A Dark Path #3
“The discoloration supports that theory.” He turns the bone over in his hands and indicates what looks like a chip on one side.
“As you can see, the condylar process has been broken off.” Using his index finger, he touches the rounded protrusion of bone that’s still intact on the other side.
“On the end that is broken, you can see that the marrow has deteriorated and there is what appears to be earth inside the medullary cavity.”
I offer a wry smile. “If you had to repeat all of that in English, what would you say?”
“In a nutshell, I believe these remains were buried at some point. Natural decomposition occurred. I’m of the mind that those two things happened years ago. Probably many years. Post-autopsy and with further testing, the forensic anthropologist may be able to give you a more specific time frame.”
A quick glance into his medical bag, and he removes a lighted magnifier, flicks on the light with his thumb. “Under field magnification,” he says slowly, “it looks as if there’s biological material inside the medullary cavity.”
“Soft tissue?”
He lifts the bone so that the cavity he’s referring to is visible. “This biological material looks like plant roots. Grass or some other type of vegetation.”
I slide my reading glasses from my pocket, put them on. Sure enough, inside the bone, a tangle of tiny white roots is discernible. “Looks like the dog’s teeth tore off the roots,” I murmur, thinking aloud.
“I concur.” With great care, Doc sets the bone on the paper, and then he looks at me. “There are more remains?”
“I suspect we haven’t found the half of them.” I motion to the dozen or so cones we’ve already set out. “I know I’m going to regret asking, but aren’t there about two hundred bones in the human body?”
“Two hundred and six, give or take.”
“I think we’re going to be here awhile.”
“I’ll stay and assist your forensic anthropologist if he requests my help.” He nods. “I suspect you have your work cut out for you.”
Everything I learned from Doc Coblentz plays in the back of my mind as I join Tomasetti and Mona, who are walking the grid that’s been set up between the location where the jawbone was discovered and the woods. I fill them in as we spread out and walk.
“Was he able to guess on the cause or manner of death?” Tomasetti asks.
I shake my head. “All he could tell me is that the remains have been skeletonized for a while and were likely buried.”
From twenty feet away, Mona listens intently. “That the victim was buried rules out suicide, right?”
“Unless the remains became covered with soil and debris in the course of a flood.” Tomasetti nudges a vine aside with his boot. “Or someone buried him.”
“If we are dealing with foul play,” I say slowly, “even taking into consideration the passage of many years, the person responsible could still be around.”
He slants me a sober look. “And he could still be a threat.”
We’re nearly to the woods when someone calls out my name.
“Chief Burkholder!”
I glance over to see Pumpkin Eddie point.
An Amish buggy barrels down the road at a too-fast rate of speed, the horse galloping full out.
Concerned that the driver has lost control, I jog toward the road, watch as the buggy veers into the field.
It bounces through the ditch, wheels slinging mud, the horse’s hooves sinking deep.
The young driver hauls back on the reins. “Whoa!”
Horse and buggy slide to an abrupt halt.
I’ve nearly reached them when the driver, a boy of about ten or twelve, scrambles down and rushes toward me. “Mei datt finna en shtiffel! ” My datt found a boot! “He told me to come get you.”
I stride toward him, aware that Tomasetti is keeping pace with me. “A boot?” I ask.
The boy is wearing trousers with suspenders and a summer straw hat. Only when I reach him do I realize he’s breathing hard and sweating beneath his work shirt and suspenders. Clearly very upset about something.
“What’s the problem with the boot?” I ask.
“There’s a foot in it!” the boy squeals.
“Where?”
“Next door. D-Datt and I were c-cutting the corn for the maze.” The boy points to the farm half a mile down the road, on the other side of Painters Creek.
“I’m cleaning up behind him and I found an old boot.
I thought someone had stuck a piece of wood in it, but it was a bone.
With toes!” He swallows hard. “I think it’s someone’s foot. ”
I look at Tomasetti, find his eyes on the greenbelt that separates the two farms.
“What’s your name?” I ask the boy.
“B-Benny B-Barkman.”
I recognize the name. His family owns the farm next door. Every year, they cut a maze in their cornfield and open it up to the public. “Can you show us?” I ask.
“Ja! ” The boy spins and sprints toward the buggy.
“Benny!” I call out.
He stops and turns.
“Slow down,” I tell him. “I don’t think that foot’s going anywhere.”
The Barkman Corn Maze is a Painters Mill icon.
Every fall, Ben Barkman hitches his two Percheron mares to a corn picker and cuts a labyrinth of passageways into his twelve-acre cornfield.
