The note is hand-printed in pencil on a sheet of tablet paper. Holding up the bag, I stare at the childish lettering and say to Glock. “Long worked for the railroad. Can you run over to the office and get a sample of his handwriting so we have something to compare this to?”

“Sure.” But he gives me a puzzled look. “You think he didn’t write it?”

“I just want to cover all the bases.”

Glock heads out the door. I’m aware of Tomasetti watching me as he places labeled and sealed bags into the last storage container. He doesn’t say anything, but I know what he’s thinking. I’m being too thorough, looking for things that aren’t there. And no matter how much effort I put into this, the Plank family is still dead.

Doc Coblentz arrived on the scene half an hour earlier. Enough time to give me a preliminary assessment. “What do you think?” I ask.

The doc is wearing olive-green slacks. The back and armpits of his scrubs shirt are sweat-soaked. The doctor shakes his head. “I attended a seminar at Nationwide Children’s in Columbus a couple of weeks ago. We toured the cancer center where most of the patients are pediatric. We’re talking brain tumors. Lymphoma. Leukemia. Sick kids who’d give anything just to go outside and play.” Motioning toward Long, he shakes his head. “I see something like this, and I wish there was some way this wasted life could be given to one of those children.”

“I don’t think life’s that fair.” That reality makes me sigh. I motion toward Long’s body. “You think this was self-inflicted?”

“From all indications, he put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Judging from the exit wound, the bullet angled slightly up, went through the cerebellum and exited the skull at the back of the head. Death would have occurred instantly. Of course, I’ll perform an autopsy and tox screen. But my preliminary ruling is that this man killed himself.”

The words make me feel deflated. Maybe because I wanted answers, and Long will never be able to give them to me.

Tomasetti comes up beside us. “I think we’ve got just about everything.”

“Did Glock check beneath the trailer?” I ask, knowing it’s a favorite hiding place for criminal-minded mobile-home dwellers.

He nods. “Pulled the skirting aside and crawled under. Nothing there.”