Текст книги "The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel"

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 16

It had been a long time since Jerrold McCullough was afraid. He’d lived a long, full, and sometimes difficult life. He’d lost a two-year-old daughter when he was twenty-six years old. He’d spent some time overseas in Bosnia when he was in the military. At the age of forty-two, he survived a serious car accident in which he’d lost a limb—and nearly his life. He lost his wife of twenty-four years to cancer several years back. Yes, Jerrold McCullough had faced his fair share of adversity. Each time that bitch fate dealt him a blow, he’d conquered it and come back from it a smarter, stronger, if lonelier, man.

But as life had proved, there were some things you didn’t come back from. Sure, you went on with the business of living. You fell in love and got married. You had children and you brought them up right. But through it all, you knew your life was one big fat lie.

The rain had been coming down for five days now, and the creek behind his house crested last night. By dawn, the brown, churning water had encroached another twenty feet into his backyard. If the rain didn’t let up soon, he figured by midnight it would overtake the deck, where in summer, he kept the barbecue and lawn chairs. It was hard to believe that roaring monster was the same creek he’d swum in with his kids when they were young. The same creek where he caught that eight-pound largemouth bass—the one no one had believed him about. The same creek where he and his wife had gone skinny-dipping after getting drunk the day their last child went off to Ohio State. That had been ten years ago now and he still smiled every time he walked by that deep swimming hole. He figured if he was going to die, he’d just as soon it be here, where he’d raised his family.

He’d found the second note last night when he came home from his Lions Club meeting. It was on plain notebook paper and had been left in his mailbox. You’re guilty. He’d known it was coming; he hadn’t been surprised. What had surprised him was the fear. He was only fifty-four years old, and frankly, he wasn’t through living yet. But what could he do? Go to the police? Tell them a dead woman was sending him notes?

He hadn’t seen her since that night in his driveway. He’d never admit to it, especially to the others, but he believed in ghosts. In fact, he knew they existed. He’d been seeing little two-year-old Tessa for years. On occasion, he still saw his wife, too, only the way she’d looked before the cancer ate her up. And so when he saw Wanetta Hochstetler, standing in the driveway, looking at him with that accusatory expression, he hadn’t questioned his eyesight, blamed it on the bad light, or even doubted his sanity. He accepted it as truth because he’d always believed that sooner or later, a man paid for his deeds.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to go down easy. He was a fighter by nature, and by God he’d just as soon live for another twenty or thirty years. He wanted to pass this house and property on to whichever of his children came home to Painters Mill, once they realized the Holy Grail wasn’t in Dallas or Sacramento or Atlanta. So far none of them had been takers, but they would. Sooner or later, everyone came home.

He poured coffee into his BEST GRANDPA IN THE WORLD mug, added a dollop of milk, and then opened the patio sliding door and stepped outside. Cold drizzle fell from a glowering sky the color of granite. Something inside him sank when he noticed the water was just ten feet from the deck now. He’d put a lot work into it. He’d sunk pressure-treated four-by-four posts into three-foot-deep post holes and filled them in with concrete he’d mixed himself. He’s used treated two-by-sixes for the decking, two-by-fours for the rail. Damn shame that the water was going to take it all, but then, that was the nature of the creek.

Pulling up the collar of his jacket against the chill, he walked to the edge of the deck. He sipped coffee and listened to the water take down another tree upstream. When he turned to go back inside, she was coming up the steps. Not little Tessa. Not his beloved Luann. But Wanetta Hochstetler. She was wearing an Amish dress and dark head covering pulled low and shadowing her eyes. Black shawl over her shoulders. Her shoes were covered with mud.

He dropped the mug. Coffee splashed on his pants. He glanced down where it lay in pieces, and the word GRANDPA stared up at him. It saddened him because in that instant, he knew he’d never see his grandchildren again.

He looked at her and shook his head, suddenly tired. “I know why you’re here,” he said.

“Do you?” She stepped onto the deck.

He took an involuntary step back when he spotted the pistol in her hand. A .22 revolver. Something resembling doubt drifted through the back of his mind. If she was a ghost, why did she need a gun? Why was there mud on her shoes?

He looked into her eyes. “I told them not to do it. I didn’t want any part of it.”

“Liar.” Keeping the weapon poised at his chest, she stepped closer. “It was you.”

“Things got out of hand,” he said. “We didn’t mean to—”

“You’re guilty,” she said. “Just like the others.”

