Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel (12 page)

Caution whispers sweet warnings of impending disaster in my ear as I turn onto the desolate stretch of road where the elevator juts from the earth like some massive rock formation. I remind myself that I’m going to have to be careful. I know things about this scene, this case, this murder, that other people don’t; it would be easy to let that knowledge slip. Many a killer has hung himself by revealing information he shouldn’t have known.

The triple concrete silos of the old Wilbur Seed Company elevator loom into view as I make the turn into the gravel lot. The place had once been bustling with farm trucks and grain haulers loaded with corn or soybeans. Now, the lot is overgrown with weeds and saplings as tall as a man. Three cruisers from the Coshocton County Sheriff’s office are parked haphazardly outside the overhead door. The coroner’s van idles nearby, the rear doors standing open to welcome the dead. An ambulance from Coshocton County Memorial Hospital is parked a few feet away from the van. A fire truck from the volunteer fire department sits behind the ambulance, its diesel engine rumbling.

I wonder if the coroner’s office has bagged and loaded the remains. I wonder if those remains are on their way to the crime lab in London, Ohio for identification. I have no idea if the bones still contain DNA or if Daniel Lapp’s DNA is on file anywhere for a comparison analysis. I don’t know if he ever had any dental work done or if there are records that could conceivably identify him. The one thing I do know is that people will remember Lapp’s disappearance. Some thought he left to escape the Amish. But not his family. Lapp’s parents are dead now, but his brother, Benjamin, will undoubtedly remember my parents’ farm was the last place Daniel was seen alive.…

I experience a moment of déjà vu upon spotting a television news van from a station out of Columbus parked on the shoulder. A blond-haired woman wearing skinny jeans, stiletto heels, and a hot pink jacket finger-combs her hair. I wonder how much press the case will draw. Enough, I think. People love a good mystery, especially if it involves a dead body, and there’s an Amish connection to boot.

I park well away from the other vehicles and start toward the grain elevator. I’ve made this pilgrimage a thousand times in my nightmares, but never as a cop, never in an official capacity. Invariably, when I dream of this place, I’m either the victim, trying to save my life—or the killer, to cover my tracks. When it comes to murder, there is no in-between.

An appearance by me won’t be deemed unusual. Cops generally tend to be a nosy bunch; we like to be in the thick of things. I try hard to slip into my chief-of-police persona, but for the first time in recent memory, it’s not a good fit. I feel like a charlatan.

A flock of crows caw from the roof of the structure, mocking me as I approach. Yellow caution tape has been strung haphazardly around the area. I recognize a young deputy from the Coshocton County Sheriff’s office. We worked together during a charity event a couple of years ago. The two of us spent a freezing cold afternoon sitting on the dunking tank chair to help raise funds for an animal rescue group after twenty-eight dogs were rescued from a puppy mill near Walnut Creek. It had been a multi-jurisdictional sting on an animal cruelty case, and I got to know some of local cops in the process.

The sheriff’s deputy smiles when I reach him. “How’s it going, Chief?”

His name is Fowler Hodges, but everyone calls him Folly. We shake hands. “I heard about the remains,” I begin. “Thought I’d stop by and see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Couple of kids playing in the boot pit found a skull a few hours ago. They called their parents. Parents called us. Sure enough, the bones are human.”

“Any idea who it is?”

He shakes his head. “Coroner’s down there now. We’ll probably start checking cold cases.”

I nod. “Kids okay?”

“They’re fine. I suspect they’re going to be talking about it for a while.”

“I would be.”

We laugh at that, then I say, “Do you mind if I take a look?”

“Knock your socks off. Sheriff Redmon just got here a few minutes ago.” He lifts the tape. “Watch your step.”

“Thanks.” I duck beneath the tape, walk through knee high weeds, and enter the structure through the overhead door.

The last time I was here was on a bitter January night two years ago. It was during the Slaughterhouse Murders case, and I drove over here in the dead of night to see if Daniel Lapp’s remains were here—or if he’d somehow survived the shooting and returned to kill again. I found his bones that night. And John Tomasetti, who suspected I was hiding something and followed me, bore witness to my meltdown when I realized I had, indeed, killed Lapp in self defense all those years before.

The interior hasn’t changed. Dust motes fly in the slant of light coming in from holes in the roof and walls. Cobwebs hang like Spanish moss from every visible surface. The smells of dirt and rotting wood and the tart stench of guano from the bats that have taken up residence taunt my olfactory nerves. Pigeons coo from the overhead rafters. Three Coshocton County sheriff’s deputies, Chief Redmon, and a paramedic are standing around the boot pit. I recognize two of the deputies, but I don’t recall their names.

I smile as I approach the sheriff. My heart pounds a hard tattoo in my chest when I extend my hand.

“Nice to see you again, Chief Burkholder.”

I’ve met Arnie Redmon on several occasions over the years. He’s a charismatic man of about sixty and, from what I hear, a good sheriff—and even better politician. He’s got a reputation for being tough—but fair, not only in terms of his job, but in the way he manages his department, which he runs like some elite military unit. His salt-and-pepper hair is shorn into a crew cut. He’s sprouted a thin white mustache since the last time I saw him. It makes him look like someone’s favorite grandpa. But I know better; this man is as harmless as a sniper. He’s six feet tall and built like a prize bull—one that could feed a family of six for a year. Today he’s wearing dress navy slacks with a crisp white shirt and patriotic tie. His badge is clipped to his belt like some hard-earned medal.

I shake hands with everyone in the group and then I ask the obvious question. “Any idea who’s down there?”

Redmon shakes his head. “Techs are still gathering pieces. Bones scattered all over the place.”

Everyone looks into the pit, where a young African-American firefighter stacks old boards onto a polyurethane sheet. A second firefighter squats next to where a body bag has been unzipped, opened, and spread out on the floor. The technician from the coroner’s office—a middle-aged man in full biohazard gear—squats next to the bag. From where I stand I can just make out the sphere of the skull and the dull white length of a femur.

“Male or female?” I ask after a moment.

“The technician thought the skull looked male. Something about a pronounced brow bone.”

“Maybe it’s a Neanderthal,” one of the other deputies mutters.

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 shirt 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 fuck 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 hit-skip. Give me a few hours to get some things done.”

“In the interim, will you do me a favor and stay the hell 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 hell 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 assembled 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 Brass 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 passenger side. I try not to notice the baby seat in the rear as I walk past. Ten yards from the door, the bass 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 assemblage of tee-shirts 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-glass 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-shirt with the sleeves torn off. The tattoos on his biceps jump as he dries a shot glass 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 shifty 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.