Her Last Breath

by Linda Castillo

  Within minutes, the rope was secure, knotted, and dangling into the pit. “How’re the batteries on that flashlight?” Leon asked.

  “I just put ’em in.”

  Leon looked at him, as if the gravity of what they were about to do was starting to sink in. “You want me to go down first?”

  Relief slipped through Jack, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he shrugged. “I’ll keep the light on you from up here.”

  A grin spread across Leon’s face. “I can’t wait to tell everyone about this.” He went to the opening, picked up the rope, and looked down. “Wish I had some gloves.”

  “Don’t fall, you idiot.”

  Leon gave a cavalier wave and started into the hole. “Geronimo!” he cried, his voice echoing.

  Jack held the flashlight steady and watched his friend descend. In less than a minute, Leon was standing at the base, looking up at him. “Nothin’ to it.”

  “Here.” Jack tossed the flashlight at Leon, who caught it with one hand. Mr. Cool. “I’m coming down.”

  The descent was easier than Jack had imagined. The rope bit into his palms, but war wounds were a good thing when you were about to ask Lori Deardorf to go steady. He couldn’t wait to brag about this.

  When he reached the base of the pit, Leon was already lighting up. “Jeez, you could have waited on me.”

  Leon shoved a cigarette at him. “Go for it, dude.”

  Proud of himself for making it down without incident, Jack lit up, trying not to cough when the smoke hit the back of his throat. “This place is cool.”

  “A lot of crap down here.”

  “Lookit all this old corn and shit.”

  “Bet there are rats down here.”

  “Probably as big as fuckin’ groundhogs.”

  The smoked in silence for a couple of minutes, and then Leon dropped his on the ground and crushed it beneath his foot.

  Jack had just tossed his butt into the dirt and was about to step on it when something beneath a pile of wood caught his attention. “Hey Leon. What’s that? Over there?”

  His friend turned around, walked to the dusty heap. “Looks like a rock.”

  “I ain’t never seen a rock like that.”

  Leon squatted, reached for a splintered two-by-four, and tossed it aside. Dust motes swirled when it landed in the dirt behind him. Next came a rusty one-gallon paint can. A piece of rotted cloth.

  Kneeling beside him, Jack reached for the rock, tugged it from its ancient nest. “I got it.” It was smaller than a soccer ball, but too lightweight to be a rock.

  “I bet it’s a dog skull,” Leon said with a nervous giggle. “Look at them eye holes.”

  “Musta been a big dog.” Jack brought it to him, blew the dust off, and turned it over in his hands.

  “Holy shit!” Leon sprang to his feet.

  Jack Mott stared down at the human skull in his hands, and then he started to scream.

  * * *

  The Voss Brothers Body Shop sits at the edge of town next to a junkyard that’s enclosed by a tall corrugated barrier fence. I pull into the pothole-laden lot, steering the Explorer around holes large enough to swallow a tire. A small frame house with a big stump in the yard serves as the office. Through the door I see a heavyset man in bib overalls behind the counter, watching us. Though the Explorer is clearly marked with the Painters Mill PD insignia, he makes no move to greet us.

  The shop consists of a large metal building with two overhead doors in front. One of the doors stands open and I see a silver Toyota Camry on a hydraulic lift. A shop light dangles from the undercarriage and two men in coveralls squint up at the bottom side of the engine. Parked next to the building, an SUV that looks as if it’s been run through an auto crusher waits its turn.

  I park adjacent the office and Rasmussen and I get out. We’re midway to the door when a man yells, “Hey!”

  We turn simultaneously to see a large, round-bodied man clad in denim bib overalls striding toward us. His gray hair and weatherworn face tell me he’s well into his sixties. “I’m Bob Voss.” From ten feet away, he sticks out his hand, leaves it extended as he closes the space between us.

  Rasmussen and I identify ourselves. When we shake, Voss grins from ear to ear. “I’ve never met a lady cop before.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” I tell him.

  “Thank goodness for that,” he says with a chuckle.

