A mile down the road, we turn onto a narrow asphalt track. A quarter mile in, a Trumbull County sheriff’s cruiser with its emergency lights flashing is parked on the gravel shoulder. Two additional cruisers straddle the road at haphazard angles, blocking both lanes. A uniformed deputy drops orange caution cones to divert traffic. Another strings yellow crime-scene tape, using the trees that grow alongside the road and the tops of the cones to cordon off the area.

Tomasetti stops a good distance from the scene and pulls onto the gravel shoulder. We exit simultaneously and head toward the nearest cruiser.

The air is cool and clean and filled with a cacophony of birdsong. We’re in the midst of a forest that turns midday into twilight. The thick underbrush forms a seemingly impenetrable wall on both sides of the roadway. The area is shadowed and humid and has the feel of some vast wilderness—or a place where something bad could happen and no one would ever know. Aside from the occasional crackle of a police radio, it’s so quiet, I can hear the buzz of insects.

“I’m sorry, folks, but the road’s closed.”

I look up to see a large man in plainclothes striding toward us, his expression grim. He’s about forty years old, with a military buzz cut and a handlebar mustache that looks touched up to cover the gray. He’s wearing khaki trousers, a white shirt with the underarms sweated through, and a leather shoulder holster with a nice-looking Taurus .380 sticking out of its leather sheath. He looks more like the Hollywood version of a private detective than a county sheriff, and I get the impression he’s a hit with the ladies—a fact that doesn’t elude him.

He motions in the direction from which we came. “You’re going to have to turn around and take the township road.”

His voice trails off when Tomasetti holds up his identification. “We’re with BCI.”

The man’s expression softens and I see a flash of relief. “I thought you two looked kind of official.” Chortling, he sticks out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Bud Goddard.”

Tomasetti makes the introductions, and I show my temporary ID, which was issued to me just this morning.

Goddard pumps my hand with a little too much enthusiasm, and I know he’s genuinely glad we’re here. “You’re that Amish police chief nabbed that serial killer a few years back.” His voice is as deep and melodic as that of a bass opera singer.

“Formerly Amish,” I tell him. “Agent Tomasetti thought I might be able to lend a hand.”