A Dark Path #2
“Any missing persons?” he asks.
“Nothing recent, but I’ll check for any cold cases.”
Tomasetti gets to his feet, his eyes moving to the woods. “The creek is about a hundred yards away,” he says, “just inside that line of trees. Creek floods every few years. Maybe the bones were buried. Floodwater uncovered it?”
“Maybe.” But I’m still thinking about the dog. “Eddie, do you have any idea where Honeybear might’ve found the bone?”
“He’s been known to take a dip in the creek when it’s hot.” The Amish man’s brows knit. “If I was to guess, I’d say he got it in the woods.”
As if by unspoken agreement, Tomasetti and I start toward the trees.
The ground beneath us is a tangle of vines and weeds, making it difficult to see what’s there.
I take it slow, eyes cast down, using the toe of my boot to push aside the large pumpkin leaves.
The last thing I want to do is step on human remains and risk damaging them—or contaminating a possible crime scene.
“Kate.”
Twenty feet away, Tomasetti kneels. “Another bone here.”
I go to him. Sure enough, a triangular-shaped bone about the size of a human hand lies in the dirt. It’s flat, yellow-brown, and caked with soil. From where I’m standing, I see marks where the dog’s teeth scraped the surface.
“Evidently, Honeybear hit the mother lode,” Tomasetti says beneath his breath.
“Is that a … scapula?” I say as I take in the shape.
“Or part of one.” He leans closer to the bone. “I don’t know my anatomy well enough to tell if it’s animal or human.”
“In light of the human jaw…” Letting the words trail, I look toward the wall of trees, feel the hairs prickle at the back of my neck. “Tomasetti, where the hell did these bones come from? If there are bones, there has to be a body.”
He follows my gaze to the trees. “Painters Creek is a decent-size stream, especially after a rain. Do you recall any drownings? Upstream, maybe? Months or even years ago?”
“There was a drowning two years back, but the body was recovered.” I search my memory, but nothing else comes to mind. “Could be an incident before my time. I’ll check.”
“On the other hand, someone could have dumped a body,” he says. “Sometimes criminals from bigger cities look for less-populated rural areas to discard a victim in the hope no one will find the remains.”
A thunderclap punctuates the statement.
Troubled by the possibilities, I tug out my cell and call my dispatcher. “We need the coroner out here.”
A quick stutter of surprise. “I’ll call him right now.”
“I need you to log in to some of the law enforcement databases. Hit NCIC and the missing-person site linked to BCI,” I say, referring to two law enforcement databases with missing-person information.
“Check NamUs, too.” NamUs is a national information clearinghouse and resource center for missing, unidentified, and unclaimed persons across the United States.
The click of her keyboard sounds. “You got it.”
“We’re looking for missing persons. Cold cases, too. Start with Holmes County. Coshocton. Knox. Tuscarawas.”
“How far back do you want me to go?”
“Start with one year. If you don’t get a hit, work it back from there.”
“Chief, are we looking for a particular individual?”
I fill her in on what little we have so far. “At this point we don’t even know if these bones are male or female, an adult or child. We don’t know how old they are.”
“Gotcha.”
“Do you recall any drownings or accidents or open missing-persons cases in the area?” I ask. “Before my time?”
“Gosh, Chief, there was an Amish dude went missing ten or so years ago. Went out to the barn to feed and never came back. I think they finally found him up in Geauga County.”
“Double-check, will you?”
“Sure thing.”
“Who’s on call this afternoon?”
“Mona.”
Mona Kurtz is my newest—and only female—patrol officer. “Get her out here,” I say. “We’re going to have to search the area. Set up a grid. See if there are any more remains. We could use an extra set of eyes.”
“Roger that.” She hesitates. “Not to throw a wrench into the mix, Chief, but there’s a big storm headed our way.”
“Of course there is.” Turning, I take in the billowing black clouds and groan. “Tell Mona to bring some tarps and plastic sheeting. Extra marker cones if she can find them.”
“Kate.”
At the sound of Tomasetti’s voice, I glance over to see him kneeling fifty yards away and something sinks inside me.
Thanking Lois, I head that way to find him frowning at the disturbed earth in front of him. “Honeybear’s been a busy boy.”
There’s yet another shallow hole. At its base, two large bones stand out against the dark soil. We stare down at them, trying to get our heads around what it means.
“Looks like a human femur,” Tomasetti says.
