Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(67)

“I pulled some files after speaking with you last night, Agent Tomasetti.” He sets a stack of folders on the table, opens the one on top. “The hit-and-run that killed Noah Schwartz. We originally wrote it up as a hit-skip, possibly involving an intoxicated driver. I went through every report and email and piece of paper in the file, and there’s nothing there to indicate otherwise. No skid marks, no tire-tread imprints, no CCTV cameras in the vicinity, no witnesses, and no suspect. Only interesting thing I ran across was a homeowner who claimed to see a light-colored pickup truck in the vicinity a few minutes before it happened.”

Tomasetti inclines his head at me. “Pickup truck fits with the type of vehicle that left the tire-tread imprint we took at the Schattenbaum place.”

“Dick Howard on Goat Head Road says he saw a light-colored pickup truck—white or tan—in the area around the time Mary Yoder was murdered and the girl taken,” I say.

Tomasetti looks at Pallant. “Any more description on the truck? Long bed? Crew cab? Anything like that?”

The sheriff shakes his head. “Deputy talked to the homeowner again last night and got nothing. I’m sure you know we got a lot of pickup trucks in this part of Ohio and Kentucky.”

“I’ll get the ROs of all vehicles matching that description, starting in Scioto County, expand from there, and see if anything pops,” Tomasetti says.

The sheriff rattles off the contiguous counties. “Adams. Pike. Lawrence. Jackson.” He pauses, rubs his palm across his chin. “Might check Greenup County in Kentucky, too.”

Tomasetti thumbs the information into his phone.

“I had my night clerk make you guys copies of everything.” Pallant shoves a green folder across the table to us.

“Anything new on the Stutzman case?” I ask.

“We don’t have much.” Pallant slides a second folder toward us, then opens the official file in front of him and looks down at it. “Initially, we investigated the incident as a probable home invasion–robbery. Some scumbag looking for money or drugs or guns. Sadie was eighty-three years old. Ninety-two pounds. She would have been seen as an easy target.”

He makes a sound of disgust. “There were no signs of forced entry. That means she either left the door unlocked or she knew him.” He looks down at the file, flips the page. “There were signs of a struggle, but some of that occurred when Chief Burkholder was attacked later. Overall, the place wasn’t too torn up.”

“Prints?” I ask.

He smiles. “Just yours.”

“Autopsy complete?” Tomasetti asks.

“Coroner hasn’t officially ruled on cause or manner yet, but her skull sure as hell didn’t get bashed in without help.”

I curb a rise of outrage at the thought of such a brutal attack on an elderly woman.

The sheriff’s chair groans when he leans back. “I appreciate your sending the BCI crime scene unit,” he says to Tomasetti. “As you can imagine our department is strapped, so it was a big help. Your guy photographed and videotaped everything. Dusted for prints. Tried to get plaster on the tire treads, but snow melted too fast. He did, however, get a shoe imprint.”

“Men’s size thirteen?” I ask.

The sheriff’s eyes narrow on mine. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You guys have anyone in mind?” Tomasetti asks.

Pallant shakes his head. “We’re looking at the usual suspects. Talked to a few of them. Ruled out a couple of guys who had alibis. Right now we’re eyeing a small-time dope dealer lives down the street from the Stutzman residence. He’s a piece of shit. Violent felon. We picked him up, mainly just to sweat him a little. I got nothing and can’t hold him, but seriously I don’t think he’s involved.”

He divides his attention between the two of us. “In light of your case, I might be right.” He taps the folder with his index finger. “That’s everything we got on Stutzman.”

I open the folder, page through the police report, an incident report, and several dozen crime scene photos. “The house was searched?” I ask.

“I had a couple of deputies go in and look around. The woman was somewhat of a hoarder. The place was so damn messy, we couldn’t tell if it had been ransacked. We basically looked for drawers that had been left open. Stuff like that. Old Sadie didn’t have much of value, so our search was basically inconclusive.”

I recall walking into the house through the back door. Every conceivable surface had been cluttered. “So you were unable to tell if anything had been taken?” I ask.

The sheriff nods. “Nothing obvious.” Frowning, he scratches his head. “You know, we made an effort to contact family, but she doesn’t have any living relatives.”

“Did she have a will?” I ask.

“Don’t think so,” he replies. “Whatever’s left will go through probate. Without any relatives, chances are that little house’ll get auctioned off to pay for funeral expenses.”

And the house will likely join the dozens of others that have been abandoned and forgotten. It’s a sad, depressing thought.

Leaning forward, the sheriff goes to the final two folders, slides one across to me and opens the original. “That brings us to Marlene Byler. Had to dig into the archives for this one.”