After leaving Glock, I drive to the Roselawn Cemetery for the funeral of sixty-two-year-old Earl Harbinger, the Painters Mill resident who was fatally injured when his car was flipped over by the tornado. He was a retired dentist and had lived his entire life in Painters Mill, leaving behind his wife of thirty-six years and four sons, all of whom still live in the area.

The funeral of Juanita Davis was out of town. Lucy Kester’s is tomorrow afternoon. I’d been thinking about her on and off all day, trying not to dwell too much. As chief, I’d wanted to attend the funerals of the dead to show my support for the families and the community. Because of the hostility displayed by the Kesters, I won’t attend.

I walk in the door of the police station to find it blissfully quiet. Lois is sitting at her desk, eating a turkey sandwich from LaDonna’s Diner. A glass of iced tea sweats atop a cork coaster next to her computer.

“What did you do with all the media people wanting to know about the human remains?” I ask as I pluck messages from my slot.

“I arrested them and put them down in the jail.” She takes a bite of the sandwich and rolls her eyes.

“Any luck getting contact info for Doctor Alan Johnson in Millersburg?”

Nodding, she swallows. “The bad news is he retired in 2004. The good news is his son, Alan Junior, took over the practice.” She passes me a handwritten note. “Phone number, address, and e-mail are there.” She glances at the time on her monitor. “Said he’d be there until five o’clock or so.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” I take the note and motion toward the sandwich. “Carry on.”

Two minutes later I’m at my desk, punching in the number for Dr. Alan Johnson Jr. An overly enthusiastic receptionist puts me on hold, and Barry Manilow fills the line for a full two minutes. I’m about to hang up and try again, when Johnson comes on the line. Quickly, I identify myself and give him the fundamentals of the case.

“Was Leroy Nolt a patient of your father’s?” I ask.

“I had my office manager check the archived records, and, yes, he was.”

“Doctor Johnson, I spoke with Leroy Nolt’s parents and they informed me their son had broken his right forearm and your father surgically implanted a plate to repair the fracture.”

I hear rustling on the other end of the line, and I get the feeling he’s not giving me his full attention. “What is it you need from me, Chief Burkholder?”

“I have the serial number of the implant,” I tell him. “I’m wondering if you can look at your records and tell me if the plate recovered was the one used for Leroy Nolt’s broken arm.”

“How long ago was the surgery done, exactly?” he asks.