I cross to him. Before I realize I’m going to touch him, I set my palm against his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Setting his hand over mine, he brushes his mouth across my palm, then pulls it away from his face. “Let’s go catch this motherfucker,” he says, and we start down the path.

An hour later, the township road swarms with sheriff’s deputies, state Highway Patrol officers, and paramedics. The red and blue lights of half a dozen emergency vehicles flicker off the treetops. The area has been cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The state Highway Patrol has set up roadblocks, barring all through traffic from the bridge. Two ambulances from Trumbull Memorial Hospital are parked outside the secure area, their diesel engines rumbling in the predawn light.

Rain slashes down from a low sky as three technicians from the Trumbull County coroner’s office struggle to carry the body up the incline of the bar ditch. Tomasetti snagged us a couple of county-issue slickers from one of the Goddard’s deputies, but we were already wet, and though the temperature hovers in the sixties, I feel the cold all the way to my bones.

I’m standing at the rear of the ambulance when the gurney is brought up. I can see the outline of the body within the black zippered bag.

“Any idea who she is?” Tomasetti asks.

“No ID,” replies one of the technicians. He’s about thirty years old, with a goatee and wire-rimmed glasses. “We preserved as much of the scene as possible, but the bank got pretty trampled.”

“Cause of death?” Tomasetti asks.

“No visible injuries.” The technician grimaces. “Tough to tell with the water, though. We won’t know until the autopsy.”

“How long will that be?” Tomasetti asks.

“Well, we’re not backlogged. Maybe tomorrow morning.”

Tomasetti passes him his card. “Keep us in the loop, will you?”

“You got it,” he says, and they load the body into the rear of the ambulance.

A fist of outrage unfurls in my gut as I watch the vehicle pull away. “I was hoping this would have a better end.”

Tomasetti sighs. “The case isn’t exactly coming together, is it?”

“Chief Burkholder. Agent Tomasetti.”

We turn as Sheriff Goddard approaches. He’s wearing a yellow slicker and holding two McDonald’s to-go cups of coffee. I’m unduly thankful when he shoves one at me.

“Is it Annie King?” I ask.

“No one recognized her.” The sheriff shakes his head. “And we don’t have a photo.”

I tell him about the Amish-print dress, the lack of nail polish and jewelry. “I think she might be Amish.”

Goddard’s expression darkens. “It’s probably her. Timing’s right. Damn it.” He heaves a grievous sigh. “We’re going to have to bring in the parents to identify her.”

“Who’s the Amish bishop for this church district?” I ask.

Both men look at me.