Page 3 of Rage

This morning, I’m standing next to the teacher’s desk, trying not to imagine how profusely Officer Chuck “Skid” Skidmore is sweating beneath the “Kip the Cow” costume. The classroom smells of paper dust, industrial-strength pine cleaner, and two dozen sweaty second graders who spent their morning recess playing outside in the sweltering late-August heat.

It’s the first week of school and the city pool is open one more week. I can tell by the way the students’ eyes slide repeatedly to the window that every single one of them is wishing they were there instead of here.

“How many of you walk to school?” Skid’s voice is muffled by the costume, but he’s learned to speak loudly so that the kids can hear.

When no one responds, I raise my hand and look out at our audience. “Great question, Kip. Let’s see a show of hands.”

A smattering of students raises their hands. A typical number for a small-town community where most people live on farms or in a rural area and ride the bus.

“How many of you ride your bikes?” Kip the Cow asks.

A few hands drop and a couple of others go up.

I glance at Kip. “Do you have any safety tips for students who walk or ride their bikes to school?”

“I sure do!” he exclaims. “Did you know it’s safer to walk or ride your bike if you’re with a friend?”

“That’s good to know,” I say. “Do you have any other advice on how students can stay safe during the school year?”

“Kip the Cow always has good safety advice for kids, Chief Burkholder.” Skid chuckles beneath the suit. “Here’s an important one: If anyone bothers you while you’re going to or from school, get away from that person as quickly as possible and tell your parents or your teacher.”

“Great tip.” My cell phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down, see a text from Lois, my first-shift dispatcher. The numbers 911 appear on the display, which is code for call immediately. Lois knows Skid and I are talking to students this morning, so I know it’s important.

As unobtrusively as possible, I slip into the hall, and hit the speed dial for the station. “What’s up?” I ask.

“Sorry to bother you, Chief,” says Lois. “I just heard from Glock. He took a call out on Sweet Potato Ridge Road. Apparently, some Amish kids found a body.”

“A body?” The muscles at the back of my neck tighten. “Are you sure?”

“Glock sounded pretty certain.”

“Any idea who it is?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Call Doc Coblentz,” I tell her, referring to the Holmes County coroner. “Tell him to stand by. The sheriff’s office too.”

“You got it.”

“I’m on my way.”

CHAPTER 2

Ten minutes later, Skid and I are in my city-issue Explorer. The engine hums as I blow the stoplight at Main Street and head out of town. Next to me, Skid has removed the Kip the Cow head and is in the process of escaping the costume bodice.

“Remind me to trade this cow gig with Mona next year,” he mutters as he tosses the costume into the back seat. “She’s the damn rookie. Gotta pay her dues like the rest of us.”

“I don’t know, Skid. You make a pretty good Kip.” I glance over at him, see the sweat beaded on his forehead, and try not to smile. “Kids like you.”

“The only reason those kids like Kip the Cow is because he’s marginally more fun than a pop quiz.” He sighs. “I’ll take my chances with the dead body.”

Sweet Potato Ridge Road is a two-mile stretch of pitted asphalt that cuts through river-bottom forest and runs parallel with Painters Creek. Not many people venture out this way. Because of its proximity to the waterway and its tendency to flood in the spring, there are just two farms and a tree nursery in the area. Unless a jogger was overcome by heat, I can’t imagine how a dead body ended up here.

As I make the turn, massive trees on either side of the road close over the Explorer like knuckled fingers, casting us in shadow. Ahead, I see the flashing lights of Glock’s cruiser. There’s a horse and buggy parked on the shoulder. An Amish man and three children stand next to the buggy. The nursery and farms are another quarter mile down the road.

I park behind the cruiser, flick on my overhead lights, and get out. It’s not yet noon and already the heat of the day presses down like a steaming-hot rag. The buzz of cicadas rises from the woods like a hundred mini chain saws.

I spot Glock emerging from the woods several yards ahead. He’s in full uniform, his shirt wet with sweat beneath his arms and between his shoulder blades. Across the road, the Amish family huddles, watching us. I recognize the adult male; I’ve seen him around town, in the grocery or on the street, but I don’t recall his name. Such is the nature of small-town Ohio.