Free After the Storm by Linda Castillo

of its leaves. I make the turn into a gravel lane overtaken by weeds and clumps of knee-high grass. The lot looks barren without the old barn, which has been reduced to piles of wooden siding, mangled tin shingles, and massive beams. I see the remnants of a concrete foundation that juts a foot out of the ground like an old man’s teeth. The Boy Scout troop is still there, but they’re no longer working. Mostly preteens, they’ve congregated into a circle, sitting on logs or rocks or cross-legged on the ground. Someone has given them bottled water. The boys stare in my direction, and I see several point.
    I park behind a yellow school bus. A man in a tan scoutmaster uniform is leaning against an antiquated Jeep, legs crossed at the ankles, talking on his smartphone. He spots me as I exit the Explorer, motions me over, and quickly pockets his phone. He’s a slightly chubby man of about forty with graying hair, a mustache, and sunglasses he’s pushed onto his crown.
    “Ken Hutchinson?”
    “Yes ma’am.” He strides toward me, looking excited, his hand outstretched.
    “I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”
    He shakes my hand with a good bit of vigor. “Thanks for coming so quick.”
    Shouts erupt from the boys a dozen yards away. I glance their way to see most of them standing, pointing to where the old barn had been. “It’s over there! Someone’s head! It’s a skull! Over there!”
    I offer a small smile. “The kids okay?”
    “More excited than upset, I’d say, but then that’s boys for you.”
    “We appreciate all of you helping out with the cleanup.”
    “Well, that’s what the Boy Scouts do.” He laughs. “Sure didn’t expect to find a head, though. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”
    I motion toward the barn. “You want to show me what your boys found?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    With Hutchinson leading the way, we walk along a trampled path that takes us through several inches of mud and knee-high weeds. The sun beats down on my back, and I enjoy the warmth against my skin. I can hear the calls of the red-winged blackbirds as they swoop over the small pond at the rear of the property. We round the fallen trunk of a tree, then I spot the foundation twenty feet away, a worn ridge of concrete. Sure enough, just inside the foundation is the white globe of what looks like a human skull.
    I stop outside the foundation and raise my hand to prevent Hutchinson from stepping over it. “Probably best if we don’t get too close,” I tell him.
    “Oh. Sure. Of course.”
    “Did anyone touch or move anything?” I ask. “The boys?”
    “The boys that found it turned over the skull. They thought it was a rock at first. Then they noticed the teeth and those eye sockets.” He shivers with exaggeration. “And they got the heck out of there.”
    From where I’m standing I can see small black scraps of what looks like the remnants of a garbage bag that’s badly deteriorated. The ground has been disturbed, by sneakers and perhaps by the storm. Three feet away, I spot the gray-white length of a larger bone. A femur? Part of what looks like vertebrae. Smaller bones of indiscernible origin.
    “Is it human?” Hutchinson asks.
    “Looks like it,” I tell him.
    “Wow. Can’t believe we uncovered a body. ” He scratches his head. “How do you think it got here?”
    “I don’t know,” I tell him. “But I’d venture to say it didn’t get into that bag without some help.”

 
    CHAPTER 5
    An hour later, Dr. Ludwig Coblentz and I are standing near where the old barn had once stood, looking down at a human skull. Usually, a call such as this one—the discovery of human remains—would draw a multitude of law enforcement from multiple agencies. Today, however, most cops in the area are occupied with tornado-related issues, many having worked through the night. Glock swung by earlier to lend a hand taping off the scene, but he got called away on a report of possible looting at a gas station that was damaged by