Page 41 of Rage

I’m stretching crime scene tape from traffic cone to traffic cone between the house and garage when Glock pulls into the driveway, emergency lights flaring. His cruiser skids to a stop behind my Explorer and then he’s out, striding over to me.

“You okay, Chief?”

“Fine.” I motion to the garage. “Not so sure about Shetler. I’ve got blood in the garage. Crime scene unit is on the way.”

“Might explain why we haven’t been able to locate him.” Shaking his head, he takes the roll of tape from my hand. “I got this.”

I’ve just hit the number for Mike Rasmussen when my phone rings. Simultaneously, both Glock’s and my own radio light up with a burst of traffic.

What now?

I answer with a curt utterance of my name.

“Chief.” Margaret’s usually unshakable voice comes at me too fast, too loud, and I know instantly something is afoot.

“I just took a call from Ivan Hershberger’s son,” she tells me. “He says they found a body.”

The world around me goes silent. “Do they know who it is?” I ask.

“No, ma’am.”

I think about the logistics of the Hershberger farm and the sheer size of the property. “Did he say where the body is?”

“At the back of the property. Down in some ravine that’s just off the township road.”

“I know it.” I look at Glock, who’s looking back at me over his shoulder. “I’m on my way.”

I’ve known Ivan Hershberger since our school days. Back then he was a prankster known for talking too much and invariably getting into trouble for it. Today, he’s well thought of with a big family and runs a few dozen head of cattle on his farm. I’ve been called to his address several times over the years, each time to investigate illegal dumping. The ravine at the back of his property is a favorite spot for people to dump the large trash items they don’t want to take to the dump.

It takes me six minutes to reach the township road. Ivan’s gate is standing wide open as if he’s expecting me, so I pull onto the shoulder next to it and cut the engine. I spot the young Amish man walking toward me as I get out.

“What happened?” I ask as I stride to him.

“We found a dead person.” Turning, he points with a shaking hand. “Down in that ravine.”

I guess him to be in his late teens. Pole skinny with a bad case of acne and looking a little green around the gills.

“Show me.”

Nodding, he turns and we go through the gate. Fifty yards ahead, I see a big gray draft horse harnessed to a wagon. Two Amish men standing near the back of the wagon, one of whom I recognize as Ivan. I spot a second teenage boy a few yards away, bent over, his hands on his knees, retching.

“Guder mariye.” Good morning. I approach the men. “I understand you found a body?”

Ivan makes eye contact with me and shakes his head. Usually, he’s a jovial man. Quick with a joke and a laugh. This morning, he looks as if he’s about to lose his breakfast.

“Ach, Katie, it’s bad. The devil’s workings, I tell you.” He crosses to me. When we shake, I feel his hand shaking. “There’s a dead man.” He motions. “Been stuffed in that blue drum down there in the ravine.”

The second man is standing next to the wagon, watching, smoke wafting up from his pipe, his elbows on the bed rail.

“Never seen anything like it in all of God’s world,” Ivan finishes. “Don’t think I’ll ever forget it, either.”

“Do you have any idea who it is?” I ask.

The Amish man receives the question like a punch to his solar plexus. “All I seen about him was red hair.” He lowers his voice. “I ain’t saying it’s Aaron Shetler, but that boy’s got red hair. Just like I saw in that drum.”

Dread twists in my chest. “Did you see anyone else down there?” I ask. “Anyone in the area? A car? Or buggy?”

“No, ma’am,” he says.