After the Storm

by Linda Castillo

“A daughter, Rachel,” he tells me. “Her name is Zimmerman now. Married a nice Mennonite man. They run the bed-and-breakfast out there by the winery. A Place in Thyme Cottage.”

  I pull out my pad and pen and write down the name. “You and your wife are Mennonite?”

  He nods. “We left the Swartzentruber Amish shortly after we were married.” He waves his hand as if that part of his life is nothing more than a bad memory. “The bishop wasn’t happy about it, and our church district basically excommunicated us. But their Ordnung was too strict for us.” He grins. “I always liked cars a lot more than buggies.”

  Sue returns with a wicker tray containing three glasses and a paper plate heaped with oatmeal cookies. She sets the tray on the coffee table between us and looks at me. “We just heard about those Boy Scouts finding that skeleton,” she says with a shake of her head. “And I knew.”

  “We’re not certain it’s your son,” I tell her.

  “It’s him,” she says. “A mother knows these things.”

  No one pays any attention to the tea or the cookies. They’re a formality. Good manners. A minute or two for both of them to mentally brace for the discussion we’re about to have. Or the news they’re about to receive.

  “Several agencies are involved in the identification process,” I tell them. “The Bureau of Criminal Investigation may call you to make an appointment to take DNA samples. It’ll entail a quick swab of the mouth. They need a close relative to match it to.”

  “Tell them to come any time,” Vern says. “We want to know if it’s him.”

  I reach for the tea and sip. It’s cold and tastes of mint, exactly the way my mother used to make it when I was a girl. “So your son had a broken arm a few years before he went missing?”

  Vern nods, then leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. “Like I said, he broke it at work.” He looks at his wife, who’s gone silent and still. “When he was about eighteen, Mama?” he asks.

  “Seventeen, Papa,” she says. “Folks at the farm store were so nice. Paid for everything, and his boss gave him a hundred-dollar bonus for being such a good boy.”

  “The remains found belong to a young man who could have been about your son’s age when he disappeared. There’s evidence that this young man had broken his right arm and had to have two plates with screws implanted to repair it.”

  Sue gasps, presses her hand over her mouth as if to smother it. “It’s him. Oh, dear Lord.”

  Vern gives a single hard nod, then raises his gaze to mine. “What happened to him?” he asks. “How did he die? He was so young.”

  “We don’t know the manner or cause of death yet.”

  Shaking his head, he looks down at the floor.

  I give them a moment to digest the news and look around the room. On the end table is a framed photograph of an attractive young man with a mischievous grin, tousled hair and laughing eyes. “Is that your son?” I ask.

  Vern nods. “Last picture we took of him.”

  “He looks happy,” I say.

  “Handsome, too.” Sue smiles at the photo. “Took the picture on his birthday.” A soft, sad sound squeezes from her throat. “Didn’t know it’d be his last.”

  I pause, then go to my next question. “What’s the name of the doctor who did the surgery on your son’s broken arm?”

  “Doctor Alan Johnson,” Vern puts in. “He’s a bone and joint doctor in Millersburg.”

  I write down the name. “There’s a serial number on the plate, so we may be able to match it up with your son’s medical records.”

  The old man nods. “I hope so.”

  “Did Leroy know any members of the Strackbein family?” I ask. “They owned the farm on Gellerman Road where the remains were found.”

  “Never heard him talk about anyone by the name of Strackbein,” Sue tells me.

  “Did Leroy have any enemies that you know of?” I ask.

  “Everyone loved our son,” she replies. “He was polite and conscientious. Had a good sense of humor. He was a hard worker, too.”

  I turn my attention to Vern, who’s looking down at the cookies, his mouth working, and I sense he’s holding something back. “Mr. Nolt?”

  The old man raises his head and looks at his wife. “He was putting in a lot of hours at the farm store. Trying to save enough money to go to the college in Goshen.”

  “It’s an Anabaptist college,” Sue adds.

  Sensing there’s more, I prod. “Did he ever get into any trouble?”

