asks.
“I did,” says Bob.
Listening to the conversation with half an ear, I unclip my cell and hit the speed dial for dispatch. Lois picks up on the first ring. “I need a ten twelve,” I say.
“Go ahead.”
“David, Henry, Adam, three, seven, zero, niner.” I hear keys clicking on the other end as she enters the tag number into the BMV database.
“That’s weird,” Lois says. “You sure that tag number is right, Chief?” She reads it back to me.
I glance at the invoice. “That’s it.”
“According to BMV, that number doesn’t exist.”
“Well shit.” I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck. “Give me a ten twenty-nine on Howard Barnes.” I spell both the first and last names for her.
“Stand by.”
Computer keys click. While she checks for wanted and warrants, I turn my attention to Bob Voss. “Did you happen to take a look at his driver’s license?”
The old man stares at me, blinking, guilty. I feel Rasmussen’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him.
“Well, no,” Bob says. “We generally don’t check.”
I say to Rasmussen, “Tag number is bogus.”
The sheriff’s eyes narrow. “That’s interesting as hell.”
I turn my attention to Bob. “How did he pay?”
Bill pulls the invoice to him, lowers the cheaters from his crown, and points to a checkmarked box on the form. “Cash.”
“That’s a lot of cash for someone to carry around,” Rasmussen says.
“You sure about the make and model of the truck?” I ask.
Voss nods. “That I am. I know trucks, and I saw it myself.”
“Short or long bed?”
He grimaces, shakes his head. “I don’t recall.”
“Chief?” comes Lois’s voice over the phone.
I turn my attention back to the call. “What do you have?”
“Nothing coming back on Howard Barnes.”
“You mean nothing as in he hasn’t killed anyone lately? Or that he’s not in the system?”
“Not in the system. You got a middle initial?”
“No.”
The prickling sensation augments into a creeping suspicion that drops into my gut like a stone. “I’ve got a make and model to add to the APB. Gray Ford F-250, 1996.”
“I’ll get it out ASAP.”
“I also need ROs for all ’96 Ford F-250 trucks in the three-county area: Holmes, Coshocton, and Wayne.”
“I’m on it.”
“Thanks.” I disconnect to hear Billy saying, “… he was probably forty years old. I wish I remembered more, but it’s been two weeks and we get quite a few customers in here.”
“How exactly did you modify the truck?” Rasmussen asks.
“That’s the reason I remembered this guy,” Billy says. “He had us remove the bumper and install a quarter-inch slab of steel and weld it to the frame with I-beams. When I asked him why, he mentioned the stump. Later, he said it was just for pushing things around. You know, kind of vague. I figured it was just a farm truck and he was going to let his kid drive it around or something.”
I look down at the invoice, spot the illegible scrawl at the bottom. “Is that his signature?”
Billy tries to slide the invoice around for a better look, but I stop him. In the back of my mind I’m wondering if the lab will be able to raise some latents. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you mind if we take this with us?” I ask, adding, “I’ll make sure you get it back.”
Both men stare at me as if they’ve just now realized this is serious and they’re mentally working through all the dark possibilities.
“You think this guy killed them people down there in Painters Mill?” Bob asks.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I think it warrants looking into.”
“You got any other paper on this guy?” Rasmussen asks.
“No sir.” Billy shakes his head. “That’s it.”
Rasmussen reaches into his jacket and pulls out an evidence bag containing the sheared pin. “This look familiar to either of you?”
Both men shake their heads.
Bob squints at the bag. “Looks like a three-quarter-inch L pin.”
“Any idea
“I did,” says Bob.
Listening to the conversation with half an ear, I unclip my cell and hit the speed dial for dispatch. Lois picks up on the first ring. “I need a ten twelve,” I say.
“Go ahead.”
“David, Henry, Adam, three, seven, zero, niner.” I hear keys clicking on the other end as she enters the tag number into the BMV database.
“That’s weird,” Lois says. “You sure that tag number is right, Chief?” She reads it back to me.
I glance at the invoice. “That’s it.”
“According to BMV, that number doesn’t exist.”
“Well shit.” I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck. “Give me a ten twenty-nine on Howard Barnes.” I spell both the first and last names for her.
“Stand by.”
Computer keys click. While she checks for wanted and warrants, I turn my attention to Bob Voss. “Did you happen to take a look at his driver’s license?”
The old man stares at me, blinking, guilty. I feel Rasmussen’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him.
“Well, no,” Bob says. “We generally don’t check.”
I say to Rasmussen, “Tag number is bogus.”
The sheriff’s eyes narrow. “That’s interesting as hell.”
I turn my attention to Bob. “How did he pay?”
Bill pulls the invoice to him, lowers the cheaters from his crown, and points to a checkmarked box on the form. “Cash.”
“That’s a lot of cash for someone to carry around,” Rasmussen says.
“You sure about the make and model of the truck?” I ask.
Voss nods. “That I am. I know trucks, and I saw it myself.”
“Short or long bed?”
He grimaces, shakes his head. “I don’t recall.”
“Chief?” comes Lois’s voice over the phone.
I turn my attention back to the call. “What do you have?”
“Nothing coming back on Howard Barnes.”
“You mean nothing as in he hasn’t killed anyone lately? Or that he’s not in the system?”
“Not in the system. You got a middle initial?”
“No.”
The prickling sensation augments into a creeping suspicion that drops into my gut like a stone. “I’ve got a make and model to add to the APB. Gray Ford F-250, 1996.”
“I’ll get it out ASAP.”
“I also need ROs for all ’96 Ford F-250 trucks in the three-county area: Holmes, Coshocton, and Wayne.”
“I’m on it.”
“Thanks.” I disconnect to hear Billy saying, “… he was probably forty years old. I wish I remembered more, but it’s been two weeks and we get quite a few customers in here.”
“How exactly did you modify the truck?” Rasmussen asks.
“That’s the reason I remembered this guy,” Billy says. “He had us remove the bumper and install a quarter-inch slab of steel and weld it to the frame with I-beams. When I asked him why, he mentioned the stump. Later, he said it was just for pushing things around. You know, kind of vague. I figured it was just a farm truck and he was going to let his kid drive it around or something.”
I look down at the invoice, spot the illegible scrawl at the bottom. “Is that his signature?”
Billy tries to slide the invoice around for a better look, but I stop him. In the back of my mind I’m wondering if the lab will be able to raise some latents. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you mind if we take this with us?” I ask, adding, “I’ll make sure you get it back.”
Both men stare at me as if they’ve just now realized this is serious and they’re mentally working through all the dark possibilities.
“You think this guy killed them people down there in Painters Mill?” Bob asks.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I think it warrants looking into.”
“You got any other paper on this guy?” Rasmussen asks.
“No sir.” Billy shakes his head. “That’s it.”
Rasmussen reaches into his jacket and pulls out an evidence bag containing the sheared pin. “This look familiar to either of you?”
Both men shake their heads.
Bob squints at the bag. “Looks like a three-quarter-inch L pin.”
“Any idea
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