Page 27 of The Burning

“Coming your way.” He tugs out his phone, taps a few keys. “They’re common fence pliers.”

I look down at my cell, study the photo. “A tool anyone who lives in a rural area keeps on hand,” I murmur.

“Were they new?” Tomasetti asks. “Rusted?”

“New, I’d say,” Rasmussen tells him.

“So the killer may have purchased them recently,” I say.

“You got someone looking into the pliers?” Tomasetti asks.

“We’re stretched tight.” Rasmussen looks at me and raises his brows.

“I’ll put someone on it.” I hit the speed dial for Dispatch.

My first-shift dispatcher, Lois, picks up on the second ring. I can tell by her tone the station is a madhouse. I don’t ask. “I’m emailing you a JPEG of pliers,” I tell her. “I need to know where they were purchased. Who’s on?”

“Everyone.”

“Tell T.J. to check with the hardware store here in Painters Mill. Farm store, too. Send Pickles up to Millersburg. Tell him to check with Walmart and Tractor Supply while he’s there. Any feedstores in the area. I need the names of customers who purchased a shovel or posthole digger, wire, and/or fence pliers in the last two months.”

“You got it.”

I glance at the time, feel the thump of urgency against my chest. “Is anyone there at the station?” I ask.

She pauses as if looking around. I hear the din of voices in the background. The chime of the switchboard. “Mona’s still here.”

“Tell her to meet me at Swanz’s place.” I tell her the address. “I’m headed that way now.”

CHAPTER 7

Every homicide investigation possesses a unique personality, but there’s one theme all of them share: urgency. The sense that everything should have been done yesterday. It is the lifeblood of forward motion and pulses through a cop’s veins like mercury. The stakes are high, there’s no room for error, and you sure as hell don’t waste time on anything extraneous. You do what needs to be done, you move on to the next thing, and you’d damn well better do all of it with forethought and caution.

We’re nine hours into the case and not one of my five W’s has been answered. Who? What? When? Where? Or why? I have no suspect. I know little about my victim, who was close to him, or how he spent his final hours. I don’t know for certain exactly where he was killed and I have no idea what the motive was.

One step at a time, Kate.…

The trailer home where Milan Swanz lived is located on a narrow track off of Township Road 104. The clock on my dash tells me it’s four minutes past noon when I make the turn onto the gravel drive. A 1980s-era double-wide sits in a weed-riddled lot covered with patches of snow. There are no vehicles in sight. No visible tire tracks. No lights on inside.

Eyeing the windows for movement, I kill the engine and pick up my mike. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene.

“Roger that.”

“Mona, ETA?”

“Six minutes, Chief.”

“Ten-four.”

Bracing for the cold, I get out and start toward the mobile home. In the summertime, this area is probably beautiful, surrounded by sixty-foot-tall trees with a good-size pond at the rear. In the dim winter light, the structure looks abandoned. The scene is as dismal as a junkyard. The battered gray siding is striped with rust. The skirting at the base is hit-or-miss. A few feet away, a charcoal grill lies on its side, ashes spilling onto the ground. The back side of a riding mower sticks out from beneath a blue tarp. Half a dozen tires lean against the base of the wood deck. I see two fifty-gallon drums shot full of holes, a five-gallon bucket, and a satellite dish that’s been broken in half.

I take the steps to the front deck, open the screen door, and knock. “Painters Mill Police Department!” I call out.

Stepping aside, I wait, listening for movement. The only sound comes from the snow softly hitting the roof.

“Police department!” I knock again, using the heel of my hand. “Come out and talk to me!”

I wait a full minute before trying the knob. I’m not surprised when it turns easily. I push open the door and let it swing wide. The stink of cigarettes and two-day-old garbage greets me. There’s a wall switch to my right, so I flip it on. Yellow light shines from a ceiling fixture. There’s a retro kitchen to my right. Almond-colored Formica counters piled with dishes, a cereal box, an accumulation of mail, and a bag of chips. A newish fridge that’s too small for its space huddles in the corner.