Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,78
of tires. I see the glint of a vehicle through the trees. Moving fast.
I hit my shoulder mike. “Subject is in a vehicle,” I say, breaths puffing. “Eastbound. No headlights.”
My police radio lights up with a dozen codes and voices. Word of a possibly armed suspect has garnered the attention of every law enforcement agency in the county. The sheriff’s department. The Ohio State Highway Patrol. My own department. Still, Holmes County is large—a labyrinth of highways, back roads, dirt roads, and plenty of woods.
I burst onto the road, my breaths labored; I see the red flash of taillights to my left. I sprint another twenty yards, trying to keep him in sight, see which direction he goes next. But the vehicle disappears into the night like a ghost.
CHAPTER 21
Eighty-seven hours missing
When you’re a cop and working a missing-child case, the last thing you want to do is give up hope. The expectation of a positive outcome is the thing that drives you forward when you’re exhausted beyond your limit, uncertain of your path, and besieged by bad news and dead ends at every turn. The longer the case drags on, the more difficult that precious hope is to hang on to, no matter how tight your grip. But cops are realists; when the time comes to give it up, your focus turns to finding the son of a bitch responsible, bringing him to justice—or maybe just bringing a small body home to rest.
I didn’t get much sleep last night. I spent most of it with the Helmuths and on the roads surrounding the farm. The sheriff’s department searched for the shooter and, later, collected what little evidence they could find, which boiled down to a single tire-tread mark that may or may not have been from the perpetrator’s vehicle. There was no brass. No sign anyone had been in the woods with a rifle at all. Still, in light of the threat, I’ve permanently stationed one officer at the Helmuth farm twenty-four seven. I’m working with a skeleton crew to begin with; I don’t know how I’ll sustain the manpower. I’ll find a way.
Tomasetti and I are on our way to Crooked Creek. We’ve spent most of the drive talking about the case, the players involved, their motives, brainstorming the possibilities and different scenarios.
Our first stop is the Scioto County Sheriff’s Department. It’s nine A.M. when Sheriff Dan Pallant ushers us through the secure door and into the same interview room where I met with the deputy two days ago.
Pallant is a middle-aged African American man with a quick smile and a booming voice. He’s neatly dressed in khaki slacks and a navy pullover. A salt-and-pepper goatee covers his chin. A slightly receding hairline and heavy-framed eyeglasses lend him a studious countenance. He’s cordial, but once the niceties are out of the way, he’s ready to get down to business.
“I pulled some files after speaking with you last night, Agent Tomasetti.” He sets a stack of folders on the table, opens the one on top. “The hit-and-run that killed Noah Schwartz. We originally wrote it up as a hit-skip, possibly involving an intoxicated driver. I went through every report and email and piece of paper in the file, and there’s nothing there to indicate otherwise. No skid marks, no tire-tread imprints, no CCTV cameras in the vicinity, no witnesses, and no suspect. Only interesting thing I ran across was a homeowner who claimed to see a light-colored pickup truck in the vicinity a few minutes before it happened.”
Tomasetti inclines his head at me. “Pickup truck fits with the type of vehicle that left the tire-tread imprint we took at the Schattenbaum place.”
“Dick Howard on Goat Head Road says he saw a light-colored pickup truck—white or tan—in the area around the time Mary Yoder was murdered and the girl taken,” I say.
Tomasetti looks at Pallant. “Any more description on the truck? Long bed? Crew cab? Anything like that?”
The sheriff shakes his head. “Deputy talked to the homeowner again last night and got nothing. I’m sure you know we got a lot of pickup trucks in this part of Ohio and Kentucky.”
“I’ll get the ROs of all vehicles matching that description, starting in Scioto County, expand from there, and see if anything pops,” Tomasetti says.
The sheriff rattles off the contiguous counties. “Adams. Pike. Lawrence. Jackson.” He pauses, rubs his palm across his chin. “Might check Greenup County in Kentucky, too.”