Page 36 of Fallen

Jacob came to me. Years ago. For counsel.

I search my memory for some link between Rachael and Jacob, but there’s nothing there. My brother is eleven years older than Rachael, give or take. Too much of an age gap for their paths to have crossed in terms of courting. In addition, Jacob has been married for years. Why in the name of God would he go to the bishop about Rachael Schwartz?

I’m heading in the direction of his farm when my cell phone dings. Glock’s name pops up on my dash screen. I hit the ANSWER button. “Please tell me you’re calling with some good news,” I say without preamble.

“Try this on for size,” he replies. “Lady walking her dogs found a baseball bat in the ditch off Holtzmuller Road. She thought it was odd, took a closer look, and found blood.”

My interest surges. “Holtzmuller isn’t too far from the Willowdell Motel. Where are you?”

“Holtzmuller and TR 13,” he tells me.

“Keep the dog lady on scene. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

I rack the mike and cut the wheel, make a U-turn in the middle of the road. The engine groans as I crank it up to just over the speed limit. Hopefully, the bat is the break we need. At the very least, it gives me some time to figure out how to approach Jacob with questions he’s probably not going to want to answer.

Holtzmuller Road crosses Township Road 13 four miles south of Painters Mill. It’s a little-used stretch that’s more two-track than asphalt and runs through a rural area of rolling hills and feeder creeks, pastures and fields. This afternoon, the grass and surrounding trees erupt with the color of an Irish countryside. I round a curve and spot Glock’s cruiser parked on the shoulder, the overhead lights flashing. Fifty yards beyond his car, he stands in the middle of the road, talking to a woman dressed in tie-dyed yoga pants and a pink athletic bra. He had the foresight to protect the scene and set out half a dozen safety cones to block traffic. Two golden retrievers sniff around at their feet.

I roll up behind his cruiser, flip on my overheads, and start toward them.

Glock and the woman turn and watch me approach. The dogs bound over to me, tongues lolling, tails waving. I bend, run my hands over their soft coats.

“Hey, Chief.” Glock and I exchange a handshake. He motions toward a single cone in the ditch twenty yards away. “Bat is over there. Hasn’t been moved or touched.”

Nodding, I offer my hand to the woman and introduce myself. “I hear your dogs made an interesting discovery.”

“I almost didn’t stop,” she tells me. “But they wouldn’t come when I called and they’re usually so obedient.” She motions in the general direction of the cone. “I stopped and walked over there for a look. I thought maybe an animal had been hit by a car and needed help. But it was a baseball bat. At first, I didn’t think anything of it. But it’s a perfectly fine bat, right?” She hefts a laugh. “I was going to take it home for my kids. Then I saw the blood. I remembered hearing about that woman who was killed, and it freaked me out.” She pats the cell phone strapped to her hip. “So I called you guys.”

“We’re glad you did,” I tell her. “How long ago did you find it?”

“Twenty minutes?” she says.

“Did you see anyone else out here?” I ask. “Any vehicles or buggies on the road?”

“Not a soul. That’s why I run on this stretch. There’s no traffic and I don’t have to worry about the dogs.”

I’m ever cognizant of the possibility of evidence as we speak. Tire-tread marks or footwear imprints. If we’re lucky, we might be able to extract fingerprints or DNA.

“Officer Maddox will take your contact info in case we have any more questions.”

“Glad to help.”

While Glock takes her information, I walk toward the cone sticking out of the grass in the ditch. Avoiding the gravel shoulder, I wade through ankle-high grass. Sure enough, next to the cone—twenty feet from the road—a wooden baseball bat is tucked into the grass, hidden from sight. It’s a full-size Louisville Slugger. Well used, the logo worn by time and use. Benign looking except for the copious amount of blood smeared on the business end of it.

I think about Rachael Schwartz, the damage done to her body, and I know in my gut this is no coincidence. Keeping a prudent distance from the bat, I squat, pull out my reading glasses, and lean as close as I dare. Even without magnification, I discern several long hairs, small chunks of blood and tissue, all of it smeared and dry.

Pulling out my cell phone, I call Tomasetti.

He picks up on the first ring with a growl of his name.

“I think we found the murder weapon,” I tell him.

“Well, it’s about damn time someone called with some good news. What do you have?”

I tell him. “I need a CSU. Can you expedite?”

“I’ll have someone there inside an hour.”

I give him the location. “We’ll protect the scene. I haven’t looked around much, but there’s a gravel shoulder. Might be able to pick up tread.”