I nod, making eye contact with each of my officers and, finally, Lois. “Effective immediately, I want an armed officer here at the station at all times. Mandatory overtime until Kester is either eliminated as a suspect or taken into custody.”

I hear a couple of well-timed, exaggerated sighs, but not a smidgen of serious diatribe; every one of these officers would work around the clock without complaint if asked.

“I also want to brief you on some new developments on those remains found out on Gellerman Road,” I say. “We were able to match the serial number of the titanium plate found at the scene to the plate surgically implanted in Leroy Nolt’s arm. We don’t have DNA yet, but I can say with certainty that those bones do indeed belong to Nolt.”

“You notified NOK?” Glock asks.

“I talked to them, so they are aware,” I tell him. “While I was cautious not to tell them something we don’t have definitive proof of, I think they were able to draw their own conclusions. I’m going to wait for DNA before I confirm with them. So we need to keep this under our hats for now.”

“Tough break for the parents,” Pickles mumbles. “Always hate that.”

“We have a person of interest with regard to the woman Nolt was seeing at the time of his death.” I tell them about the quilt with the initials embroidered into the fabric. “Abigail Kaufman. She’s Amish. Her last name is Kline now. She married Jeramy Kline a month after Leroy disappeared.”

Skid grins. “Damn, those Amish girls work fast.”

It’s an offhand comment but drives home the possibility that if she was indeed involved with Leroy Nolt and then married so quickly after his disappearance, she may have had a reason.

Glock’s eyes narrow on mine. “If there was some love-triangle thing going on between Jeramy Kline, Abigail Kaufman, and Leroy Nolt, there might be a motive there.”

“She has a brother living in the area, too,” I tell them. “Abram Kaufman. I haven’t talked to him yet, but I plan to.”

“So, is Jeramy Kline a suspect?” T.J. asks.

“He’s a person of interest.” I tell them about Kline’s having been rushed to the hospital.

“What’s wrong with him?” T.J. asks.

I shrug. “He got sick and had some kind of seizure.”

“Interesting timing,” Glock says.

“I think so, too,” I tell him.

“Any chance he OD’d on drugs?” Pickles asks.

I shrug. “We can’t rule it out, but at this point we have no evidence to support it.”

“Maybe he knows the cops are looking at him and he tried to off himself,” Skid offers.

“It’s possible,” I reply. “But I’ve talked with him and, honestly, he doesn’t seem like the type.”

“Maybe with the discovery of those remains, the wife added a little rat poison to his scrapple,” Glock puts in.