  Rasmussen gets right down to business. “You called the hotline about a customer that had the front end of his truck reinforced.”

  “Hope I ain’t wasting your time. But when I saw the news about that hit-and-run kilt that Amish family, I remembered this guy bringing in a truck. I thought I should let someone know.”

  “We’re glad you did,” the sheriff says. “What kind of work did he have done?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. He had the front end reinforced with a steel plate. We don’t get requests like that every day so it kind of stuck out.”

  “Did he say why?” I ask.

  “Said he had this old stump he needed pushed out of the way.” He scratches his head. “Anyone with a brain knows you don’t use the front of your truck for that. You burn it or grind it or get a backhoe after it, but you don’t use your damn bumper. To tell you the truth, he didn’t look like the stump-pullin’ type.”

  “You get a name?” Rasmussen asks.

  “I got everything.” Giving us some Groucho Marx eyebrow action, he motions toward the office. “Pulled the invoice ’fore I called. Come on in and I’ll show you.”

  Rasmussen and I follow him to the house. He takes us up the steps, across the porch, and through the entrance, the old screen door banging shut behind us. The office is small with dirty linoleum floors, a ragtag sofa set against the wall, and a chest-high counter that looks as if it came from some highway roadhouse that got shut down by the health department. I glance at the man behind the counter and do a double take. He’s an exact duplicate of Bob Voss, replete with a matching crew cut, bib overalls, and the SUV-size gut. He gives me a gotcha grin and I notice the only difference is that the man behind the counter is missing a lower tooth in the front.

  The two men giggle like schoolgirls and I realize this is an entertaining moment for them. “I’m Billy Voss,” the look-alike says, moving toward us, his hand outstretched.

  “D’you see the look on her face?” Chuckling, Bob Voss wipes his eyes with a white kerchief.

  “I guess your customers keep you two pretty amused,” Rasmussen says, and I realize his sense of humor is the first thing to go when he’s sleep deprived.

  “You guys are twins?” I ask.

  “Born ten minutes apart,” Billy tells us as he slides a folder from the top of the file cabinet. “I got the brains, he got the looks.”

  Bob pours coffee into a nasty-looking mug. “You guys want some lead?”

  Rasmussen and I decline.

  “What can you tell us about this customer?” I ask.

  “Nice looking young fella.” Billy sets the folder on the counter and opens it.

  Inside, I see a yellow sheet of paper from a legal pad that’s scribbled with notes, and a generic-looking invoice that’s filled out with blue ink.

  Billy turns the invoice around, so we don’t have to read it upside down and slides it toward us.

  Date: August 25

  Name: Howard Barnes

  Address: 345 West Fourth St. Killbuck

  Phone: 885-5452

  Estimate for Repair Costs: Material: $92.00 Labor: $300.00 Total = $392.00

  Make and model of vehicle: Gry 1996 Ford F-250 Plate # DHA3709

  Description: Reinforce front end ¼ inch steel 18" × 32"

  For the span of several minutes, the only sound comes from an old Led Zeppelin song, “When the Levee Breaks,” oozing from a sleek sound system set up on a TV tray behind the counter.

  “Which one of you talked to this guy?” Rasmussen asks.

  “I did,” says Bob.


  Listening to the conversation with half an ear, I unclip my cell and hit the speed dial for dispatch. Lois picks up on the first ring. “I need a ten twelve,” I say.

  “Go ahead.”

  “David, Henry, Adam, three, seven, zero, niner.” I hear keys clicking on the other end as she enters the tag number into the BMV database.

  “That’s weird,” Lois says. “You sure that tag number is right, Chief?” She reads it back to me.

  I glance at the invoice. “That’s it.”

  “According to BMV, that number doesn’t exist.”

  “Well shit.” I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck. “Give me a ten twenty-nine on Howard Barnes.” I spell both the first and last names for her.

  “Stand by.”

  Computer keys click. While she checks for wanted and warrants, I turn my attention to Bob Voss. “Did you happen to take a look at his driver’s license?”