“Please, don’t kill me.” He heard pleading in his voice and it shamed him. “I have children.”

“You’re a child killer.” She shuffled left, motioned toward the steps with the revolver. “Walk.”

Heart pounding, he obeyed. Upon reaching the base of the stairs, he hesitated, thought about running to the front of the house and calling for help. But she jabbed the weapon toward the deck closer to the creek. “There,” she said. “Go.”

He started toward the deck, wondering what she had in mind, wondering if it would be painful, if she would murder him the way she had the others.…

Upon reaching the deck, he turned to her. He noticed the length of rope in her left hand and a hot streak of panic ran through his body. “What are you going to do?”

She raised the pistol slightly. The revolver cracked. Agony zinged in his knee. His leg buckled. Crying out, he hit the ground hard. Dizzy with shock and pain, he clutched his knee, glanced down, saw blood between his fingers. “But you’re … you can’t…”

The pain took his breath. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t tell her she was a ghost and ghosts didn’t need guns.

Another shot snapped through the air. Pain exploded in his other knee. He screamed and then flopped around in the mud like a hooked fish. “Don’t,” he panted. “Dear God, please don’t.”

He tried to scream for help, but the sound that squeezed through his lips was the howl of a wounded dog. He lay on his side, wheezing, and looked up at her. “You’re not a ghost,” he croaked.

Rope in hand, she started toward him, a smile curving her mouth.

*   *   *

When you spend the entirety of your professional life in law enforcement, there are certain things you come to know. I’ve handled my share of firearms over the years, both handguns and rifles, and I know firsthand that without practice, good marksmanship is tough to come by—even by police officers. Half the cops I know couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn, especially in a high-adrenaline or shoot-from-the-hip type of scenario.

I also know that the targeting of the genitalia in the commission of a crime speaks to some kind of symbolism. I’ve seen it done in gangland murders in which some thug wants to make a point. But I’ve also seen it in revenge crimes involving sexual assault. The question in the forefront of my mind is this: Did Michaels’s killer target his genitalia, or was he simply a bad shot?

I enter the reception area to find half a dozen pails of different shapes and sizes on the floor between the reception area and the coffee station. My first-shift dispatcher, Lois Monroe, is in the hall with her headset clamped over her ears, a mop in hand. A steady drip from the ceiling plunks into an old paint can, keeping perfect time with a funky Linkin Park number on the radio.

“Be careful where you walk, Chief.” Propping the mop against the wall, she strides to the reception desk and plucks messages from my slot. “I ran out of buckets an hour ago.”

I look at the menagerie of containers set out to catch the deluge and I try not to laugh, because it’s a hell of a lot more likely that I’ll get a rash of excuses from the town council as opposed to a new roof.

“Call everyone and tell them there’s a briefing in half an hour,” I tell her.

She arches a brow. “Productive day so far?”

“If my tail were the prize, I’d have hit the jackpot.” I glance toward the hall, where a puddle is taking form on the tile floor. “I have a Tupperware container in my office,” I tell her.

“I’ll take it.”

“Make sure the computer equipment and phone systems don’t get wet.”

“Got it covered, Chief.” She grins. “Literally.”

Ten minutes later, my computer is booted and I’ve got the technician from the crime lab on the phone. “The coroner says Dale Michaels sustained a through-and-through gunshot wound,” I tell him. “Did you guys find a slug at the scene?”

“Metal detector found one that had penetrated the soil,” he tells me.

“Caliber?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Intact?”

“Enough for us to analyze striations, which we’re working on now. If we’ve got matching striations in the database, we’ll know by tomorrow.”

“Anything else?”

“We found a long hair on the victim’s clothing that doesn’t belong to the victim.”

I think of Belinda Harrington. “The daughter found the body. It could be hers.”

“Interestingly, this hair was naturally blond, but dyed brown.”

“That’s a switch.” And it rules out Harrington as the donor, since her hair is red. “You get enough root for DNA?”

“Working on it. Again, it’s going to be a few days. We’re a little jammed up here.”

“Keep me posted.”

“You know it.”

After thanking the technician, I end the call. I grab a yellow legal pad from my drawer and take a few minutes to write down everything I know about the cases, which isn’t much—at least in terms of concrete information. I have no viable suspects. No motive. No murder weapon. In terms of physical evidence, I have two Amish peg dolls, that link Dale Michaels’s murder to the murder of Julia Rutledge—and may or may not tie both murders to a thirty-five-year-old unsolved cold case. I have the notes, which tie the Rutledge case to Norm Johnston. I also have the data from Dale Michaels’s iPhone—the list of incoming and outgoing calls he made before his murder. And the text to Blue Branson. But how does it all tie together?

