start toward the vehicle. A quick walk around reveals no damage.

"Ain't you going to kick the tires?"

I glance up to see Leland Dull standing a few feet away, glaring at me as if I'm about to steal his truck.

"Or maybe you ought to whip out one of them CSI Q-tips and swab the hood for blood. h.e.l.l, break out the shovel. Maybe I got a f.u.c.kin' body buried in the backyard."

He's sixty years old with a full head of white hair that's gone yellow and hasn't seen a decent cut in a couple of decades. The stubble on his chin tells me he hasn't shaved for a few days, and I'm pretty sure the smell wafting over to me isn't from the aging mutt at his feet.

I pull out my badge and show it to him. "You're not confessing to anything, are you, Leland?"

"What are you doing on my property?"

"I just want to ask you a few questions."