The tires spew gravel as we pull onto the highway. Beside me, Tomasetti scans the darkened storefronts and black shadows of the foliage as we cross a bridge and head toward town. He’s in cop mode, I realize, already hunting for the perpetrator.
“Where’s the body?” I ask.
“In a creek, evidently. Guy out fishing found her.”
I cringe at the thought. Murder is always horrific, but water somehow always makes it worse. In terms of evidence, it has just made our jobs exponentially more difficult. “Anyone on-scene?”
“Goddard’s en route.” He tosses me a grim look. “We’re closer.”
“Coroner?”
“There’s a team from Youngstown on the way.”
I glance at him. He looks grim and tired and not quite friendly. He’s not a good sleeper, and I suspect last night wasn’t any different.
We pass through Buck Creek and head north on a narrow two-lane road that cuts through a heavily forested area. A few miles in, we come to a rusty steel bridge. A big Dodge Ram is parked on a gravel turnout. Tomasetti parks behind the truck, kills the engine, and grabs a Maglite off the backseat. “There’s another one in the door panel.”
I find the flashlight and swing open my door. The night sounds—crickets and bullfrogs and nocturnal animals—emanate from the thick black of the woods.
Tomasetti is already walking toward the truck. “Where the hell’s the driver?” he mutters.
I look around, but there’s no one in sight. I set my hand on my revolver as we start toward the Dodge. Chances are, this call is exactly as it seems: a citizen who’s stumbled upon a terrifying scene. But we’re all too aware of the fact that where there is murder, there is also a murderer. More than one cop has been ambushed when he thought he was walking into a benign scene.
Lightning flickers on the horizon as I reach the truck. Tomasetti tries the driver’s door, but it’s locked. Using the Maglite, he checks the interior, sets his hand on the hood. “Still warm.”
I drop to my knees, shine my beam along the ground. “No one underneath.”
We’re checking the truck’s bed when I hear something large crashing through the brush on the other side of the bar ditch twenty yards away. At first, I think it’s some kind of animal—a rutting buck or a black bear—charging us. Adrenaline skitters through my midsection. I raise my sidearm and spin to face the path cut into the trees.
Tomasetti rounds the front of the truck and comes up beside me, his Glock leading the way. “Police!” he shouts. “Stop! Identify yourself!”
A man bursts from the darkness, stumbles, and goes to his hands and knees in the grass. Both Tomasetti and I take a step back as he scrambles to his feet and lunges toward us. I catch a glimpse of a bald head and a tan flannel shirt.
“Jesus Christ!” he cries as he uses his hands to scale the incline.
“Hold it right there, partner,” Tomasetti says. “I mean it.”
His voice is deadly calm, but the man doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s either high on drugs or terrified out of his mind. Considering the nature of the stop, I’m betting on the latter.
I maintain a safe distance as the man regains his footing and stumbles up the side of the bar ditch. He’s breathing so hard, he’s choking on every exhale. He’s slightly overweight and falls to his hands and knees in the gravel ten feet away.
Tomasetti dances back, keeps his weapon trained on the center of the man’s chest. “Get your hands where we can see them.”
The man is so out of breath, he doesn’t raise his hands. “For God’s sake, don’t shoot! I’m the one who called the cops.” He gulps air, chokes on his own spit, and begins to cough.
Scowling, Tomasetti lowers his weapon, but he doesn’t holster it. “What happened?”
“There’s a fucking dead body down there!” the man chokes out.
Tomasetti’s eyes dart to the woods. Using his left hand, he shines the beam of the Maglite on the trailhead. Nothing moves. It’s as if the forest has gone silent to guard the secrets that lie within its damp and murky embrace.
“Is there anyone else down there?” Tomasetti asks.
“I didn’t see no one except that fuckin’ body.” He coughs, taking great gulps of air. “Just about gave me a heart attack.”
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Danny . . . Foster.” The man raises his head and squints at us. “Who’re you? Where’s Sheriff Goddard?”
I pull out my identification and hold it out for him to see. “You got your driver’s license on you?”
He straightens and, still on his knees, digs out his wallet and thrusts it at me with a shaking hand.
Tomasetti comes up beside me and glances at the wallet, then frowns. “What are you doing down there?”
“F—fishing.”
“At four o’clock in the morning?”
“Well, I gotta be at work at eight,” he snaps.
Tomasetti holsters his sidearm, and I do the same.
The man looks from Tomasetti to me. “Can I get up now?”
“Sure,” I say.
He hefts his large frame and struggles to his feet. He’s a short, round man wearing oversize khaki pants, a flannel shirt, and a fishing vest. From ten feet away, I see that his crotch is wet.
“What happened?” Tomasetti asks.
“I was fishing by that deep hole down there, about a quarter mile in.” Swallowing hard, Foster jabs his thumb toward the path from which he emerged. “I’d just put my line in when I noticed something on the bank, tangled up in some tree roots.” He heaves a phlegmy cough. “I thought it was one of them mannequins, like at the department store down there at the mall. I put my light on it and got the shock of my life. Scariest damn thing I ever saw.”
“You sure she’s dead?” Tomasetti asks.
“Her eyes were all fuckin’ glassy and looking right at me.” He blows out a breath. “She’s dead all right.”
Tomasetti digs out his cell phone, hits speed dial. I listen with half an ear as he explains the situation to Goddard and asks him to set up a perimeter with roadblocks around this part of the creek.
“What did you do after you found the body?” I ask.
“I puked my guts out; then I called nine one one.” He takes a deep breath, blows it out. “Then I got the hell out of there.”
The flash of blue and white lights on the treetops announces the arrival of a law-enforcement vehicle. I glance behind me and see a sheriff’s department cruiser park behind the Tahoe.
“Where, exactly, did you find the body?” Tomasetti asks.
Foster thrusts a finger toward the mouth of the path. “Take the trail. You’ll hit the creek a quarter mile in. Go another thirty yards and you’ll see it on your right. There’s a tree grows into the bank. Floods washed out the soil and the roots are exposed. She’s jammed up in all them roots.”
Beyond where Tomasetti stands, I see Sheriff Goddard slide out of his Crown Vic, his Maglite in hand, its beam trained on the fisherman. “Danny?” he calls out. “That you?”
“Yeah, Bud.” The man heaves a huge sigh. “I’m here.”
The sheriff nods at Tomasetti and me, then turns his attention to Foster. “What the hell you doing out here this time of the morning?”
“Fishing, like I always do. There’re large-mouth bass down in that deep hole. I don’t know why everyone keeps asking me that when I done answered already.”
“Well,” the sheriff drawls, “you know how cops are.”
I see sheet creases in his face and I know he was also ripped from his bed, the same as Tomasetti and I, and he’s not in a very good mood.
Goddard shines his light on Foster’s clothes. “How’d you get that mud all over you?”
Foster looks down at his pants, realizes his crotch is wet, and pulls out his shirttail to cover it. “I got so shook up when I found that woman down there, I dropped my flashlight and got off the trail. I fell down in some bramble.”