“We didn’t get that far. EMS took him to the hospital in Mayfield Heights. He’ll probably spend at least one night there. Once they get him set up in a room, we’ll do the interview.” His face darkens. “You get anything from the girls?”

“Not much. They were pretty shaken up.”

“We need to talk to them.”

“They took Bonnie Fisher and Ruth Wagler to the same hospital as Noah. Sadie went to Pomerene, in Millersburg, so her family could be there.”

For a moment, the only sounds are the crack of police radios and the patter of rain against the ground. “Tomasetti, what the hell was going on here?”

He shakes his head in a way that tells me not only does he not know but the depravity and insanity are so far beyond his grasp, he can’t imagine.

“The Masts seemed so fucking normal,” I say.

“Except they kidnapped at least five teenagers, killed at least three people, and imprisoned their own son for nine years,” he growls.

We fall silent, our thoughts zinging between us, and watch a trooper in a yellow slicker turn away a young reporter. But my mind is still on Bonnie Fisher, Sadie Miller, and Noah Mast. Tomasetti’s right: They’re going to be our best source of information. Our only source now that the Masts are dead.

I hope they know enough to tell us why.

There are innumerable rewards that come with the closing of an investigation. First and foremost is the knowledge that a dangerous individual—in this case, two—has been taken off the street and won’t be harming anyone else. But there are other rewards, too. The personal satisfaction of knowing you did your job to the best of your ability; that the time and energy you’d invested paid off. Then there’s the intellectual reward of finally having the question of “why?” addressed.

That, more than anything, is the engine driving us as Tomasetti and I walk through the emergency entrance of Hillcrest Hospital in Mayfield Heights, a small community east of Cleveland.

We don’t speak as we ride the elevator up. The doors whoosh open to a brightly lit nurses station. A heavyset woman wearing pink scrubs sits at the desk, staring at a computer monitor. She glances up when we step off the elevator. She doesn’t speak, but her mouth firms into a thin, unpleasant line, and I suspect she’s not happy about the police questioning her new high-profile patients.

Beyond, a wide tiled hall is lined with doors. We don’t have to ask which rooms belong to the victims. Two Lake County sheriff’s deputies and a state Highway Patrol trooper stand outside rooms 308 and 312, dr inking coffee and talking quietly, eyeing us with the territorial glares of a pack of dogs. Another local cop sits in a plastic chair, reading a magazine.