Using the contact information my dispatchers collected, I spend two hours contacting friends and family members of the six males missing from Holmes County. The instant I identify myself, I hear the hope leap into their voices. Did you find him? Is he still alive? Each time, I ask first about the broken arm. No, he never broke his arm. And I crush their hopes one more time.

I’ve just left a message for the final family, when my cell phone chirps. I glance down to see CORONER on the display, and I hit SPEAKER. “Hey, Doc.”

“Don’t get too excited,” he tells me. “We’re not finished with the autopsy. But we’ve found an irregularity I thought you might want to see.”

“I’m on my way.”

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, I arrive at Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg. I park outside the ER and take the elevator to the basement. The overhead lights buzz as I walk a narrow hall past the yellow-and-black biohazard sign and a plaque that reads MORGUE, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. At the end of the hallway, I push open dual swinging doors and traverse a second hall to the clerk’s desk. Dr. Coblentz’s assistant, Carmen, rises and offers a smile when I enter the reception area. “Hi, Chief. How’s the storm cleanup coming along?”

“Slowly,” I tell her, but I soften the word with a smile. “The good news is everyone’s accounted for.”

“Thank God they found that mission boy.” She motions toward the door that will take me more deeply into the morgue. “Doc’s expecting you.”

I push through the double doors. Ahead, through the blinds of his glassed-in office, I see Doc Coblentz at his desk, leaning back in his big leather chair, his smartphone pressed against his ear. The sight of his feet atop his desk gives me pause. He’s wearing his trademark scrubs with black socks and an unsightly pair of orange Crocs. Across from him is a studious-looking African American man with a salt-and-pepper goatee, horn-rimmed glasses, and close-cropped silver hair. I guess him to be in his mid-fifties. Judging from the scrubs, he’s a colleague, perhaps to consult on the bones.

Coblentz spots me and motions me in. His visitor rises and, offering a friendly smile, extends his hand. “You must be Chief Burkholder.”

I smile back. “Guilty as charged.”

He gives my hand a firm and lingering shake. “I’m Doctor John Harris, coroner up in Lucas County.” He nods toward Coblentz. “Ludwig asked me to drive down to consult on your John Doe.”

“I appreciate your coming down, Doctor Harris,” I tell him.

“You just missed Doctor Stevitch.” He sets his thumb and forefinger against his goatee, and in that moment he reminds me of a mathematician whose curiosity has been sparked by an abstract concept. “You have a very interesting case on your hands.”