  Vern sighs, and I hear something like resignation in that small release of breath. “Leroy was a good boy,” he says adamantly. “But there was a time, a few years, when he liked to live his life on the fast road.”

  “Sometimes even good kids get into trouble.” I shrug, hoping he’ll elaborate, knowing that sometimes parents withhold details to protect their children. Or in this case, the reputation or memory of their child. “Sometimes that’s part of growing up.”

  “Leroy went through a phase when he was drinking alcohol,” Sue tells me. “Smoking cigarettes. And he ran around with a few English girls.”

  “Loose girls,” Vern adds.

  “Did he have a girlfriend?” I ask.

  Another long look between the elderly couple, and I realize they’ve been together for so long they can practically read each other’s minds.

  “We don’t know for sure,” Vern says finally.

  “Leroy was … quiet about such things,” Sue adds. “You know, private.”

  “But we think he was seeing a girl.”

  “Any idea who she was?” I ask.

  Vern shakes his head. “I asked him about it once. Leroy just grinned like he always did and said he’d tell me when he could. I’m not one to pry so I let it be.”

  “What led you to believe he was seeing someone?” I ask.

  “Well,” Vern says slowly, “his attitude changed mostly. He became a happy young man. Had a spring in his step, I guess. He stopped drinking and running around.”

  “He stopped seeing those loose English girls.” Sue spits out the words as if they’re a bad taste.

  We fall silent. I sip the tea, everything they’ve told me about their son turning over in my head. “What about friends?”

  “He used to run around with Clarence Underwood back in the day,” Vern tells me.

  “They were best friends,” Sue agrees. “I never liked that boy. Had shifty eyes. But Leroy thought he was the berries.”

  I pull out my notebook and write down the name, but I’m familiar with Clarence Underwood. Three years ago, I busted him on a charge of manufacturing methamphetamine, which was a first-degree felony because there were two children in the home at the time. Just two months ago, I received notification from the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction that Underwood was about to be released after a two-year stint in Mansfield. I did my due diligence as chief and stopped by his rental house to welcome him back. He wasn’t happy to see me, but the visit let him know I’ve got eyes on him. So far Underwood has kept his nose clean, but I’m certain the list of things he doesn’t get caught doing is a lot longer than the things we in law enforcement know about.

  “Is it possible your son was involved in drugs?” I ask.

  Vern harrumphs. “I hope you believe me when I tell you the answer to that is no.”

  “Leroy might’ve been on the fast road for a while,” his wife adds, “but, Chief Burkholder, he had no interest in drugs.”

  As a cop I know that even if Leroy didn’t partake in drugs himself, the lucrative nature of the business can be a powerful draw. “How long did your son work at Quality Implement?” I ask.

  “He started as a stock boy when he was still in high school,” Vern replies. “Worked there up until the day he disappeared. He was always getting Employee of the Month, too. Putting in for overtime. Leroy was a hard worker.”

  “Did he ever do any work at any of the local farms? Or did he ever work around livestock?” I ask. “Hogs?”
>
  “Well, as a matter of fact, he worked down at that big hog operation in Coshocton for a few months. Place closed down six or seven years ago.” Vern looks at me oddly. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just trying to gather as much background information as possible,” I tell him. “Was he friendly with anyone else who worked at the hog operation?”

  “Not that I recall. He didn’t work there long. Didn’t like the conditions.”

  I nod. “During those years when he was drinking and running around, did he have any favorite hangouts?”

  “That wild place out on the highway.”

  “The Brass Rail?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I nod, letting everything that had been said settle, and then I rise. “I appreciate your time, Mr. and Mrs. Nolt.”

  They rise, both of them looking surprised that I’m leaving. “Chief Burkholder, we need to know. Is the body his?”

  I meet their gazes head-on and hold them. “Without DNA testing or a match on that surgical plate, I can’t give you a definitive answer yet. I’m sorry; I know the waiting is extremely difficult.”

