Chapter Nineteen
Gallows Path turned out to be not far from Big Bone Lick State Park.
Yes, that’s the park’s real name.
Once you got past childish chuckling at the name — I wasn’t entirely there — you recognized the name was literally appropriate.
The lick — a naturally occurring salt deposit by springs — drew the animals and marshy waters trapped them.
Taken together, a lick where big bones were found.
Meriwether Lewis visited the site in 1803 before teaming up with William Clark for their famous expedition.
Clark returned in 1807 for a dig financed by President Thomas Jefferson.
French scientist Georges Cuvier studied bones from Big Bone Lick (and elsewhere) in establishing the existence of mastodons.
Now, you can camp, hike, play miniature golf or tennis there, along with checking out the flora and fauna.
There are other licks in the area of the Ohio River as it zigzags south, separating Indiana and Kentucky. Some licks were part of smaller, less historic parks.
Gallows Path was, as Ruby told us, a back entry to one such park.
Right now, it was closed to the public by yellow police tape. A North Bend County sheriff’s department vehicle sat where the gravel of Gallows Path intersected with the paved road we were on and beside the street sign identifying both.
We were not going to get onto Gallows Path.
An area of low vegetation that paralleled the paved road was backed by close-ranked deciduous trees. Their spring vegetation — not yet full-sized or color saturated — gave the canopy an airier feel than it would have in full summer, but it was still impressive.
As we rolled past slowly, it wasn’t until we were nearly at the entrance to Gallows Path that we could see the large, luxury pickup that certainly resembled the one we’d seen the Swindells get into after training last night.
The road burrowed into the trees, making it like looking through a tube, then turned to the right, out of sight.
“I’ve heard this is a spot teenagers come for, um, privacy,” Clara said.
The truck sat a couple vehicle lengths into the treed area, but well before the turn.
The gravel thinned out as Gallows Path proceeded, leaving it mostly dirt by the truck.
The driver’s door was open. The vehicle lights that had caught the passerby’s attention this morning either didn’t show in daylight or had been turned off.
No forensics types were visible and there was no sign of the victim.
As for when the vehicle would be moved, I had the inside scoop that the sheriff’s department’s wish list included more towing company contracts to cut delays for bringing in vehicles for processing.
Sure, that Teague told me.
My focus down the arboreal tube shifted to the lone occupant of the official car.
I wasn’t surprised it wasn’t Deputy Hensen doing this duty.
He was too senior — especially with Teague out of town — for vehicle-watching duty. I wouldn’t go as far as saying he approved of Clara and me being interested in certain crimes in the area.
I was relieved it wasn’t Deputy Eckles.
He didn’t approve of Clara and me — in general and specifically our inquiries. Teague swore he was a promising deputy. I swore Eckles not only went by the book, he kept it ironed and starched.
This was an unfamiliar figure, possibly a recent hire.
“Very interesting,” Clara murmured from the passenger seat. She leaned back to look behind me to hold her view down Gallows Path as we crept past.
“What is?”
“Why didn’t Damon drive to where the road turns? Trees would obscure anyone’s view of the truck, its lights. That’s why teenagers come here.”
“So he didn’t care about being seen? Or he thought it wasn’t an issue because not many people pass by on this road? Didn’t expect to be here long? The answers depend on why he came here.”
“A woman or money,” Clara said promptly. “But for a woman he’d make the turn, like the teenagers. For money, too, I’d think. Be sure there was no audience. Not doing that makes no sense.”
On that cheerful note, I accelerated gently, closing off our view of the truck.
“It does tell us that one of our big questions is what brought Damon Swindell out here,” I said.
“Especially in the early hours of the morning.”
“Or the late hours of the night. Unless we find out the time of death.”
“You’re right. I was thinking of when he was found, not when he was killed. Either way, alibis are going to be useless, because the presumption is everyone would be home in bed, asleep. Some alone. The others could be expected to lie for each other.”
We were on the same track. Problem was, it led nowhere.
We passed a curve and there was a wide entrance to a gated road ahead.
“Ready for me to turn around and take another look on the way back?” I asked.
“Sure thing.”
On the return trip, the deputy’s eyes followed my car’s progress.
I resisted the temptation to speed away, keeping the pace steady.
Clara breathed out through her nose. “Okay, now we go see where Damon lived.”
* * * *
Clara’s use of the term go right past as applied to our route from Gallows Path to the Swindells’ neighborhood bordered on mendacious.
Some people abuse the truth because it suits them, they don’t think others can tell the difference, or they’re pathological. Or a combination.
Clara, I believe, did it from an excess of optimism.
Except, of course, when she fibbed to catch murderers.
She directed me to a highway, off that highway onto another highway, then through a couple other turns, finally reaching the road listed for the Swindell address.
Big houses, set well apart dotted the road. Toward the end of it, we identified the Swindell house from the fountain in the front, as Willow mentioned.
Also, the sheriff’s department SUV parked in front.
The house resembled a scaled-down French chateau that oddly settled in a suburban development in Northern Kentucky.
It wasn’t alone in its émigré status. On this road, we’d also seen a white-stucco and red-roof Spanish hacienda, a Tudor revival that must have OD’d on growth hormone, an Italian villa, complete with square turret, and somebody’s idea of a Bavarian castle run through a Disney sketch.
I half expected to hear It’s a Small World After All from speakers in the trees.
Each house sat on enough land to avoid hitting elbows, but not enough to prevent visual dissonance.
I slowed to a crawl as we passed the Swindell house.
We saw a bush at the corner of the garage big enough to mask Willow from Damon and his unfriendly visitor.
A glare from a window reminded me of what Willow said about the interior’s gold accoutrements.
I remembered visiting Versailles Palace in France and not caring for it. Gaudy and hollow inside. Ostentatious and rigid outside.
Something outside the house pushed Louis XIV to the background.
A sheriff’s department vehicle out front held another not-Hensen, not-Eckles deputy. This one’s head was down, probably checking his computer, but lingering too long would certainly earn attention we didn’t want.
Navigation said I had a turn coming up — right now.
The turn took us into an area of smaller yards and less . . . architectural adventure.
The Georgers’ address belonged to a Craftsman house that must have nibbled on that growth hormone to grow and grow and grow.
Two more sheriff’s department vehicles were parked in its driveway.
Worse, the front door opened and Deputy Eckles emerged.
I applied the accelerator, avoiding the temptation to floor it.
“I don’t think he saw us,” Clara said, as we turned into another street.