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Santos slowly drove past dozens of parked vehicles and small teams of searchers wading through the tall grass in the ditches that lined the road. The searchers, grim-faced, paused to watch them creep past. “Hope they didn’t trounce all over the crime scene,” Randolph worried.
“Double murder, two missing kids, everyone has to be in a panic,” Santos said as she pulled up behind a rusty Bonneville parked on the side of the road. “I was assured that the sheriff here has everything under control.”
“Why are you stopping here?” Randolph asked, not relishing the long walk up to the crime scene in this heat.
“I want to get the lay of the land,” Santos said as she stepped out into the hot glare of the sun and surveyed the surroundings.
The only buildings in sight were the ones on the Doyle property: a house, a silo, a large barn shedding red curls of paint, a few other outbuildings. Surrounded on all sides by mature cornfields. Remote, isolated.
Santos, compact and strong, like a gymnast, was a twenty-year law enforcement veteran who joined the Iowa Department of Criminal Investigation in 1995 after relocating to Des Moines from Kansas City. She quickly rose in the ranks and was the lead investigator on many high-profile cases that included murders or missing persons. This case had both.
Randolph was the younger of the two, wore a suit jacket and red-and-blue-striped tie. His dress shoes were polished to a high sheen that wouldn’t last long on these dusty roads.
Randolph was so much taller than his counterpart that the woman had to crane her neck to look up at him. But there was something commanding about the way Agent Santos held herself, the cock of her chin, the set of her mouth. She was clearly in charge.
Crime scenes have a pulse all their own and when managed effectively hum along at an efficient, steady pace. Everyone from deputy to crime scene investigator, to detective, to forensic specialists, to the coroner knew their role.
Santos was assured that the main crime scene—the house, the outbuildings, and the Doyles’ cornfield were all secure and being searched only by law enforcement. This was key. But the area outside the crime scene perimeter was important too.
Normally, volunteer searches were not activated so quickly, giving law enforcement more time to get a sense of what happened and keep the distraction of managing those with good intentions at a minimum.
Yes, the locals had organized quickly, but Santos also knew that volunteer searchers could be invaluable in situations like these, especially when the search area was vast and manpower limited. Local folks knew the terrain, knew the nooks and crannies that outsiders wouldn’t be familiar with.
Cognizant of the curious eyes that followed their trek toward the house, Santos studied faces, body language. It wasn’t unusual for a perpetrator to insert him or herself into the middle of a case in hopes of staying ahead of the investigation.
Men in coveralls and dusty boots stood in clusters shaking their heads. Woman in T-shirts and shorts wore sunglasses to hide their tears. No one appeared overtly suspicious, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t here, watching.
Santos turned her attention to the farmhouse. It was old, in need of a coat of paint. Already the day’s heat pressed down on the purple and white flowers drooping limply in their hanging baskets on the front porch. An eerie lowing sound came from the direction of the barn.
Though the house gave no outward indication that something terrible had occurred here, Santos could feel a sense of dread rising from the earth, shimmering with heat.
Someone was handing out pictures of the missing teens. Agent Santos took a flyer and examined it. The picture of Ethan Doyle was a good one. He smiled brightly and his blue eyes snapped with good-natured mischief.
Santos turned her attention to the picture of Becky Allen. Pretty girl. While most girls this age appeared awkward and hadn’t quite settled into their features, Becky conveyed an air of maturity, confidence.
“Hello,” the woman handing out the fliers said. “Thank you for coming. If you could please sign in here, we’ll...”
“We’re with the state police,” Santos said.
“Oh,” the woman faltered. “I was telling the deputy here that the other night I saw a strange truck parked on the gravel road, right over there.” She turned and pointed just beyond the Doyles’ cornfield.
“What’s your name?” Agent Santos asked.
“Abby Morris. I live out that way,” she turned and pointed toward the north.
“I’m Deputy Robbins. I wrote down her account,” Levi said, patting a bulge in his shirt pocket where it held a small notebook.
“Make sure we get a copy of it,” Santos said. “I’m looking for Sheriff Butler,” Santos said.
Levi nodded and said, “It’s a bit of a walk.”
“Good thing I have my walking shoes on,” Santos said. Levi gave a hesitant smile, not sure if he had offended the agent. When she didn’t smile back, he let the grin fall away. “He’s this way,” Levi said and started walking toward the back of the house. “A deputy found it about thirty feet into the cornfield.”
“Anyone touch it?” Santos asked.
“They said they didn’t. Someone ran to get me and I hightailed it into the field and cleared everyone out of the area.”
“Good,” Santos said. The red barn loomed over the property. You could fit three of her house easily inside the sagging building. Santos was a city girl, grew up in Kansas City, and now lived in the heart of downtown Des Moines but knew that zip code was no exemption from violence and death. There was just less concrete and more soil.
