Part 9 (1/2)

I motion toward Maloney. ”I think most of you have met Frank. He's going to give a short presentation on what we believe happened the night Paul Borntrager and his two kids were killed.”

”Emphasis on short,” Skid mutters.

I glance down at my notes. ”First, I wanted to run through everything we've got so far, give a.s.signments, and get reports.”

I run through the list of information and evidence we've ama.s.sed so far. The as-of-yet unidentified pin and the side-view mirror. The hexagonal impression in the piece of wood buggy maker Luke Miller discovered. Then I face my team and tell them about Rasmussen's and my trip to the Voss Brother's Body Shop in Wooster.

”I made copies of the invoice for everyone. The original has been sent to BCI lab in London on the chance we can pick up some latents.” I scan the room. ”I believe it's relevant to the case that the work performed on the truck included having a quarter-inch-thick steel plate welded to the front end. If that vehicle is, indeed, the hit-skip, this adds premeditation and changes our case from vehicular homicide to murder one.”

”You get a description on this guy?” Glock asks.

I quote Bob Voss. ”Nice looking young man and dresses like a yuppie.”

”That narrows it down,” Skid says dryly.

”What about cameras?” Pickles asks. ”A lot of them body shops have security cameras.”

”They do,” I tell him, ”but only in the rear lot. Here's what we do know. The vehicle is a gray 1996 Ford F-250. BOLO is out, so other agencies including the SHP will be looking.” I don't need to tell them that vehicles can be altered, parked, or hidden indefinitely.

”I had Lois pull the ROs of Ford F-250 trucks built between 1995 and 2005 for the three-county area. We have a total of sixty-nine registered owners. Twelve of those individuals have had DUIs in the last five years.” I turn my attention to Pickles and Skid. ”I want you guys to get with Rasmussen and split everything up according to jurisdiction. Start talking to people, starting with those DUIs.”

Pickles nods. ”My pleasure.”

Skid, his mouth full of burrito, offers a two-finger salute.

I continue. ”There was an interesting piece of information from the buggy maker we brought in.” I pick up an enlarged photograph of the length of wood Luke Miller found. ”An imprint that may have been made by the hit-skip vehicle was found on this piece from the buggy. I sent it to the lab, but took a photo so everyone could take a look.” I pa.s.s out the photos.

I give everyone a few minutes to scrutinize, then my eyes land on Mona. This is her first official briefing. She's trying to hide her excitement, but she's not doing a very good job of it. She's been my dispatcher for about three years now. She attends college during the day and is close to earning a degree in criminal justice. Twice, she's approached me about an officer position. Both times I hedged, attributing my inability to promote her to my limited budget. The truth of the matter is that, despite her enthusiasm, she's not ready for police work. That doesn't mean that at some point I won't hire her; I think she'll make a fine cop one day. But she's not there yet.

”Reports,” I say. ”Mona, did you get anything off the hotline?”

She takes a deep breath, like a kid about to take her first dive off the high board. ”Hotline has been steady, but I've spent some time weeding out the crazy s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p stuff.”

Skid interjects with, ”That f.u.c.kin' Mueller.”

Everyone laughs. Don Mueller has been calling in UFO sightings since he saw E.T. thirty years ago, at which point he became convinced extraterrestrials were out to kidnap him.

Mona continues. ”Mrs. Obermiller reported seeing a truck drive past her farm with its headlights off the evening of the incident. She couldn't give the color or model of the truck. Didn't get a plate number. Couldn't give a description of the driver. But she said it was moving fast, and she thought that was odd.”

Glock sits up straighter. ”She lives about four miles down the road from that intersection, Chief.”

I make eye contact with T.J. ”Will you go talk to her before you go home?”

”You bet.”

”What else, Mona?”

”Lots of people calling in wanting to know if Paul Borntrager and his kids were murdered. I guess word is getting around town. I'm telling them we're still investigating.”

”Good answer,” I tell her. ”Stick with it. Anything else?”

”That's all I got, Chief.”

”Nice job.” I don't miss the grin that spreads across her face before I turn my attention to Pickles and Skid. ”How'd the canva.s.sing go?”

Pickles clears wet cobwebs from his throat. ”I hit the three farms off of CR 14. Amos Miller's place. Roy Stutz's farm. Don Jackson's place. No one saw s.h.i.+t.”

I look at Skid.

”I hit the Schlabach place, the Hertzler's farm, and that beat-up trailer home where Donnie Boyd lives.” He touches a b.u.t.ton on his iPhone to check his notes. ”Everyone seemed to like Paul Borntrager, and the wife, too. Everyone I talked to had nothing but good things to say about both of them.” He squints at the small display. ”Schlabachs weren't very forthcoming, Chief.”

”Now there's a surprise.” The Schlabachs are a conservative Amish family and have about eight kids. I ticketed Amos Schlabach a few weeks back for refusing to display a slow-moving vehicle sign on his buggy. He reminded me I would be spending all of eternity burning in h.e.l.l for having left the fold. ”Did you speak with Martha?”

”Tried to.” Skid shakes his head. ”She sent me packing.”

”I'll talk to them.” But I'm not too excited about the prospect of any helpful information. ”Anything else?”

”That's it, Chief.”

I motion toward Maloney. ”Take it away, Frank.”

He's removed his jacket and wears a short-sleeved uniform s.h.i.+rt beneath. I suspect he's trying to show off his biceps to Mona. That he doesn't realize she's more interested in his report than him makes me smile.

It takes Maloney twenty minutes to take us through the reconstruction. I'm impressed. Despite the poor quality of his sketching, he presents a credible rendition of the incident. He's good at what he does.

”In my estimation,” he tells us, ”the hit-skip broadsided that buggy at about 80 MPH.”

Because of the extent of the damage to the buggy and the location of the victims, all of us had known the truck was traveling at a high rate of speed. But to see the information in black and white, to hear the words spoken aloud, conjures images that draw a collective gasp from everyone in the room, including me.

Maloney continues. ”There were no skid marks. So we're either dealing with some kind of mechanical failure-brake failure, for example-or he was under the influence of alcohol or drugs and his reflexes were so slowed he didn't react to the situation.”

”Could have been texting,” T.J. offers.

Swearing beneath his breath, Pickles leans back in his chair and shakes his head. ”Or if he went to the trouble of having the front end of his truck reinforced, he planned this and carried it out.”

T.J. looks from Pickles to Maloney. ”Is that what you think?”

Maloney looks at me. ”If you combine the reconstruction with all the other data we've gathered...”

”If it quacks like a duck, it's a f.u.c.kin' duck,” Glock puts in.

”It sounds like it was premeditated,” Mona says from her place at the door. She blushes, but no one seems to notice. No one looks at her. No one argues.

”Kind of a messy way to knock off someone,” Skid says. ”I mean, a lot of variables involved. One miscalculation and he could have disabled his truck, gotten a flat tire, or stranded himself at the scene.”

”If that's what happened, this guy definitely took some risks,” Maloney puts in.