Page 18 of Rage

“Sending it now.”

“Dig up everything you can find on Yutzy’s Tree Nursery. Owned by Samuel Yutzy. Check to see if there’s anyone else who invested in it or owns part of the business.”

“Yep.”

“See if there were any disputes. Lawsuits. Complaints. Legal problems. Burglaries.”

“Sure.”

“Jodie, is Lois still there?” I ask.

“She’s getting ready to leave.”

“If she can spare a few minutes, tell her I need her to contact everyone in the department and set up a quick briefing for seven P.M. I want everyone there. County, too. Check with Rasmussen to see if he’s game for a presser at eight. I’ll let Tomasetti know.”

“Got it, Chief.”

I start to hang up, think better of it. “Jodie?”

“Yeah?”

I can practically hear her bracing for more. “Thanks,” I say, and rack the mike.

Samuel Yutzy lived in a modest frame house that’s a couple of decades past its prime. It sits a short distance off the township road next to a small cinder-block building with a single bay portico. Half a dozen newly planted saplings adorn an otherwise bare front yard; the trees are staked, the base of each mounded with mulch. A vehicle I don’t recognize is parked in front of the house, so I pull up behind it and get out. I’m midway to the car when I see Pickles slide out and start my way.

“Afternoon, Chief.”

Roland “Pickles” Shumaker is just north of eighty years old. He’s been a cop longer than my other officers have been alive. He semiretired a few years ago to become my only part-timer. He’s slowed down some since I’ve been chief and now spends most of his workdays at the elementary school crosswalk.

While Pickles may look like your favorite grouchy-but-lovable grandpa, only an unwise person would underestimate him. He’s a cop through and through and a sheepdog of the first order. Back in the eighties he single-handedly brought down one of the biggest drug rings in the state of Ohio. When the wolf growls at the door, you can bet your ass this man will stand at the ready to protect you.

“Nice set of wheels.” I side-eye the vintage muscle car behind him.

“Picked her up in Dover a couple weeks ago.” He slaps his hand against mine and we share a hearty shake. “Nineteen seventy-two Dodge Charger. Three eighty. V-8.”

“I didn’t know you restored cars.”

“Jury’s still out on that, but I’m going to give it a shot.” His eyes narrow on mine. “What’s up with Yutzy?”

I tell him what little we know so far. “You ever hear anything about him?”

“I’ve seen him around town some. Never any trouble. In fact, I bought some trees from him last summer. Seemed like a nice kid.”

“So everyone says.” I turn my attention to the house. “Since we basically don’t know shit at this point, I thought it might be a good idea to take a look around.”

I motion toward the cinder-block building. “Check the workshop. I’ll start in the house. Be cognizant of evidence. Use gloves. Watch your step.”

“You got it, Chief.”

I go to the front of the house and ascend the concrete steps. The screen door opens, but the main door is locked. I trot down the steps and go around the side to the back. I take the steps to a newish-looking wood deck. Relief flits through me when I find the back door unlocked.

I step into a small kitchen. The first thing I notice is the heat; it’s unbearably stuffy inside, so I leave the door open behind me. There are dark wood cabinets. Linoleum floor. Tile countertops. To my right, a white stove that’s scabbed with rust hulks against the wall. Next to it, a robin’s-egg-blue refrigerator wheezes. Through the wide doorway ahead, I see a living room with paneled walls and secondhand-shop furniture. To my left, a small table has been shoved against the wall, a stack of mail on its surface.

I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for. Any legal correspondence regarding the landscaping dispute. A cell phone or laptop. Tugging gloves from my equipment belt, I go to the table, page through the mail. Bills mostly. Cable TV. Electricity. Gas. An advertisement with coupons from the local grocery.

I enter the living room. Green carpet circa 1970 covers the floor. There’s a TV tray set up in front of the couch. A decent-size TV. A window-unit air conditioner. Seeing nothing of interest, I take the hall to the rear of the house. I pass by a small bathroom, flip on the light. The smell of mildew tickles my nose when I step inside. A towel lies tangled on the floor. I check the medicine cabinet, find a bottle of Advil. Aftershave. A razor and shave cream. Cough syrup.

I back out and continue down the hall. There are two bedrooms. The first is barely large enough to accommodate a bed and is being used as an office. A high-end e-bike with a rear wire basket is propped against the wall. While the e-bike technology isn’t accepted by all Amish in Holmes County, there are no rules against using them and they’ve become quite popular in the last year or so. Next to the bike, a bookcase is stacked with paperbacks and magazines. There’s a steel vertical file cabinet in the corner. I start there.