The finished maze is replete with dead ends, menacing scarecrows, and ghosts galore.
Tourists from as far away as Cleveland shell out fifteen bucks to spend an evening sipping hot apple cider and getting lost.
“I don’t get the whole corn maze thing.” From his place in the passenger seat, Tomasetti slants me a perplexed look.
“How can you be from Ohio and not understand the allure of a haunted corn maze?” I ask.
“Might stem from the two years I worked for DeKalb during high school.”
Back in the day, scores of Midwestern teens spent their summers in fields detasseling corn, which is a form of pollination control. It was a sweaty, muddy, low-paying job that traumatized many a city slicker.
“It’s not about the corn, Tomasetti,” I tell him. “It’s about getting lost and, if you’re a kid, being scared out of your wits.”
I follow the buggy into a cleared area on the west side of the road. Ahead, Ben Barkman stands beside a wagon piled high with freshly cut field corn. Farther back, two Percheron horses stand harnessed to a corn picker.
Tomasetti and I get out and start toward him.
I’ve known Ben for almost as long as I’ve been chief. He’s outgoing and friendly with, as my mamm used to say, “a gift for gab.”
“Mr. Barkman, your son tells me you found a boot.” I reach him and we shake hands.
The Amish man grasps my hand and shakes it vigorously.
“I’ve found some unusual things in this field.
Almost ran over a skunk once. Came close to plowing up a snapping turtle last spring.
Saved all of them, mind you.” Eyes gleaming, he glances toward his son and lowers his voice.
“Found a lady’s brassiere once. Pink and lacy thing, out by the road.
” Sobering, he shakes his head. “Never seen anything like this, though.”
“Your son told us there were human bones inside the boot,” Tomasetti says.
The Amish man nods enthusiastically. “He thought it was a piece of wood, you know. Someone playing a joke. But when we pulled it out, all these other little bones fell out—the toes, I reckon—and I knew it wasn’t something to be laughed at.”
Motioning to an eight-foot-wide swath cut into the corn, he starts that way. “Kumma.” Come.
Tomasetti falls into step beside me. “Finding a human foot kind of takes the idea of a haunted corn maze to a whole new level,” he murmurs.
Barkman turns and grins. “Them Englischers would have loved that. Hallows’ Eve and the like.”
A scarecrow holding a handwritten sign greets us as we walk into the maze: ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK. Six-foot-tall corn stalks close around us, and the path narrows. Fifty feet in, the track veers left.
“There.” Barkman raises his hand and points. “Right in the center of the path.” He lifts his straw hat and scratches his head. “Figured someone had lost a shoe. My boy went to pick it up and saw that bone sticking out…” He lets the words trail and stops walking.
Tomasetti and I continue on. When we reach the boot, I kneel. The first thing I notice is that it’s caked with dirt and appears to be made of leather. It’s a lace-up type with four eyelets. Judging from the style, it’s extremely old.
“Looks like some kind of work boot,” Tomasetti murmurs.
“Men’s.”
“Size ten or so.”
Entire swatches of the leather are missing. Some of the remaining material appears to be rotted. The heel is constructed of wood, the layers separated and peeling.
Tomasetti shoots me a questioning look. “Amish?”
“The Amish buy their shoes at the same retailers we do,” I say. “This boot is from another era.”
Barkman comes up beside us and points to a long brown bone next to the boot. “That’s the one we pulled out,” he says. “There are more inside the boot. Toes, you know. Caked in all that dirt.”
“Same discoloration as the other bones,” I say.
Tomasetti shoots me a dark look. “Hopefully, we’re dealing with just one set of remains.”
I don’t want to consider the alternative.
I pluck a glove from a compartment on my duty belt, slip it on, and pick up the boot.
It’s heavy due to the dirt on the inside.
Tiny roots dangle from a hole in the toe, telling me it was likely buried until recently.
Gently, I ease open the shaft, look inside to see a tiny bone the color of coffee sticking out of a solid deposit of dirt.
Setting the boot on the ground, I carefully pick up the bone.
“Marrow is gone.” I recall my earlier conversation with Doc Coblentz. “Cavity is filled with dirt.”
“So, it’s been skeletonized for some time.”
“Like the other bones.”
Tomasetti turns his attention to the Amish man. “Mr. Barkman, has your neighbor’s dog been over here?”
“Honeybear?” Barkman huffs. “That dog sneaks over just about every morning. Broke into my chicken coop yesterday. Wasn’t interested in the chickens, thank goodness, but he sure gobbled up their food.”
I set the bone on the ground, next to the boot. “Mr. Barkman, do you have any idea where this boot might’ve come from?”