The sight of the creek gives me pause. The water has encroached thirty feet into the yard, swirling amid mammoth tree trunks, carrying debris—logs and branches and trash—as it rushes toward its end journey to Sugar Creek and the Tuscarawas River. And I know in my heart there’s no way McCullough would have left when flooding is a threat to his home. He’s an I’m-going-down-with-the-ship type, even if we’d called for a mandatory evacuation.

“Jerrold McCullough! Police Department!”

I look out across the water. Fifty feet away, a good-size log is jammed against a stand of trees that, so far, have withstood the force of the current. The branches have captured a sizeable amount of debris: leaves and brush and what looks like an old tire. Nearer, the wooden deck is inches from being completely submerged now. When the creek is at normal levels, the deck is twenty feet from the bank and the perfect place to lounge in a chair with a book or maybe barbecue brats and burgers. I know it won’t be long before the torrent gobbles it up and sends it downstream. I’m about to head back to the Explorer, when I notice something pale bobbing just beneath the surface a foot or two off the deck, and I get a bad feeling in my gut.

I edge closer to the water for a better look. The ground is muddy and slick and I know that even shallow rushing water can knock someone off their feet. I stop inches from the water’s edge and crane my head forward. The bad feeling augments to a hard rush of adrenaline when I see a pale face and silver flowing hair inches beneath the surface.

“Shit!” I stumble back at the grisly sight, slip in the mud, and end up on my ass.

Quickly, I scramble to my feet and grapple for my lapel mike. “Ten fifty-two.”

“Go ahead.”

“Adult male. In the water. Submerged.”

“You still at the McCullough place?”

“That’s affirm.”

“Fire and rescue’s on the way, Chief.”

The preservation of life is always the first priority in any emergency situation. But I know it’s too late for the paramedics to help. The victim is completely submerged, and I know that soon I’ll be dealing with a dead body. Worse, I’m pretty sure the victim is Jerrold McCullough.

Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

Tomasetti left his office in Richfield at 10 A.M. and headed directly to northbound I-77. Without the hindrance of rush hour traffic, he arrived at the Cuyahoga County Corrections Center in less than thirty minutes. Inmate visitation is designated by sex and last name, but Tomasetti had obtained special permission for today’s visit. It didn’t hurt that he’d gone to the police academy with the associate warden, who’d cleared it through director of corrections. He wasn’t above using his connections to get what he wanted.