“I think the surgery was performed in 1982 or 1983.”

“That’s a long time ago.”

“Do you have the records, Doctor Johnson? It’s important.”

He sighs. “Well, I don’t have them on the computer, but I bet we have them in archive. My dad was pretty good at keeping records.” Another sigh lets me know he’s put out. A doctor who has no time for the dead. “Let me put Diane to work on this, and I’ll have her call you.”

I give him my cell as well as the number of the station. “The sooner the better,” I tell him. “I’d like to positively ID this individual as quickly as possible.”

“Everyone’s in a hurry,” he mutters.

*   *   *

An hour later, I’m sitting at my desk, a ham sandwich from LaDonna’s Diner and an iced tea in front of me. Next to my dinner is the list of Holmes County hog farmers assembled by my dispatchers. Extracted from multiple government agency data, both county and state, as well as local veterinarians, the list encompasses the five-year period before and after Leroy Nolt’s disappearance. It consists of thirty-nine names with addresses and contact information. I doubt it’s a comprehensive list; I happen to know that many of the local Amish are resistant to reporting information to any government agency. But it’s all I have, and for now it’s enough to get started.

If Dr. Nelson Woodburn’s assertion is correct and Leroy Nolt’s body was partially consumed by domestic pigs, where did Nolt come into contact with them? According to Herb Strackbein, the barn where the remains were found was never used for swine, so he had to come in contact with them somewhere else. The hog operation where he worked?

It may be something as innocuous as his entering a pen to feed the hogs and collapsing from some medical condition—an aneurism, for example. Over a period of hours, the curious—and hungry—hogs may have begun to feed on his body. Or maybe he fell and was knocked unconscious—with the same end result. All semblance of benevolence ends there, because if we’re reading the evidence correctly—mainly the presence of the garbage bag—someone moved the body and made an effort to conceal it.

But it’s the more sinister possibilities that haunt me this early evening. Did someone assault Nolt and throw his unconscious—or dead—body into the pen? Did they do it because they believed the animals would consume the body and in the process hide any evidence of foul play? Or did someone simply lock him in a pen with aggressive and hungry animals in an attempt to commit the perfect murder?