My office is blissfully quiet. From the reception area, I hear Jodie’s radio grinding out an old Badfinger tune, interrupted only by the occasional crackle of the police radio. I’m sitting at my desk with the John Doe / Leroy Nolt file open in front of me. But it’s all a blur. I’ve read it dozens of times, too many times to absorb anything new. A knock at my door draws me from my reverie. I look up to see Skid standing in the doorway.

“You got a minute?” He flicks the paper in his hand. “I’ve got the rundown on that hog operation you asked about.”

“At least one of us isn’t striking out.” I motion him in. “Have a seat.”

He takes the visitor chair adjacent to my desk and slides a single sheet of paper across to me. I can tell by the neatness of the typewritten page that he talked one of the dispatchers into typing it for him. Skid isn’t exactly a neatnik.

“I take it you got nothing from the Kaufmans or Klines?” he says.

“A few lies, maybe.” I tell him about my conversation with Abigail Kline. “I think she’s the girl Nolt was seeing when he was killed.”

“You think she knows what happened to him?”

“I think she knows more than she’s letting on.” Frowning, I look down at the sheet of paper he brought in. “I just have to figure out what it is.”

“Hewitt Hog Producers was owned by Homer Hewitt from 1982 until they closed down in September 1997,” he tells me. “Homer Hewitt filed for bankruptcy that same year. The company had amassed some EPA violations. Couldn’t fix them and eventually went belly up. Leroy Nolt worked there from May of 1985 up until he disappeared.”

“Interesting timing,” I say. “What did he do there?”

“He actually worked in the office and helped out with some heavy machinery work.”

“Any problems between Hewitt and Nolt?”

“Not that I could find.”

“Anyone else?”

“No, ma’am.”

I notice a Florida address for Hewitt. “When did he move to St. Petersburg?”

He glances down at his notes. “Four years ago.”

I nod. “What’s the status on the property?”

“Currently abandoned. There’s been some talk that the new owner is going to turn it into a turkey farm, but there’s nothing in the works.”

“Thanks for giving up happy hour to put all this together.”

He grins. “Anytime, Chief.”

Movement at the door draws my attention. I glance up, half expecting to see Jodie. Surprise ripples through me at the sight of Tomasetti standing in the doorway. “Hi, Chief.” He looks at Skid. “Skidmore.”

“Agent Tomasetti.” Skid rises and the two men shake.

“Anything new on your John Doe?” Tomasetti divides his attention between the two of us, including Skid in the conversation.

“I was just telling Chief Burkholder about that old hog operation down in Coshocton County.”