My boots thud dully against the plank floor as I cross to the door. Below, a dozen or so rusty steel pens are set into concrete, forming a maze of sorts. Though the pens are designed to withstand the weight and strength of livestock, many are dented and bent from large animals and years of use.

“Let’s get down there and put these metal detectors to work before we get busted,” I tell Skid.

A quick look around reveals there’s no way to reach the pen area without going back through the front. A route that would make us—and our metal detectors—visible from the house for a short stretch. I’m about to risk it, when I realize we can use the hay chute and get down the same way Sally Burris did the day she witnessed the incident.

Hefting my metal detector, I go to the hatch and kneel. The original leather grip has been torn off, but someone has affixed a loop of hay twine for a handle, so I use it to lift the hatch. Below, I see a dirt floor that’s built up with decades of manure that’s long since composted. I glance over at Skid. “I’m going down. Hand me the metal detectors, will you?”

“Sure.” Taking my metal detector, he leans it against a support beam and then offers his hand. “Down the hatch.”

I lower myself to a sitting position and dangle my legs through the opening. Taking Skid’s hand, using my other to steady myself, I lower myself through the opening. I gasp upon spotting the hairy face staring back at me.

“You okay down there?” Skid calls out from above.

“Just a billy goat.”

“Well, shit. Does he have horns?”

“Yup.”

I look up to see Skid grin at me through the chute. Passing me the metal detectors, he deftly lowers himself through. I wander to the edge of the stall area and look out at the pens. The rusted steel rails are dented and covered with bird shit. Some lean precariously, held in place by posts set in concrete. The floor is pitted and chipped with a bumper crop of weeds sprouting through the cracks. The low areas and corners contain several inches of soil that has built up over the years.

“Looks like these pens haven’t been used in a while,” I say, stating the obvious.

Skid comes up beside me and I hear him inhale. “I swear it still smells like it, though.”

He’s right, and vaguely I wonder if the Kaufmans keep hogs in another part of the property.

I flip on my metal detector. “Let’s get to work.”

He pauses to motion at the billy goat that greeted me. “He gets too close, Chief, and I swear I’m going to plug him.”

“We’ll probably have to hide the body.…”