Holloway takes it from there, motions toward the ground where he’s standing. “I pick up the victim’s footprints here. He’s running. Moving fast. It looks like the vehicle came at him from behind.” He walks about twenty feet and points out a place where the mud is smooth and slightly compressed. “There’s no way to tell exactly what happened, but I believe the victim was struck at least twice by the vehicle. There are marks in the mud where he went down. There’s blood.”
For the span of a full minute the only sound comes from the caw of crows from the greenbelt and the bawling of a cow at the back of the Schlabach farm.
“Are you saying the driver of the car purposefully ran him down?” I hear myself ask.
Holloway nods. “I think that’s a likely scenario.”
“Is it possible this was a bunch of teenagers clowning around?” Tomasetti asks. “An inexperienced driver? Maybe they’d been drinking? Something like that?”
“Absolutely,” Holloway says. “This isn’t an exact science. We don’t have a lot to work with, so this is basically theory.”
“It would be helpful to see the vehicle,” Tomasetti says.
Holloway sighs. “Whatever the case, we’re dealing with a hit and run. Someone struck that kid and left him lying in the field. If he dies, even if this was an accident, the driver could be facing a vehicular homicide charge.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Tomasetti and I are in the Explorer heading toward Painters Mill. We left Skid at the scene. Over the next few hours, the BCI crime scene investigator will photograph and videotape the area, and plaster the tire ruts in an effort to pick up tread and any marks that are unique to the tires. If at some point we’re able to identify the driver or the vehicle, we’ll have the plasters on hand to run a comparison.
I call Mona and ask her to set up a tip line. “There’s a five-hundred-dollar reward for any information that leads to an arrest and conviction.”
“Got it, Chief.”
“Thanks.” I end the call to find Tomasetti contemplating me.
“Tell me about Doug Mason,” he says.
“He’s the ex-boyfriend of the girl Noah Kline was with last night.”
“He the jealous type?”
“And a bully, evidently.” I tell him about the text messages Craig Hodges found on his daughter’s phone.
“Nasty stuff,” he says.
“Especially after two months have passed.”
“Long time to stew.”
“Or boil over.”
Doug Mason and his parents live in Painters Mill in a nicely renovated older home set on a large lot with a dozen or so mature trees. I park curbside and find two teenaged boys and an adult male throwing a football in the front yard.
“Someone’s got some nice wheels.” Tomasetti points to the silver muscle car sitting in the driveway. “Looks just washed.”
“Not the kind of vehicle a dad would drive,” I say as we get out.
The three men stop what they’re doing and watch us approach.
“Christopher Mason?” I say when we’re a couple yards away.
The man tosses the football to one of the boys, his eyes flicking from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “I’m Chris Mason.”
I show him my badge. “I’d like to talk to you and your son, Doug, if you have a few minutes.”
“What’s this about?”
“There was an incident on Township Road 4 last night involving Noah Kline,” I tell him, keeping it purposefully vague. You never know when someone you’re talking to is going to volunteer information they couldn’t know—unless they were at the scene.
“Heard about that,” the man says. “How’s the kid?”
“Critical. It’s serious.”
He jerks his head knowingly, suspicious of us now, unsympathetic about the injured boy. “I figured you’d show up sooner or later.”
Tomasetti speaks for the first time. “Why’s that?”
“Evidently, you talked to Craig Hodges.”
Neither Tomasetti nor I say anything.
As if on cue, Chris Mason keeps talking. “Look, just because Doug dated Ashley doesn’t mean he had anything to do with what happened to that Amish kid. Doug’s a good boy. He learned an important lesson with Ashley, and he’s moved on.”
“Do you mind if we ask him a couple of quick questions?” I ask.
I see him working that over, trying to come up with an excuse to refuse. Before he can say anything, the two boys saunter over to us, expressions curious. They’re close in age, physically fit, their dark hair damp with sweat and sticking to their foreheads.
Still holding the football, the oldest of the two boys eyes us suspiciously. “What’s going on?”
Chris Mason introduces him. “This is my oldest son, Doug.” He’s