“Adult?”
“Size is about right.” He tosses me a grim look. “I think it’s safe to say we have a human skeleton around here somewhere.”
“We need to find … the rest of it.” I go to my knees, try to discern some detail that will help us figure out what we’re dealing with. “The most pronounced commonality is that the bones appear to be old. There’s no soft tissue. They’re yellowed. Brown in places.”
“Deteriorated.” Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, he puts on his reading glasses. “Might be a good idea to get a forensic anthropologist out here. I know a guy.”
I slant him a smile. “I’m glad I have a close personal relationship with my favorite BCI agent.”
He smiles back at me, but only briefly. We fall silent and study the bones, puzzling over who they might belong to and how they ended up in this field on a dead-end road.
“Who is he and what happened to him?” I say, thinking aloud.
“And was foul play involved?” he adds.
In the distance, thunder sounds again, like the footsteps of some massive beast slowly getting closer.
I’ve just grabbed two slickers from the equipment box in my Explorer when the skies open up.
For twenty minutes rain pounds down, whipping the trees into a frenzy.
Midway through the deluge, a deputy with the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office arrives and cordons off the area with crime scene tape. Mona pulls up a few minutes later.
“Lois says you guys found human remains,” she calls out as she strides toward us.
I glance over to see her taking in the cones we’ve set out, the tape demarking an ever-growing scene. She may be a rookie and my youngest officer to boot, but she makes up for her inexperience with a passion for her profession and an insatiable hunger to learn.
I fill her in on what we’ve found so far.
“Foul play?” Her brows pull together. “Natural causes?”
“No way of knowing at this point.” I can tell by the way she’s looking around that her curiosity is as roused as mine.
“I want you to photograph everything. Set up a grid between the existing cones and the woods,” I tell her. “Walk it. Tight pattern. Mark anything that didn’t grow there.”
“I’m on it.”
At some point, an Amish buggy with a family inside pulled onto the road’s shoulder and parked. Judging from the lively conversation between the driver and Pumpkin Eddie, I’ve no doubt word of the disturbing find will travel like wildfire through the community.
“I understand you have a dead body on your hands.”
I turn to see the coroner striding toward me, a large medical case in hand.
“Part of one, anyway.” I cross to him and we shake hands.
“Never a good thing when the deceased isn’t intact.”
I’ve known Dr. Ludwig Coblentz since I became chief.
He’s a much-loved pediatrician with a busy practice who is also a budding chef and known to give impromptu cooking classes at the farmer’s market most weekends.
We’ve worked several difficult cases over the years.
Somehow, despite spending so much of his time with the dead, he’s one of the most optimistic people I know.
As I lead him to the jawbone, I summarize everything we’ve learned so far. “We’re checking missing-person reports. Possible drownings with unaccounted-for victims.”
“Good place to start.” He sets down the medical case and opens it. Taking his time, he dons sterile gloves and kneels next to the bone.
Curiosity jumps in his eyes as he takes in the details. “That is, indeed, a human mandible,” he says quietly. “The periosteum is deteriorated. Discolored.”
“Periosteum?”
“The hard, outer layer or cortical bone.” His brows knit. “Has this bone been moved?”
I tell him about the dog.
“There’s a complication for you.” He makes a sound of exasperation. “You’ve involved a forensic anthropologist?”
“He’s en route.” I look at the bone, the discoloration, the specks of caked mud. The gaps between the teeth. “Any idea how long these remains have been here?”
“Without testing or looking at a specimen under magnification, I can’t give you anything specific, certainly not official. I can, however, offer up an educated guess.”
“Lay it on me.”
“A couple of observations, actually.” He leans closer to the bone as if for a better look. “Preliminarily, these remains are in the final stage of decomposition. Skeletonization is complete and all we have here are disarticulated bones.”
Reaching into his medical bag, he removes a white sheet the consistency of grocery bag paper and sets it on the ground. He indicates the bone, then raises his eyes to mine. “May I?”
The one thing that is drilled into the heads of all law enforcement is that you do not contaminate evidence. You don’t touch it. You don’t move it. Ever. In this case, however, with the bones having already been unearthed, moved, and chewed on, I nod.
With gloved hands, the coroner gently picks up the bone. His brows knit as he studies it. Then he looks at me over the tops of his glasses. “Judging from the weight, this bone has been skeletonized for some time. Many months. Perhaps years.”
I nod.