I scan them as I walk to the coffee station. Most are from media outlets wanting an update on the remains. There are two from Vern Nolt, the father of Leroy Nolt and the only family member with a missing loved one with whom I haven’t yet spoken. Anxious to talk with him, I fill a mug with coffee, unlock my office, and slide behind my desk. While my computer boots, I make the call.

“This is Vern Nolt.” The voice on the other end of the line has the froggy, slightly shaky quality of an old man.

Before I’ve finished identifying myself, he interjects, “Did you find my son? Did you find Leroy?”

“I don’t know,” I say quickly, not wanting to get his hopes up only to crush them if the identification process doesn’t pan out. “Mr. Nolt, there were some human remains discovered here in Painters Mill. I’m talking with all the families in the area who’ve reported family members missing. I’d like to ask you a few questions if you have a moment.”

“Of course I do.”

I pull out my notes on the missing men from Holmes County and begin by verifying some basic information: name, age, the date of his disappearance. And then, “Mr. Nolt, do you know if your son ever had a broken arm?”

A quick intake of breath hisses over the line. Then the sound of a palm placed over the handset. He doesn’t respond immediately, so I give him a moment. “Mr. Nolt?”

“Leroy worked at Quality Implement for a couple of years,” he tells me. “There was a forklift accident. Pallet tipped over and a huge auger fell on him, broke his right arm nearly in half.”

A sort of dark excitement surges. The kind that comes when I know a case is about to break. “Did your son have to have surgery to repair that broken arm?”

“Doctor Alan Johnson in Millersburg operated a couple of days after the accident. Had to wait for the swelling to go down. He put in some kind of pin.”

“Mr. Nolt, I’d like to speak with you in person. Would it be all right if I drove over?”

Another short pause. The sound of a shuddery exhale.

He knows, I think.

“I’ll let my wife know you’re coming,” he says and ends the call.

*   *   *

Vernon and Sue Nolt live in a nicely kept Craftsman-style home across the street from Sutton’s IGA. I pull onto the asphalt driveway and park beneath the shade of an elm tree. Ahead, I see a detached two-car garage and a yard that’s fenced with white pickets. A geriatric-looking mutt of dubious pedigree barks at me between the slats of the fence when I get out of the Explorer.