I go to a second page and write down what I remember from my conversation with a dying Julia Rutledge: When I asked, “Who did this to you?” she replied with: “We didn’t mean to.” I pressed and she responded with: “Kill her.” When I asked who, she said, “Ghost.”

I’m staring down at my notes, trying to decide how to put all of it into meaningful order when Lois peeks her head in. “Everyone’s here, Chief.”

“Thanks.” Gathering the three files and my legal pad, I start toward the meeting room to find that my small department has already converged at the rectangular table, including my third-shift dispatcher, Mona, who should be home sleeping. My chest swells a little when I notice everyone’s in uniform. T.J. and Skid are embroiled in a conversation. Glock is thumbing something into his phone. Pickles is nursing a mug of coffee, a legal pad and pen in front of him.

I take my place behind the half podium at the head of the table. “I want to give everyone a quick briefing on what we’ve got so far on the Michaels and Rutledge murders,” I begin. “Doc Coblentz just completed the Michaels autopsy. Cause of death was strangulation from hanging. In addition to being hanged, the victim sustained two gunshot wounds. One to the abdomen. The other to the genital area, which was a through and through.”

“Ouch,” Skid interjects.

That earns him a few nods from the other men in the room.

“The lab retrieved a slug. We’re looking at a .22 caliber. They’re working on matching striations now.” I look around the room. “At this point, no one knows if the gunshot wound to the genitals was on purpose or by chance. I think you know that if it’s the former, we could be looking at the work of a gang or revenge for a sex crime.

“Regarding Michaels’s iPhone: We’ve run all the names through LEADS and we’re working our way through the list. So far I’ve interviewed three of the individuals he made his final calls to: Blue Branson, Jerrold McCullough, and Julia Rutledge. As you know, Rutledge was murdered last night, which I’ll touch on in a moment. All three individuals have alibis and claim no knowledge of the victim or the crime.

“Interestingly, Michaels sent a text to Blue Branson shortly before his murder.” I look down at my notes and read: “‘Meet is on. Will call 2 let you know outcome.’” I turn my attention back to my team. “Blue Branson says he doesn’t know anything about the meeting and he doesn’t recall receiving the text.”

“You believe him?” Glock asks.

“He showed me his phone,” I tell him. “He wasn’t lying about having not read the text. But I don’t believe him one hundred percent.”

“Is he a suspect?” Skid asks.

“He’s a person of interest.”

“Emphasis on ‘interest,’” Glock mutters.

A few chuckles ensue, and I resume the briefing. “We were able to tie the two homicides together by way of similar objects found at both scenes.” I hold up a photocopy of the Amish peg doll. “This figurine was found in Dale Michaels’s mouth. A second figurine was found inserted into a knife wound inside Julia Rutledge’s body. Both figurines have been sent to the lab to see if we can come up with latents or other identifying marks. We’re not releasing any of this to the public.” I tap the surface of the podium for emphasis. “The information doesn’t leave this room. Everyone got that?”

Everyone nods. Glock gives me a thumbs-up.

“What are your thoughts on those Amish dolls, Chief?” Pickles asks.

“We believe both dolls were made by a member of the Hochstetler family, back when they had that furniture operation in the 1970s. As most of you know, the Hochstetler family were victims of a crime back in 1979. We don’t know if the dolls left at the scene are in any way related to that incident or if they were left for some other reason.”

“One of the kids survived that night, didn’t they?” Skid asks.

I nod. “Fourteen-year-old William Hochstetler was the only survivor. He was adopted and legally changed his name to Hoch Yoder. He still lives in the area.”

“You talk to him?” Skid asks.

I nod. “He claimed he was home. His wife alibied him. He remains a person of interest.” I let the statement hang and go back to my notes. “Aside from the phone calls and the text, we have nothing concrete that ties Blue Branson or Jerrold McCullough to Dale Michaels, but in the coming days, we’re going to be putting some pressure on them. Hoch Yoder, too.”

I scan the faces of my team, speaking from memory now. “A couple of other interesting developments that are not for public consumption. A search of Julia Rutledge’s gallery netted three threatening notes.” I pull out copies and hand them to Skid to pass around. “Councilman Johnston has also been receiving notes of a similar nature.”

