Giving her half of my attention, I pluck a dozen or more message slips from my slot on Mona’s desk. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Bridge Howard with Channel Sixteen out of Columbus?” She ends the statement on an up note, as if she’s asking a question.

She’s about six feet tall with the requisite blue eyes and blond hair and enough lip gloss to wax an SUV. Her cameraman passes her a mike, which she promptly shoves in my face. “Chief Burkholder, what can you tell us about the bones found here in Painters Mill? Have you identified them yet?”

I glance past her to see that the cameraman is already filming, and I tamp down a flare of annoyance. But while I’m no fan of the media, I’ve been around long enough to know I might need them at some point and a contentious relationship is about as helpful as a migraine.

“We have not identified the remains,” I say simply. “We’re looking at all missing persons cases now. DNA testing will be done, but as you know, that could take a while.”

“How long have the bones been there?”

“We don’t know.”

“Have you been approached by any family members looking for loved ones?”

“No,” I tell her, but I know the calls will come. People never give up hope when a loved one goes missing. “I’ll be sending out a press release later this afternoon. If you leave your contact information, I’ll make sure you get a copy. Excuse me.”

I start toward my office, when I hear the front door slam open with a little too much force. I turn to see a thirty-something man walk in, not bothering to close the door behind him. I take his measure, not liking what I see. Six feet tall. About 160. Dark, receding hair. Brown eyes. He’s wearing grungy blue jeans and a worn golf shirt, untucked. The tattoo of a horned devil peeks out from beneath the left sleeve. I don’t see a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a firearm or knife tucked into his waistband or boot.

I’m in uniform, my firearm strapped to my hip. I make eye contact with him and approach. “Can I help you?”

“You Burkholder?”

“I’m Chief Burkholder.”

He’s got a mean look in his eyes. The kind a man gets when he’s spoiling for a fight. “I’ll tell you what you can do for me. You can keep your goddamn motherfucking wallet handy is what you can do because I’m going to sue your fucking ass off. How’s that for starters?”

“Sir, I’m going to ask you to watch your language.” I glance to my left toward T.J. who’s started toward us. “Do you understand me?”

He stares at me, saying nothing.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“You want to know who I am?” He huffs a belligerent laugh. “I’m the man whose baby you killed. The man whose wife you put in jail when she complained. That’s who the fuck I am.”