CHAPTER 4

Fifteen minutes later, Tomasetti and I are on the road in his Tahoe, heading east on the Ohio Turnpike toward Buck Creek, Ohio, where the most recent disappearance took place. The town is located near the Mosquito Creek Wilderness area in the northeastern part of the state. It’s about an hour from the Richfield office, through pretty countryside dotted with small towns, farms, and miles of tall hardwood forest. Tomasetti drives well over the speed limit, which takes a bite out of the drive time. At Newton Falls, we cut north on Interstate 5 and pass through Cortland, then take a less-traveled state highway toward Buck Creek.

Fifteen minutes later, a sign welcomes us: THE HUNTING CAPITAL OF OHIO, POPULATION 1,200. The first thing I notice about the town are the trees. Ancient buckeyes, maples, and elms line the main drag, their massive trunks nearly obscuring the buildings from view. We pass a manufacturing park where Erie Overhead Door and Whittle Plastics share a gravel lot that’s jam-packed with cars and trucks. The downtown area is quaint, with redbrick storefronts, hanging pots over-flowing with petunias, and an old-fashioned cobblestone street. We pass half a dozen antiques shops, two sporting-goods stores, a bank that looks like something out of the Bonnie and Clyde era, and The Early Bird newspaper.

We turn left at the traffic light, pass a massive Lutheran church and the Buck Creek High School, home of the Fighting Panthers, and then we’re on a twisty two-lane road, heading out of town. Trees encroach onto the shoulders of the road, the canopies blocking the sun, so that only the occasional shaft of light flashes across the windshield. It’s cooler here, perhaps because of our proximity to the lake, and Tomasetti flicks off the air conditioning. I’m in the process of opening my window when his cell erupts.

He thumbs a button, then growls his name into his Bluetooth. “Where?” he snaps after a moment. Then: “We’re on the way.”

He ends the call, then shoots me a look. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” he asks.

“Let’s start with the good,” I reply.

“I just took a call from the sheriff. We have our first scene.”

“That is good news.” Other than catching someone red-handed, or finding the missing, having a scene from which to extract evidence is the best news we could receive at this point. “What’s the bad news?”

“There’s blood. According to the sheriff, a lot of it.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Anything else?”

“Locals are there, looking around. I’m going to get a CSU down here.”

“How far?”

“A couple of miles from here.”

“That’s one of the things I like about small towns,” I tell him. “Never far to the scene of the crime.”