  “We need to know,” Sue whispers. “Please.”

  “If I had to guess? I’d say there’s a high probability it’s him,” I say quietly. “There are too many similarities. The broken arm. The timing of his disappearance. His age.” I shrug. “I wish I had a better answer for you.” The words feel pitifully inadequate.

  “He is with God.” The old man looks down at his shoes. “Er hot en ewwerflissich lewe gfaahre.” He lived an abundant life.

  “Don’t worry, Papa.” His wife pats his shoulder. “Once all the scientific stuff is done, we’ll bring him home.”

  CHAPTER 11

  There is a universal truth when it comes to violent crime: the deceased is never the only victim. The people who loved him—family members, friends, and lovers—continue to suffer long after the deed is done. With an unsolved missing person case, most loved ones never receive any kind of closure or find any semblance of peace again in their lifetimes. Too many take the grief, the loss, and that insidious lack of closure with them to the grave.

  The tentacles of violent crime reach far beyond friends and family. Sometimes they extend to law enforcement as well; the detectives and special agents and investigators who spend countless hours over a period of months or even years talking to the bereaved, building a profile of the missing individual, trying to solve the mystery and, hopefully, bring them home. Contrary to common wisdom, cops invest a fair share of emotion. For some, too much. They lose sleep, time with their families, and peace of mind.

  After my conversation with Sue and Vern Nolt, and despite my best efforts not to, I feel the weight of their sorrow pressing down on me. As I pull onto the street and head toward town, it occurs to me that learning of their son’s death is not the worst news Sue and Vern Nolt will receive in the coming days. The circumstances and the details of his death will undoubtedly add to their misery.

  I pull out my cell and hit the speed dial for dispatch. Lois picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Chief.”

  “Can you get me contact info on Doctor Alan Johnson? I believe he’s an orthopedic surgeon in Millersburg.”

  “Sure.”

  “And the contact info on the hog operation in Coshocton.”

  “You got it.”

  “I need a ten-twenty-nine on Clarence Underwood, too.” It’s the code for “check-for-wanted.” I spell the last name.

  “Will do.”

  “Thanks. Give me a call.” I hit my radio and hail Glock. “Can you ten-twenty-five me—four-two-six Gettysburg?” I recite Underwood’s address from memory.

  “I can be there in two minutes.”

  “See you there.”

  Clarence Underwood lives in a downtrodden neighborhood of circa-1960s bungalows interspersed with double-wide trailer homes. A robin’s-egg blue water tower stands sentinel, bracketed on one side by the railroad tracks, an abandoned gas station on the other. The best feature of the subdivision is the trees, a virtual forest of stately elms and maples, but any semblance of beauty ends there. Gettysburg Avenue is a narrow, pitted strip of asphalt with broken sidewalks and potholes deep enough to break an axle. A mishmash of vehicles, many of which are nearly as old as the homes, makes the street seem even narrower. To my right, someone has set up a basketball hoop in an abandoned lot, and six preteen boys eye me with suspicion as I idle past. I smile and wave, and I try not to notice when a kid with scraggly blond hair in baggy jeans jabs his middle finger at me.

  Glock’s cruiser is parked a few houses down from Underwood’s place. I pull up behind him and hail dispatch. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Lois know we’ve arrived on scene.

  “Ten-four.”

  I get out and meet Glock on the street. “So what’d he do now?” he asks.

  “Nothing that we know of.” We amble to the buckled sidewalk, and I tell him about my conversation with Sue and Vern Nolt.

  “You think Underwood had something to do with Leroy Nolt’s disappearance?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time drug money has come between friends.”

  We ascend the porch steps. The rail to my right is missing, the posts broken off at the base. The wood-plank floor creaks beneath our feet as we cross to the front door. It’s older and bracketed by narrow sidelight windows. Standing slightly to one side in case some paranoid freak decides to shoot through the door, I knock.

  I hear the blare of chainsaw rock coming from inside, the bass drum loud enough to rattle the glass in the window. I wait a full minute and then use the heel of my hand to knock a second time.