  The old man stares at me, blinking, guilty. I feel Rasmussen’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him.

  “Well, no,” Bob says. “We generally don’t check.”

  I say to Rasmussen, “Tag number is bogus.”

  The sheriff’s eyes narrow. “That’s interesting as hell.”

  I turn my attention to Bob. “How did he pay?”

  Bill pulls the invoice to him, lowers the cheaters from his crown, and points to a checkmarked box on the form. “Cash.”

  “That’s a lot of cash for someone to carry around,” Rasmussen says.

  “You sure about the make and model of the truck?” I ask.

  Voss nods. “That I am. I know trucks, and I saw it myself.”

  “Short or long bed?”

  He grimaces, shakes his head. “I don’t recall.”

  “Chief?” comes Lois’s voice over the phone.

  I turn my attention back to the call. “What do you have?”

  “Nothing coming back on Howard Barnes.”

  “You mean nothing as in he hasn’t killed anyone lately? Or that he’s not in the system?”

  “Not in the system. You got a middle initial?”

  “No.”

  The prickling sensation augments into a creeping suspicion that drops into my gut like a stone. “I’ve got a make and model to add to the APB. Gray Ford F-250, 1996.”

  “I’ll get it out ASAP.”

  “I also need ROs for all ’96 Ford F-250 trucks in the three-county area: Holmes, Coshocton, and Wayne.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Thanks.” I disconnect to hear Billy saying, “… he was probably forty years old. I wish I remembered more, but it’s been two weeks and we get quite a few customers in here.”

  “How exactly did you modify the truck?” Rasmussen asks.

  “That’s the reason I remembered this guy,” Billy says. “He had us remove the bumper and install a quarter-inch slab of steel and weld it to the frame with I-beams. When I asked him why, he mentioned the stump. Later, he said it was just for pushing things around. You know, kind of vague. I figured it was just a farm truck and he was going to let his kid drive it around or something.”

  I look down at the invoice, spot the illegible scrawl at the bottom. “Is that his signature?”

  Billy tries to slide the invoice around for a better look, but I stop him. In the back of my mind I’m wondering if the lab will be able to raise some latents. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you mind if we take this with us?” I ask, adding, “I’ll make sure you get it back.”

  Both men stare at me as if they’ve just now realized this is serious and they’re mentally working through all the dark possibilities.

  “You think this guy killed them people down there in Painters Mill?” Bob asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I think it warrants looking into.”

  “You got any other paper on this guy?” Rasmussen asks.

  “No sir.” Billy shakes his head. “That’s it.”

  Rasmussen reaches into his jacket and pulls out an evidence bag containing the sheared pin. “This look familiar to either of you?”

  Both men shake their heads.

  Bob squints at the bag. “Looks like a three-quarter-inch L pin.”

  “Any idea what that kind of pin is used for?” I ask.

  “Hard to say,” Billy says. “One that size … could be from a tractor.”

  “I seen ’em on farm implements,” Bob adds. “Could be off a pivot bracket on a rototiller or mower. Honestly, since we don’t know the length, could be for just about anything.”

  Frowning, Rasmussen drops the bag back into his pocket. “How exactly did you guys attach the steel plate?”

  “We removed the bumper and welded it to the frame,” Billy explains.

  “Did you use any type of pin or bolt?” I ask.

  “No ma’am.” Bob shakes his head. “We welded it. Solid as a rock, too.”

  Pinching the invoice between two fingers at its corner, the sheriff picks it up and slips it into the folder. “We’re going to need a description of the customer.”

  “Do you guys have security cameras?” I ask.

  Bob Voss nods. “In the yard out back where we park the vehicles we’re working on. We’ve had thieves come over the fence at night a couple times. Took some rims once and a fuel pump a few months back, so we had cameras installed.”

  “Did this customer go into the yard?” I ask.

  “Wish we could help you there,” Billy says, “but he was only here in the office and the shop.”

  It takes another ten minutes to wrangle a description from the two brothers. They disagree on the color of the guy’s hair and the type of shirt he was wearing. But we walk away with height, eye color, and the general impression that he was a “nice looking young fella” and “dressed like a yuppie.”