A murmur of surprise goes around the table at the mention of Johnston. Glances are exchanged as I pass a copy of the notes Norm gave me to Skid. “I want patrols stepped up in Norm’s neighborhood. If possible, I’d like for us to keep a presence at his house.”

“Is Councilman Johnston somehow involved in this?” T.J. asks.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “He hasn’t been as forthcoming as I’d like, but I’ll keep some pressure on him and we’ll see what happens.”

When no other questions come, I look at Glock. “I want you to pick up Jerrold McCullough. Bring him in. Let’s sweat him a little.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“T.J., you’ve been on for two shifts. You probably ought to go home and get some sleep.”

“Aye.”

“Pickles, you’re on full-time until further notice.”

“No problem.” The old man nods, not quite able to hide his pleasure.

I bring my hands together. “Everyone else, I hope you don’t have any plans for the weekend. Mandatory OT until we get this guy.”

The groans that follow are token. I know my officers want this killer off their streets as vehemently as I do.

*   *   *

I spend an hour putting my notes into a Word doc, writing reports and rereading every detail of both the Michaels and Rutledge cases. I spend another thirty minutes combing through the Hochstetler file. By the time I hand everything off to Lois, it’s nearly 2 P.M. I look at my phone, and I find myself thinking about Tomasetti and how we left things. I desperately want to talk to him. My pride reminds me that I’m angry with him. It’s not enough to keep me from picking up the phone.

He answers on the first ring. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“I miss you,” I say without preamble.

Surprise produces a certain echo over a phone line. I hear that echo now, intriguing and painful at once. “Cat got your tongue, Tomasetti?”

“Yup.” A thoughtful pause ensues. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I say automatically, and then add, “no. It’s been a tough day.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Just … be there when I get home.”

I can almost hear his thought processes working. He’s trying to peg my frame of mind. My reason for setting my pride aside and calling him when I was otherwise pissed. Why, when it’s so unlike me to show him that I need him, that I’m so willing to admit it. I’m not sure I could explain any of those things even to myself.

My second line lights up. On the display, I see Glock’s name. “I have a call,” I tell him. “Gotta take it.”

He sighs. “You’ll be home later?”

“I’ll try.” I punch the button for my second line. “You pick up McCullough?” I begin.

“I would have. If I could find him.”

The news drags my attention away from Tomasetti and back to the case. “Where are you?”

“His place. He’s not here. Front door was standing wide open. I figured that warranted a welfare check, so I took a look inside. Nothing out of place, but there’s no sign of him.”

“Shit, Glock, that’s not good.” I think about that a moment. “Car there?”

“Yeah.”

“He could be with a friend.” But neither of us is assuaged. “Look, I’m going to go talk to Blue Branson, and then I’ll head your way.”

“You want me to go with you? Meet you there?”

“I want you to find McCullough. Check with his friends and family and neighbors. See if anyone knows where he is or if they’ve seen him. For all we know, he’s down at the VFW playing bingo.”

“I’m on it.”

But we both know that’s a best-case scenario. With two of his friends dead and ties to a deadly cold case creeping steadily into the picture, I’m not sure we’ll find Jerrold McCullough alive.

CHAPTER 17

Blue Branson lives in a modest single-story bungalow with dormer windows, a homey little porch, and crisp white trim. A six-foot privacy fence separates his property from Brewer’s Salvage Yard, which is situated on the lot next door. I turn into the driveway, plow through slightly mushy gravel, and park a few yards from the front door.

I get out and pass by his Mustang as I make my way to the house. Within the glow of the porch light, drizzle floats down. Opening the storm door, I knock.

A moment later, Blue appears; he doesn’t look surprised to see me. “Chief Burkholder.”

“I guess you knew I’d be back,” I begin.

He doesn’t respond, and I remind myself he’s no greenhorn when it comes to dealing with the police. Most people talk too much when they get nervous, usually to their detriment. Not Blue. He looks at me coolly, eye contact steady, as if trying to decide if he should invite me inside or send me packing.

“What can I do for you?” he asks.

“You heard about Julia Rutledge?”

He sighs, looks away for a moment. “I heard.”

“Jerrold McCullough is missing.”

His gaze jerks to mine. I see both shock and concern on his face. He steps back and opens the door wider. “Come in.”

