“I mean if you need some space, I’ll give it to you.”

“I don’t need any goddamn space. I need you.”

“Tomasetti, there’s no easy solution to this.”

“I know.” He leans closer and kisses me, his mouth lingering on mine. “We’ll figure something out.”

Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

The call from Dr. Alan Johnson comes as I walk through the door of my office at just before 9:00 A.M. Setting my laptop case on the floor, my coffee on the blotter, I catch the line on the third ring.

“We finally received our archived records for Leroy Nolt,” the doctor begins.

“Do the serial numbers match?” I ask.

“Yes, they do. That plate is the same one my father used to repair Leroy Nolt’s broken arm.”

I’d known that would be the case; there were too many coincidences for the remains not to belong to Nolt. Still, this makes it official. Now all I need is the cause and manner of death from the coroner.

“Thank you for checking on that for me, Doctor Johnson.”

“Of course.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this information confidential until I can notify the family.”

“Certainly, Chief Burkholder. Good luck with the case.”

I’m still on my first cup of coffee, thinking about Sue and Vern Nolt, when Glock calls me on my cell.

“Any luck with Kester?” I ask him.

“I hooked up with Trumbull County and a state park officer. We spent the night out at Mosquito Lake State Park, but Kester never showed.”

“You search his place?”

“He and his wife are staying with his father-in-law, Chief. I got the warrant and Skid and I went out there. But Kester took his stuff and left. Wife’s gone, too.”

“Shit.” I think about that a moment. “He own a .22 rifle?”

“We didn’t find anything. No gun. No ammo. His father-in-law said he doesn’t own a weapon, but you know how that goes.”

“We have to assume he’s armed and dangerous.” I sigh. “I’m going to put out a BOLO on Kester.”

“Probably a good idea at this point.”

“Get some sleep,” I tell him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

*   *   *

I’ve just finished putting out the BOLO on Nick and Paula Kester, when T.J. peeks his head into my office. “You got a minute?” he asks.

“Sure. Have a seat.” I motion to the visitor’s chair adjacent my desk.

Taking the chair, he raises the papers in his hand. “I know you’re dealing with the Kester thing, Chief, but I was looking over some of these old police reports from around the time Leroy Nolt went missing.” He flicks the paper with his index finger. “I think I hit gold.”

I take the paper and read. It’s a poor copy of a handwritten incident report for an “unknown disturbance” from the Coshocton County Sheriff’s Department dated August 29, 1985. Deputy Mack Pelletier wrote: