I grab my trousers off the bed, step into them, reach for my equipment belt, buckle it. I face my sister as I snatch up my boots. “I’m going to have to take a rain check on coffee.”
“Of course.” She cocks her head. “Something’s wrong?”
“Traffic accident, probably.” I don’t know if that’s the case, but since I have no idea what I’ll be walking into, I keep it vague. “Thanks for putting up with all my squirming.”
“You’re entitled.” She grins. “I bet your man is sweating, too.”
“Literally and figuratively.” Smiling, I lean into her for a quick hug, grab my service weapon off the bed, and head for the door.
* * *
Hansbarger Road is a lesser-used back road that runs between a pasture and a cornfield before meandering north toward Millersburg. I make the turn, the Explorer’s tires bumping over rippled asphalt and potholes, loose gravel pinging against the undercarriage. Ahead, I see the flashing lights of Glock’s cruiser. A silver SUV is parked at a haphazard angle, nose down in the shallow roadside ditch with the driver’s-side door standing open. The ambulance isn’t yet on scene. There’s no sign of the sheriff’s department.
Flipping on my overheads, I park behind Glock’s vehicle and hit my shoulder mike as I get out. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene.
I notice several things at once as I approach. Glock is standing between the SUV and his cruiser, making a notation in his notebook. There’s a person lying on the ground a few feet away from him—likely the victim. A bicycle with the handlebars twisted lies on its side a couple of yards away. A woman I don’t recognize is standing in the grass off the shoulder, her hands on her knees. Through the window of the SUV, I see the silhouettes of children in the back seat.
“What happened?” I ask Glock as I stride toward him.
He motions toward the victim. “He’s DOA.” He jabs a thumb at the woman. “She says she found him like that. Maybe a hit-skip. Not sure.”
Something in his voice gives me pause. Glock may be a small-town cop, but he possesses the sagacity of a veteran homicide detective.
“You check the victim?” I ask.
“Just enough to know he’s gone.”
I make eye contact with him and nod, keep moving, my eyes on the victim. It’s an adult male, lying supine, his head twisted to one side. The victim’s mouth is open. A copious amount of blood is puddled on the asphalt beneath it. Internal injuries, I think. He’s wearing dark trousers with suspenders. More blood on the front of a blue work shirt. The brim of a summer straw hat sticks out from beneath him. Amish, I realize.
“She see anything?” I ask, referring to the woman.
“No.”
I reach the victim. Something unpleasant unfurls in my gut when I get my first up-close look. The face is suffused with the telltale white-blue hue of death. One eye open and unseeing. Not yet cloudy. The other eye is half closed. Tongue is blood-covered and protruding.
For the span of several seconds, I stand there, taking in details, trying to figure out what might’ve happened. An old-fashioned metal lunch box lies on the ground twenty feet away, open, a sandwich wrapped in wax paper next to it. From all appearances, it looks as if he was struck by a vehicle. Evidently, the driver fled the scene without rendering aid or calling police.
I force my gaze back to the victim. The platter-size pool of blood near the mouth. The bloodstain on the front of his shirt isn’t quite high enough to be from a bloody nose or mouth. Something not quite right.
I look at Glock. “Is there some kind of injury on the abdomen?”
He moves closer, his brows furrowing. “Hole in the fabric there,” he says in a low voice.
The hairs at my nape prickle, and I find my eyes scanning the woods a hundred yards away. Glock is a former marine with two tours in Afghanistan under his belt. Both of us are EMTs. Judging from the look on his face, he has the same prickly feeling as me.
I motion with my eyes to the SUV driver. She’s still bent at the hip, a spill of vomit on the gravel in front of her. I’ve seen her around town. Grocery or coffee shop or gas station.
I look at Glock. “You talk to her?”
“Just preliminaries. Name’s Julie Falknor. Says she was taking her kids to school. Running late. Victim was already on the ground. Says she almost ran over him. She’s pretty shaken up, so I didn’t get much out of her.”
It’s never wise to make assumptions when you’re a cop, especially when you’ve just arrived at a potential crime scene in which a dozen scenarios could have played out. Situations aren’t always as they appear. Freak accidents happen more often than we think.
I hit my shoulder mike and hail Dispatch. “Ten-seven-nine,” I say, requesting the coroner.
I scan the field, the woods, and I feel that creeping sensation on the back of my neck. I look at Glock. “That hole in the fabric,” I say. “Gunshot wound?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” he says. “Sure doesn’t look like the kind of injury caused by being struck by a vehicle.”
The last thing I want to do is risk contaminating evidence. That said, if there’s been a shooting or if there’s an active shooter at large, I can’t wait for the coroner or crime scene unit to arrive.
“Let’s check him.” I dig into a compartment on my utility belt and tug out latex gloves. Glock does the same.
“Stay cognizant of evidence.” I don’t have to tell him that, but I do, anyway.
Side by side, we walk to the victim. Despite the breeze, I smell the blood. The other stenches of death add a uniquely unpleasant pall. The victim is lying on his back, head twisted severely. Right leg slung out and bent at the knee. Both arms above his head.
I kneel, feel that familiar rise of revulsion that comes with the sight of violent death. This man was young, late teens or early twenties. I see the red-black blood pooled in his mouth and, again, I wonder about internal injuries.
“Broken front tooth.” Squinting, Glock motions. “Split lip.”
“You think this was the result of some kind of altercation?” I ask.
“Mouth injuries could have happened in the fall off the bike,” he says. “Not so sure about the hole in the shirt.”
The victim doesn’t have a beard, which tells me he was unmarried. In the back of my mind, I think of his family, his parents, and the knot in my stomach tightens a little more.
With a gloved hand, I tug the victim’s shirt out of the waistband of his trousers and pull it up so the abdomen is visible. I see white flesh interspersed with dark hair coated with a thin layer of blood where the fabric had lain against the skin. An oddly shaped wound a few inches above the navel snags my attention.
“Wound there,” I hear myself say. “Strange shape.”
“Knife?” Glock wonders aloud.
“Maybe.” But even that’s a stretch. The only thing I know for certain at this point is that this is no simple hit-and-run. I let go of the shirt, let it fall back into place.
One of the most pressing tasks for law enforcement in the aftermath of any fatal accident or crime is the identification of the victim so next of kin can be notified. Normally, I’d wait for the coroner, but since I’m already here, I make the decision to check now.