A Dark Path #6
“Ground was pretty trampled,” Tomasetti adds.
“Doesn’t help that it’s dark,” Hooper puts in. “Of course, nighttime is when these kinds of incidents usually occur.”
I pull out my cell phone and scroll to the photo I took of Merle Beachy’s injury. “As you can see, there was quite a bit of bleeding,” I tell him. “I suspect the injury was deep.”
Hooper makes a hissing sound at the sight of the gash. “Bet that hurt.” But he’s looking at the photo with the fascination of a surgeon who’s unperturbed by the sight of torn flesh and blood. “Was the victim knocked to the ground?”
I nod. “Mr. Beachy was thrown from the buggy. He was in the process of getting up when the animal came at him from behind.”
“Did he sustain any other wounds?”
“No, but he said the animal also bit down and shook him.”
Making a sound of concern low in his throat, he scribbles a final note and tucks the notebook back in his pocket. “Can you take me to the exact location of where it happened?”
“Sure.” I motion toward the trees. “Just a few yards this way.”
We take the same route Tomasetti and I took earlier. I point out the wheel ruts in the ground and the place where the buggy struck the tree.
“The attack took place here.” Using the beam of my Maglite, I indicate the area immediately ahead of us.
The site is unchanged. A dribble of blood on the ground. Leaves and grass and weeds disturbed. Hooper kneels and pulls out his cell phone, snaps a few photos.
I’m aware of Tomasetti shining his flashlight beam in a circle around us, keeping an eye out in case the animal returns.
“How far away is the creek?” Hooper asks as he rises.
I motion east. “Twenty or so yards.”
Hooper cocks his head. “Can you show me the deer tracks you mentioned?”
“Sure.” Tomasetti starts that way. “The path is trampled, but you can clearly see the cloven hooves.” He stops, his beam pointed straight down. “Here.”
Hooper joins him, sets his beam on the marks, and kneels. Around us, the woods throb with life. I glance at Tomasetti. Though his beam is lowered to the ground, I see his eyes probing the darkness and fog all around.
“Expecting company?” I say quietly.
“Something takes a bite out of me and it’s going to get more than it bargained for,” he says.
The wildlife officer shifts position and indicates a decent imprint of a cloven hoof, then looks up at us. “See this?”
I kneel beside him. “Deer?”
Tomasetti remains standing, providing additional light with his beam.
Hooper hunkers down so that his face is closer to the ground and points at two small impressions on the backside of the hoof mark. “Deer tracks are typically heart or spade-shaped,” he tells us. “Very similar to these. But I can tell you right now these tracks do not belong to a deer.”
Tomasetti and I exchange a look.
“What else in these woods has cloven hooves?” I ask.
“Sus scrofa,” Hooper says.
“I must have missed the day in school when we learned what the hell a Sus scrofa is,” Tomasetti murmurs.
Hooper smiles. “You have a feral swine problem.”
“Wild hogs,” I murmur.
The wildlife officer nods. “The hoof mark impression differences between deer and hogs are subtle.” With the razor focus of a professor launching into a complex math equation, he sets his finger on one of the barely-there dents located on either side at the back of the hoof.
“Those two small impressions are dewclaw marks. With deer tracks, the marks are directly behind the hoof. With feral hogs, the marks are outside the hoof, farther apart, if you will, and pointed slightly outward.”
He stares down at the track a moment, then raises his gaze to me and Tomasetti. “This is a very large animal, Chief Burkholder. Judging by the depth of the imprint and dewclaw dents, I’d say he’s a three hundred pounder. Likely a boar.”
“Can they lay open a man’s leg?” Tomasetti asks.
“The boars have large tusks and can be very aggressive. Attacks are rare, but unfortunately they do happen.” Sobering, he gets to his feet. “A woman in Texas was killed a few years ago.”
Tomasetti frowns. “I’ve never heard of them being in this part of Ohio.”
“Populations are scattered,” Hooper tells him, “but they have arrived. They prefer the unglaciated areas in the southeastern part of the state. That said, they’ve been seen in nine counties and their numbers are growing fast. These animals are prolific breeders. They’re smart, adaptable, and mobile.”
“And a potential danger to people,” I say.
“Without a doubt.” Hooper nods. “I would say this particular animal is mature. It’s likely been around people and has little or no fear of them. It may even associate people with food or feeding.”
“Where did it come from?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Feral swine can cover a lot of ground in a relatively short period of time. This one may have come in from another county. They’re opportunists when it comes to food, you see.
