Part 10 (1/2)
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.