I enter a comfortably furnished living room. Starving artist paintings on the walls. A newish flat screen mounted above the hearth. The air smells of some spicy aromatic I can’t quite place. Classical Spanish guitar hums from speakers on either side of the TV. A sleek laptop hums atop a TV tray next to a half-eaten bowl of ice cream. Blue has shed his sport coat. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, exposing forearms that are covered with tattoos—a strange mosaic of blue and red and green on flesh browned by the sun.

He notices me looking at his arms, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He motions toward a newish sofa. “Have a seat.”

I don’t take him up on the offer. “Have you seen or spoken to Jerrold McCullough?”

“No.”

“What about Julia Rutledge?”

“I haven’t seen her.” He grimaces. “I heard she was stabbed to death in her home. Is that true?”

I don’t answer. “Where were you last night between eleven P.M. and five A.M.?”

“I was at the Grace Victory Church in Glenmont. Black Creek flooded out some homes, and there were five families in need of shelter. I helped Pastor Bergman get everyone set up in the rec room.”

“You were there that entire time?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You know I’m going to check.”

“That’s fine.” He tugs his phone from his pocket, taps the screen a couple of times, and recites the number for the Grace Victory Church.

I pull out my notepad and write it down. “Can anyone else vouch for you?”

“There were ten or fifteen volunteers around all night. Once we got those families picked up, we delivered food and blankets and set up cots. I had at least one person with me all night.”

“So you say.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with Julia’s murder.” He tilts his head. “Do you think something has happened to Jerrold McCullough?”

“I don’t know.” I stare hard at him, waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t give me anything. He stares back, completely unperturbed by the silence and the tension slicing the air between us. “What do you think, Blue? Do you think something happened to him?”

“I have no idea. I’m worried about him.”

“Do you think if you’d come clean about whatever it is you’re hiding, Julia Rutledge might still be alive?”

It’s a harsh, unfair question, but I let it stand, hoping to rattle him. He doesn’t react to the unspoken implication, but I don’t miss the quiver in his hand when he runs it over his goatee. “I’m not hiding anything. I didn’t kill Dale. Or Julia. And I have no idea where McCullough might be. You have my word.”

“Do you know Norm Johnston?”

“Councilman Johnston?” He looks flummoxed. “I’ve met him a few times.”

“Have you spoken to him recently?”

“No.”

I nod, letting the silence ride. After a moment, Blue shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “If we’re done here, I’d like to get back to work.”

I lean forward and whisper. “I know you’re hiding something. I’m going to find out what it is.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Good night, Chief Burkholder.”

I tap the front of his shoulder with my index finger. “Don’t leave town.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I leave him standing in his living room with his bowl of melted ice cream and a decidedly troubled expression.

*   *   *

It’s after 6 P.M. by the time I arrive at Jerrold McCullough’s place. I find Glock standing on the front porch, and we spend an hour or so walking the property on the chance the man fell or somehow injured himself and is unable to respond. But we don’t find any sign of him. Earlier, Glock was able to reach one of McCullough’s grown children, a son who lives in Sacramento. Jerrold Jr. hasn’t heard from his father in over a week. He didn’t sound too concerned. When I try McCullough’s cell phone, my call goes straight to voice mail.

We’re standing in the backyard, twenty yards from the shore of a very swollen Painters Creek, looking out at the woods. It’s raining again and I can hear the water crashing over rocks and rushing around the trees that grow along the flooded bank.

“You don’t think he fell into the water, do you?” Glock asks.

“I think it’s probably premature to start dragging the creek.” I say the words lightly, but the notion that at some point it could be necessary bothers me. “He’s not even officially missing yet.”

“Yeah, but you’re worried or you wouldn’t be here.”

I sigh because he’s right. “Did anyone you talked to mention his favorite watering hole?”

“He’s been known to stop in for a beer at McNarie’s. I thought I’d swing by on my way home.”

I nod, but I don’t think he’ll find McCullough at the bar. “Apparently, we’re the only people who seem to be worried about him.”

“That’s pretty sad.” Glock grimaces. “You think he flew the coop? Maybe he had something to do with the murders.”

“It’s possible, but I don’t think he’s our guy.” I consider that a moment. “For one thing, he’s an amputee. He doesn’t use a prosthesis.”

“That we know of.”

“Look, I’m going to put out a BOLO.”

Around us the rain increases, fat drops slapping against the trees and the saturated ground. Despite the fact that we’re both getting wet, neither of us seems to notice.

“I don’t think we’re going to figure this out tonight,” I say after a moment.

