The spouse is always on the radar.
The sheriff’s department found nothing definitive.
Three days after his disappearance, Mrs. Gilbert pleaded for any clues during a news conference broadcast on social media and through a Kalamazoo television station. Her plea was picked up by some national syndicates and even made its way toCrime Daily,the podcast that I often listen to.
McKenzie Shaffer and Allison Buckley do their research. They’re not all about sensationalism. On a recent podcast, they described how Serena Gilbert’s cheeks were covered in tears, and their three-year-old son was at her knee, as she begged for information.
Though the sheriff’s department did all that was required of them, a week after his disappearance, the high school organized a search.
Springtime in Southern Michigan brings everything from sunny days to snow showers. Rainstorms can transform dry creek beds into rushing rivers. If the weather is anything here, it is unpredictable.
Coach Gilbert was found by two members of the football team, partially submerged in the ditch beside a remote county road. The sheriff claimed the area was searched earlier. It’s hypothesized that the recent raintemporarily hid his body until the water receded. The same rain, as well as the delay in locating him, contaminated vital evidence.
At thirty-two years old and being an avid health advocate, Craig, it’s now assumed, was out running on the morning in question.
That begs the questions, was he struck, did he slip and fall, or did he have a health issue?
It seems the answer would have been evident during his autopsy.
The ringing of my phone pulls me from my thoughts. As the caller’s name appears, I hit the answer icon and speak, “Beck.”
“Jillian,” she says, “what’s up? Is everything all right?”
Her hushed tone causes the small hairs on the back of my neck to stand to attention and my teeth to clench. “Can you talk?”
“For a minute. Hank is finishing up out in the barn.”
I let out a breath. “Beck...” I want to tell her for the hundredth time to leave him. I want to tell her that she deserves better. Instead, my words of warning fade away.
“Tell me why you wanted to talk,” she replies, more curtly, no doubt sensing my initial reaction.
My gaze again peers beyond the windows out to the darkened cemetery. “I’m here.”
“Here?” Her voice grows stronger. “What the hell, Jillian? Where’s here? Not in Blue Gil.”
I nod my head as I reply, “Yes. Blue Gil. More specifically in thecemetery.”
“At night. What if Joseph or Annabelle sees you?”
Joseph Manes graduated roughly twenty-five years before us. He’s local born and raised—an insider. Upon his graduation, he went into the military and came back to Blue Gil a local hero. Since he was an MP—military police—he joined the Blue Gil Sheriff’s Department. At first he was a volunteer, but that wouldn’t suit a hero. The village found the funds and Joseph was hired as a deputy.
After a few years, Sheriff Little, a lifelong member of the department, had one too many cups of coffee and his high blood pressure got the better of him. Despite Manes being younger than others in the department, the town rallied behind Joseph. Ever since, he’s been the sheriff and head of the small but diligent local law enforcement.
“Who is Annabelle?” I ask.
“Remember Constance Ford?”
I try to recall names from our past. “Yes, we played basketball together.”
“Annabelle is her sister, and the newest member of the sheriff’s department.”
I wonder if that means Blue Gil now has four people in the sheriff’s department. If memory serves me, there is Theodore Morton, close to retirement age, and Ernest Williams, a quiet man, never married, who takes his position seriously.
“That seniority gets her the night shift,” Becky says. “And Joe is constantly out and about. I bet Annabelle does regular checks on the cemetery, especially after today’s funeral.”
I imagine the funeral. Surely, everyone showed up.
“Yeah, I was planning on heading to my folks,” I say.
