There is a universal truth when it comes to violent crime: the deceased is never the only victim. The people who loved him—family members, friends, and lovers—continue to suffer long after the deed is done. With an unsolved missing person case, most loved ones never receive any kind of closure or find any semblance of peace again in their lifetimes. Too many take the grief, the loss, and that insidious lack of closure with them to the grave.

The tentacles of violent crime reach far beyond friends and family. Sometimes they extend to law enforcement as well; the detectives and special agents and investigators who spend countless hours over a period of months or even years talking to the bereaved, building a profile of the missing individual, trying to solve the mystery and, hopefully, bring them home. Contrary to common wisdom, cops invest a fair share of emotion. For some, too much. They lose sleep, time with their families, and peace of mind.

After my conversation with Sue and Vern Nolt, and despite my best efforts not to, I feel the weight of their sorrow pressing down on me. As I pull onto the street and head toward town, it occurs to me that learning of their son’s death is not the worst news Sue and Vern Nolt will receive in the coming days. The circumstances and the details of his death will undoubtedly add to their misery.

I pull out my cell and hit the speed dial for dispatch. Lois picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Chief.”

“Can you get me contact info on Doctor Alan Johnson? I believe he’s an orthopedic surgeon in Millersburg.”

“Sure.”

“And the contact info on the hog operation in Coshocton.”

“You got it.”

“I need a ten-twenty-nine on Clarence Underwood, too.” It’s the code for “check-for-wanted.” I spell the last name.

“Will do.”

“Thanks. Give me a call.” I hit my radio and hail Glock. “Can you ten-twenty-five me—four-two-six Gettysburg?” I recite Underwood’s address from memory.

“I can be there in two minutes.”

“See you there.”