don’t hold them up.
I’ve met Orin Schlabach a few of times over the years. I bought pumpkins from his wife last fall. The couple are well into their seventies, but they still run their farm and are active in the community.
“Can you tell me what happened, Mr. Schlabach?” I ask as we shake hands.
He’s about six feet tall with a salt and pepper beard that reaches nearly to his waist. He wears traditional Amish garb—flat brimmed hat, trousers with suspenders, blue work shirt, and a black barn coat—along with about fifty pounds of extra weight.
“I went out to feed the cows. Jojo started barking.” He motions toward the dog. “That’s when I spotted the boy on the ground.”
“Noah Kline?”
He nods. “My neighbor’s boy. The oldest, I think. Nice young man.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He’s been out cold the whole time.”
“Any idea what happened?”
“I can’t imagine.” The Amish man shakes his head. “I see that boy walking along the road couple times a week. He don’t drive, you know. And we don’t get any traffic out this way.”
“Have you talked to his parents?”
“I called you first thing, Chief Burkholder, and then I came back to stay with him.”
We’re standing in a cornfield, about fifty feet from the road. The corn has already been cut and harvested. Leftover dried yellow stalks litter the ground. A small circle of blood has soaked into the dirt where Noah Kline had lain. On the other side of the road is a tumbledown fence. Beyond, a wooded area that runs along the floodplain of Painters Creek.
I take a moment to walk the scene, trying to figure out what might’ve happened, when Skid’s cruiser pulls up behind my Explorer, lights flashing. He meets me in the field, and I brief him on what little I know.
“How’s the kid?” he asks.
“Not sure,” I tell him. “Hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“That’s not good.” He looks around. “Any idea what happened to him?”
“I thought we might walk the scene, see if we can figure it out.”
We fall silent, thoughtful, eyes on the ground. That’s when I notice the tire ruts.
“Those look fresh,” Skid says.
We follow the tracks. Sure enough, twin furrows cut deeply into the wet soil. Farther out, there’s a place where the driver may have done “donuts,” turning the steering wheel sharply while accelerating so that the rear wheels spin and the vehicle turns in a tight circle.
“Looks like a vehicle left the pavement at a high rate of speed,” I say, motioning toward the deep ruts and mud that’s been slung onto the asphalt.
“Braked hard there.” Skid gestures.
“Did a donut there,” I say.
“Goofy damn teenagers.” He looks at me and shakes his head. “Could this be a case of car surfing?” he asks, referring to the practice of someone riding on the roof or hood of a vehicle, often while said vehicle is traveling at a high rate of speed.
“Maybe. But why would they leave him like this?”
“If they were drinking they may have panicked.”
I move closer and kneel. “I’ve got footprints here.”
“Someone was on foot.” He kneels next to me, leans over the nearest imprint. “Judging from the depth of that print and the length of the stride, I’d say he was running.”
Mindful of the possibility that this may not have been a case of teenage antics gone wrong, I look at the ruts in relation to the footprints and try to get a sense of what might’ve occurred. Was this a case of “car surfing” as Skid surmised? Or was this something more sinister? Road rage that led to an altercation? A hit and run?
Rising, I walk back to Orin Schlabach. “Did you or your wife hear or see anything unusual last night?”
The old man shakes his head. “Not a thing.”
It’s too soon to know how severe the young man’s injuries are. In the course of my career, I’ve seen more than my share of traffic accidents—and worse. A head injury can go from minor to fatal in a heartbeat. Keeping that in mind, and knowing Noah Kline didn’t get hurt without help, I call my significant other.
“I hear you’ve got a possible hit-skip on your hands,” he says without preamble.
John Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. He’s also the love of my life. We live on a small farm a few miles out of Wooster, north of Painters Mill.
“Word travels fast,” I say.
“Especially when you have a police scanner.”
I recap what little I know. “It might be overkill, but I’m wondering if