He nods. “I’m going to swing by McNarie’s.”

“We’ll pick up Blue tomorrow,” I tell him. “Put some pressure on him.”

Glock gives me a mock salute and then turns and starts for his vehicle, leaving me in the pouring rain with the sound of rushing water in my ears and my own thoughts echoing in my head.

*   *   *

I’m on my way home when I pass by Old Germantown Road. On impulse, I hit the brakes, back up, and make the turn. It’s fully dark now, and my headlights reveal fog hovering above asphalt that’s pitted and cracked. The vegetation is slowly devouring the road so that it isn’t much wider than a single lane. Not many people use this road since the new highway went through. The county no longer maintains it, and I imagine in a few years the land will reclaim it completely.

The Hochstetler farm—what’s left of it—sits on a hill a half mile down. The house burned to the ground and was never rebuilt, but some of the trees survived and now look as if they’re standing sentinel—or waiting for the family to return. The old German-style round barn that Willis Hochstetler transformed into a furniture showroom still stands. I remember my mamm and datt talking about how the farm had once been a showplace with its white four-rail fence and wraparound porch adorned with hanging Boston ferns. Camera-wielding Englischers traveled for miles to park at the end of the lane and shoot photos.

The place fell to ruin after the family was killed. The tourists stopped coming. The Amish spoke of the things that happened that night only in whispers. But I heard the stories. When I was a teenager, rumors abounded. Ghost stories mostly. And a few sightings of Wanetta Hochstetler walking the hilltop, calling out for her children. Some said if you came out at midnight and listened, you could hear the screams of the children as they were burned alive.

Those stories scared me when I was a kid. But as I entered my teenage years, I became intrigued and even partook in several illicit visits myself. Tonight, as I approach the beat-up mailbox and turn into the muddy lane, I feel all those old stories creeping up on me.

I park in knee-high weeds with my headlights illuminating the place where the house had once stood. Leaving the engine running and the headlights on, I grab my Maglite and get out. I pull on my slicker as I start toward what had once been the side yard. I didn’t know the Hochstetlers; though they lived in the same church district as my own family, I was too young when they died to remember any of them. But I feel the loneliness of this place. The lingering sadness. A sense of injustice.

All that remains of the house is the brick chimney and the eight-foot-deep crater where the basement had once been. The walls have eroded and crumbled over the years. Saplings and weeds grow up from the basement floor, which is now filled with what looks like several feet of water. At some point, someone used plywood and sawhorses to cover the pit—probably for liability reasons—but the wood has long since collapsed. The only thing left is the remnants of a single caution flag, as faded and shredded as the memory of the people who once lived here.

I think of Hoch Yoder, and I wonder if he ever comes back here. I wonder if he’s stood where I’m standing now and grieved for the family he lost. I wonder if he’s been able to embrace the age-old Amish tenet of forgiveness.

I jump when a sudden gust of wind sends droplets of rain from the branches of a pine into the water below. The sound seems inordinately loud in the silence, and I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck. Turning slowly, I fan my light in a 360-degree circle, but there’s no one there. No vehicle. No lights.

Thrusting my flashlight out ahead of me, I start toward the silo and barn. My pants are damp from the hip down from walking the McCullough property earlier and, now, from wading through weeds. I reach the rusty silo first. Once upon a time, it had been painted silver, but rust has eaten through the paint. The hatch stands open. I hear it squeaking as the breeze rocks it back and forth. Bending, I shine my light inside. There’s a hole in the roof where the wind has peeled away the shingles. I see yellow cornstalks rotting on the ground and a rat the size of a groundhog looking at me from the ledge of the concrete footer.

“Shit,” I mutter, and continue to the barn. It’s a German-style building, most of which were constructed in the early 1900s and used for dairy operations. Today, the odd-looking structures are akin to covered bridges and much loved by tourists and aficionados of unusual architecture. There are several in the area, but none are used in the manner in which they were intended.

Upon reaching the barn, I walk the exterior perimeter, keeping beneath the overhanging roof until I reach the front door. Trespassers have broken most of the windows. Pushing open the door, I shine the beam inside. The elements have destroyed much of the floor; the wood planks are buckled and rotting in places. Some have splintered and collapsed, and I can see into the crawl space beneath.

I’m not exactly sure what I expected to find here tonight. Nothing, really. But as a cop, there’s something intangibly useful about visiting a crime scene, even if the scene is ages old and any evidence has long since faded.