“Let me know if you come up with a name.”

“Will do, Chief.”

I’ve just ended the call, when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel. At first I think it’s Steve Ressler, publisher of the local newspaper, wanting a scoop on the remains. It’s not Ressler’s Ford Focus but an older Thunderbird with wide tires on aluminum wheels, oxidized paint, and a hail-damaged hood. A middle-aged man with sandy-colored hair gets out. He’s wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt. Without looking at me, he crosses in front of the vehicle, opens the passenger door, and bends to help a woman exit.

Something quickens inside me when I spot the crutches. The woman has blond hair that hasn’t seen a cut in some time. She’s wearing faded jeans and a pink blouse with the sleeves rolled up. The cast on her right leg stretches from just below her knee to her ankle. It’s the woman from the Willow Bend Mobile Home Park. The one with the compound fracture, whom Tomasetti carried out. The woman whose baby later died.…

Paula Kester.

She’s standing beside the car, leaning heavily on her crutches, staring at me. No smile. No spark of recognition or any indication that she remembers me. I don’t know why she’s here. To thank Tomasetti for saving her life? Thank us for trying to save her child? Or is she here to rage at us because her baby died? I know all too well that when you lose something precious, you always look for someone to blame.

I start toward her, my brain scrambling for words of comfort, but nothing seems adequate. Several things strike me at once as I cross to her. She’s a thin woman with a pale complexion. The brown roots showing at her scalp tell me the blond came from a bottle. The cast on her leg looks huge and out of place. I can tell by the way she’s shifting around that she’s not used to the crutches. That she’s probably in pain. And she’s been crying.

“Mrs. Kester?” I say as I approach her.

I know immediately this is no thank-you-for-saving-my-life visit. Mentally, I brace because I know it’s not going to be pleasant. The woman totters over to me and stops a scant two feet away. A little too close. Invading my personal space. I heed my instincts and step back because I know grieving people can be unpredictable. She looks at me as if I’m something she’s scraped off the bottom of her shoe.

“You Burkholder?” she asks.

I nod. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Kester. What can I do for you?”

Vaguely, I’m aware of Tomasetti approaching from behind me. A few feet away, the man who’d driven her here leans against the fender of the car, arms crossed, staring down at the ground.

“You can’t do anything for me.” Kester’s voice is monotone, her eyes flat. “I just wanted you to know … my baby died. Because of you.” Propping herself on the crutches, she raises a finger and jabs it at me. “She had an injured neck and you moved her.”