” The wildlife officer shakes his head. “This is a very interesting case because I’ve never heard of one this large anywhere in the state. ”
“Lucky us,” Tomasetti says beneath his breath.
“If I’m right about the weight,” the wildlife officer says, “three hundred pounds, give or take, I would venture to guess this specimen came from a local farm or ranch. Or else it was trucked into the county from another location.”
Tomasetti cocks his head. “Why would someone do that?”
Hooper shrugs. “Sportsmen enjoy their hunting and these animals are a challenge, to say the least. The problem is, once they get loose and start breeding, their population numbers explode very quickly.”
“Transporting and/or releasing feral hogs in the state of Ohio is illegal,” I tell him.
He nods, his expression telling me he’s well aware. “And for good reason.”
“So what’s our best bet for doing away with Pig-zilla?” Tomasetti asks.
“We’ve had success with trapping.” Hooper offers a half smile. “Best case, we’ll get some pork chops or baby back ribs out of the deal.”
“Chief!”
The three of us startle when a call from Skid cracks over my radio. I discern stress in his voice, hit my shoulder mike quickly. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“I’m at 345 Horseshoe. I got a ten-eleven out here, Chief.” He makes a sound that’s part disbelief, part relief. “I was attacked by … an animal in the woods behind the house.”
I think of the woman who, according to Hooper, was killed by feral swine. “Are you hurt?”
“Just my pride, but—”
“Skid, the animal is a feral hog. I’m with a wildlife officer now. He says they can be dangerous. Proceed with caution.”
He chokes out an incredulous laugh. “So I just got my ass kicked by Porky Pig?”
I clear my throat. “We’re working on a plan. Stay put. I’m ten-seven-six,” I tell him, letting him know I’m en route.
“Roger that.”
I look at Hooper. “Tell me you have a contingency plan for this.”
“I’ll have one by the time we get there,” he tells me.
At that, the three of us start toward our vehicles.
I call Dispatch on my way to the scene. “Margaret, put together a press release and get it out to local media outlets and social media. Let the citizens of Painters Mill know there’s a confirmed sighting of a feral hog in the area.”
She starts to laugh, but corrects herself quickly. “Chief, did you say feral hog?”
I sigh. “All we know at this point is that it’s large and aggressive toward humans. We believe it’s moving east inside the greenbelt that runs along Painters Creek. The latest sighting was in the Horseshoe Bend neighborhood.”
“Got it.” I hear her fingers pounding the keyboard. “Anything else, Chief?”
“Citizens should avoid the area and stay indoors if possible. Watch small pets and any young livestock. If anyone sees or hears anything unusual, call the PD or the sheriff’s office.”
“I’ll get it out pronto.”
“Notify the sheriff’s office, too, will you?”
“Roger that.”
I’m nearly to the cul-de-sac at the end of Horseshoe Bend when I spot the red-and-blue glow of Skid’s cruiser lights. I pull up behind his vehicle and flick on my own overheads. I’m getting out when I see the headlights of Hooper’s SUV as he makes the turn onto the street.
“Chief!”
I squint through the fog to see Skid approach. He’s not exactly a neatnik, but appears more disheveled than usual with mud on both knees, on his hands, and a smear on his chin.
“You look like you’re having a tough shift,” I say.
“Not to mention a sudden craving for stuffed pork chops.” He shakes his head, sheepish, and nods at Tomasetti as he comes up beside me. “I thought it was a frickin’ bear, Chief. Never seen a hog that size.”
“Hopefully, someone in the department has a decent-size smoker,” Tomasetti mutters.
Skid laughs outright. “Glock’s got that covered. Smokes a mean slab of baby back ribs.”
“That’s one way to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” Tomasetti says.
“I hate to spoil your menu planning, but we have to find it first,” I point out.
Tomasetti grins. “You know you’re going to be hearing a lot of pig puns in the coming days.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
“Chief Burkholder.”
The three of us turn to see Hooper emerge from the fog. I introduce Skid and we get down to business.
“Do you know which direction the animal is traveling?” Hooper asks Skid.
“Last I saw he was heading east,” Skid replies. “There’s a deer trail that runs parallel with the creek.” He points. “Twenty or so yards inside that tree line.”
Hooper is thoughtful for a moment, then turns his attention to me. “On the drive over, I called one of the technicians in our feral swine management program. He’s on his way with a trap. He says we can have everything set up inside an hour.”
“How, exactly, do you get a three-hundred-pound hog with a bad attitude into the trap?” Tomasetti asks.