“He seemed pretty adamant.”

Gellerman Road demarks the village limits on the north side of town. Everything north of the road falls under the jurisdiction of the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department. Everything on the south side belongs to me. This particular property is on the south.

“Notify county, will you?”

“Roger that.”

“Doc Coblentz, too.” Dr. Ludwig Coblentz is a local pediatrician and part-time coroner for Holmes County.

“Will do.”

“Lois, did Hutchinson say if the skull had a body attached to it?”

“He said there’s no skeleton, just a bunch of bones scattered all around.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.” I hit END and dig for my keys.

“You know it’s going to be an interesting call when you have to ask if the skull is attached to the body,” Glock says.

“That just about sums it up.” I start toward my Explorer. “I’ll keep you posted.”

* * *

I’ve driven by the old farm dozens of times over the years. It’s the kind of place you never take notice of because there’s not much there: a dilapidated barn, a couple of smaller outbuildings, a rusty silo set among hip-high weeds. It’s background noise in a landscape you never look at twice. Back in the 1970s, the house was struck by lightning and burned to the ground. There’d been no insurance, and the elderly owners—Mr. and Mrs. Shephard—moved in with their grown children, who continued to farm the land.

The first thing I notice is the debris, scattered wooden siding and a big black walnut tree that’s been stripped of its leaves. I make the turn into a gravel lane overtaken by weeds and clumps of knee-high grass. The lot looks barren without the old barn, which has been reduced to piles of wooden siding, mangled tin shingles, and massive beams. I see the remnants of a concrete foundation that juts a foot out of the ground like an old man’s teeth. The Boy Scout troop is still there, but they’re no longer working. Mostly preteens, they’ve congregated into a circle, sitting on logs or rocks or cross-legged on the ground. Someone has given them bottled water. The boys stare in my direction, and I see several point.

I park behind a yellow school bus. A man in a tan scoutmaster uniform is leaning against an antiquated Jeep, legs crossed at the ankles, talking on his smartphone. He spots me as I exit the Explorer, motions me over, and quickly pockets his phone. He’s a slightly chubby man of about forty with graying hair, a mustache, and sunglasses he’s pushed onto his crown.

“Ken Hutchinson?”

“Yes ma’am.” He strides toward me, looking excited, his hand outstretched.

“I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”

He shakes my hand with a good bit of vigor. “Thanks for coming so quick.”

Shouts erupt from the boys a dozen yards away. I glance their way to see most of them standing, pointing to where the old barn had been. “It’s over there! Someone’s head! It’s a skull! Over there!”