  “Police!” I call out. “Clarence Underwood? Open the door, please!”

  The door squeaks like a rat with its tail caught in a trap, and opens about halfway. I find myself looking at Underwood. He’s in his mid-fifties now, with a full beard sprinkled with gray. He’s wearing an AC/DC T-shirt, faded jeans, and a scuffed pair of Doc Martens. He’s thin, but the T-shirt is stretched taut over a generous belly. His eyes are a striking blue, electric and intelligent, but they’re shot with red and hostile when they land on me.

  I pull out my badge and hold it up for him to see. “Mr. Underwood?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I’d like to ask you some questions,” I say. “May we come inside?”

  Bloodshot eyes sweep from me to Glock and back to me. “What about?”

  “Leroy Nolt.”

  I can’t be sure, but for an instant I think I see a smile in those eyes. But I can’t tell if it’s the smile of a man remembering an old friend, or a man who knows he got away with murder. “Do I got a choice?” he asks.

  “I just want to ask you some questions about his disappearance. You’re under no obligation to talk to me, but if you don’t, I’ll be back with a warrant.”

  He glances quickly behind him, an indication that he doesn’t want us to see whatever lies on the other side of the door. “I’ll come out there.”

  Glock and I move back simultaneously. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m aware of Glock keeping his hands loose and ready, maintaining a safe distance in case Underwood does something stupid.

  The door swings open and he steps onto the porch. Even from two feet away I smell alcohol on his breath. He’s not falling-down drunk, but he’s not sober, either.

  “I read about them bones found out to that old barn,” he says slowly. “They belong to Leroy?”

  The question shouldn’t surprise me; news travels fast in a small town, especially if there’s a dead body involved. But it’s been my experience that when people have something to hide, the last thing they do is raise the subject I’m about to question them about. But then Underwood is smart enough to know how to play the game.

  “We’re not sure yet,” I tell him.

  “I reckon you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think it was him.” He shakes his head. “I’d always hoped he’d made it out of this shithole. Come back richer
than God, and maybe share a little with his old buddy.” He wobbles a little as he moves from the doorway, sets his hand against the siding to steady himself. “What do you want with me?”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” I ask.

  “Damn. Long time ago.” He scratches his head, loosening a shower of dandruff onto the shoulders of his T-shirt. “A couple of days before he disappeared. I was working at Quality Implement at the time. We used to hang out on the weekends. Cruise around in his souped-up Camaro and drink Little Kings.” His chuckle ends in a phlegmy cough. “He could put it away, that’s for sure.”

  “Did the two of you ever argue?” I ask. “Have any disagreements about anything.”

  “Nope and nope. Leroy was easygoing. He was fun to hang out with, and we got on just fine.”

  “Did he have any enemies that you know of?”

  Underwood shakes his head. “No way. Leroy was as laid back as they come. Funny as hell, too. Everyone liked him.”

  “Was he ever in to drugs? Any illegal activity?”

  “That was me.” His laugh is dark and unhappy. “We did our share of drinking, but Leroy never got into anything else. Didn’t even smoke weed.”

  “Was he seeing anyone? A woman?”

  His brows knit. “We’d pick up chicks occasionally. Take them out to that old covered bridge and … you know.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Damn, it’s hard to remember. We was so young.”

  “You want to keep your hands where we can see them?” Glock says from behind me.

  Underwood scowls at him but pulls out his hands, flashes his palms at us. “For fuck sake,” he mutters.

  “Clarence, relax,” I say, putting a warning in my voice. “Just a few more questions, okay?”

  “Whatever.” He leans against the house, crossing his arms in front of him.

  “So, was Leroy seeing a girl?” I ask again.

  “I can’t say for sure. He might’ve mentioned having a date once or twice. One thing I do remember is the last couple of months before he disappeared, he stopped going out to the bridge with me. He cut back on his drinking. It was like he found religion or something.”

  “Do you think he was seeing a girl?”