  As Rasmussen and I clamber into the Explorer, he turns to me and sighs. “Not to throw a wrench into such a straightforward case, but I’m pretty sure there is no Fourth Street in Killbuck.”

  Nothing about the address had struck me as odd, but now that he mentioned it, I realize he’s right. “He gave a bogus address, too.”

  “People who give false information usually have something to hide,” he says. “And he didn’t just have body work done. He had the front end of a big-ass truck with a big-ass engine reinforced with a big-ass slab of steel.”

  I pull onto the highway and glance at Rasmussen. “He’s our guy.”

  “It would explain the lack of debris.”

  “He had the work done two weeks ago. That shows premeditation.”

  “Premeditated what?”

  We look at each other for a moment, then he says, “I can’t see someone murdering an Amish man and two kids. I mean, the way this was done—with a vehicle—a lot of things could have gone wrong. He risked a witness seeing him. He risked the victims surviving to identify him. The impact could have disabled his truck and stranded him, gotten him caught. Hell, he could have killed himself.”

  “Maybe what we’re dealing with was more of a road rage situation,” I say.

  Rasmussen nods. “There’s no shortage of meanness out there. We’ve seen it focused on the Amish before.”

  I’m still turning over the road rage angle. “Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with this particular family. Maybe it was more about opportunity. It was dusk. They were alone on a little-used back road. Their paths crossed.” I’m tossing out ideas, trying to make sense of something that makes absolutely no sense.

  “We did have that rash of hate crimes last year,” he says.

  I think about the kids and shake my head, unable to wrap my brain around that kind of hatred. “This takes hate to a whole new level of ugly.”

  “I’ll get that invoice to the lab, see what comes back.” He sighs. “In the interim, I’d say we probably ought to keep our options open.”

  I nod, but in the back of my mind I know we’re no longer dealing with a simple DUI or hit-and-run or even a case of vehicular hom
icide.

  We’re now investigating three counts of premeditated murder.

  CHAPTER 8

  I’m sitting in the conference room, working on my second cup of coffee, and going through my sparse collection of notes on the Borntrager case, as the rest of my team files in for an impromptu briefing. It’s going to be a short meeting because we basically don’t have shit in terms of information or suspects.

  As usual, Pickles is the first to arrive and stakes his claim at the table adjacent me with a to-go cup from LaDonna’s Diner in front of him. From where I sit, I can smell the cigarettes and English Leather. He’s one of the few who actually enjoys these meetings. It’s an added bonus if someone is getting their ass chewed.

  Two chairs down, Glock has the case file open in front of him, various reports and photos spread out on the table, reading. On his left, Skid leans back in his chair, gobbling up the final remnants of a burrito. At the head of the table, T.J. thumbs some urgent message into his Droid. I can tell from the grin on his face it doesn’t have anything to do with police business. Frank Maloney, the accident reconstructionist from the sheriff’s office, stands at the whiteboard, his back to the rest of us, finishing a sketch of the scene in blue marker. Mona stands just inside the doorway, talking quietly to Lois, who’s manning dispatch and listening for the phone. I put Mona in charge of overseeing the hotline, which has already given us our first lead. I’m hoping for more.

  “You ready, Maloney?” I ask.

  The deputy steps away from the sketch and sighs. “I’m a damn good reconstructionist, but I suck at drawing.”

  The sketch is a crude rendition of the accident scene, replete with intersection labels, a north-south directional symbol, the ditch, mile marker, and the location of the stop sign. He’s indicated the final resting place of the buggy, the direction in which it was traveling, along with the point of impact. The victims and horse are depicted with stick figures.

  Taking a final swig of coffee, I go to the half-podium at the head of the table and open the briefing with the only good news I’ve gotten since the accident. “Before we begin, I wanted to let everyone know David Borntrager is going to be fine.”

  Everyone gives a short round of applause along with an enthusiastic “Fuckin’ A” from Glock.