Free Committed by E. H. Reinhard Page B

are you to being ready?” he asked.
    “I’m pretty much ready right now. What’s up?”
    “It looks like we found Lindsay Dunbar.” Scott paused. “Or at least the man’s body. We’re heading out in ten.”
    I shook my head at his words. For a split second, I’d thought he’d been found alive. “Where was he found?”
    “Back up I-80 toward the rest area about fifteen minutes. Locals are on the scene now.”
    “Okay. Are you at your room?” I asked.
    “Yeah. Bill just called Beth, so she knows. We’re meeting downstairs.”
    “Okay, I’ll meet you down there in a minute.”
    “Yup.” He hung up.
    I pulled on my gray suit jacket and left the room. After taking the elevator downstairs, I grabbed a coffee from the station near the check-in desk and waited for the rest of the team.
    Bill walked up first. His short brown hair was parted on the side, recently combed, and still a bit wet. His cheeks were pink from what I guessed was a shave about five minutes prior. “Morning, Hank.” He let out a bit of a long breath that could have been called a sigh.
    “Bill,” I said.
    “More shit left in these two’s wake.” Bill glanced at his big black watch.
    “Get any more details other than he was found?” I asked.
    He shook his head. “Nah. Scott’s call was pretty short. He just said he was contacted by the local office. I guess the sheriff’s department said they found our guy and that he was deceased. They called it in to the local office. Local office called Scott.”
    I nodded.
    I caught the ding of the elevators and glanced over. The brass doors spread, and Beth and Scott stepped out. The two saw us and headed over.
    “Morning, guys,” Scott said.
    “Morning. What do we have over there?” I asked.
    “A motorist called it in. The guy found Mr. Dunbar dead in a cornfield. What came through to me was that the man had been shot in the back.”
    “How does a motorist find a DB in a cornfield?” Beth asked.
    “Good question, which we will find out as soon as we get over there. The body is still on the scene. Locals are keeping his remains there until we arrive. Are we ready?” Scott asked.
    “I’m good to go,” I said.
    Beth and Bill nodded.
    “All right, well, let’s get over there. We have the same forensics guys from yesterday meeting us in about a half hour or so, as well as Agents Gents and Makara.”
    “Sure,” Beth said.
    We left the hotel, got our vehicles from the parking structure, and headed out. Beth and I followed Scott back to the interstate and roughly ten miles back toward the rest area where we’d found the RV. Scott exited and made a left. We traveled down a two-lane country road lined with cornfields for about two miles until we came on the scene. Four sheriff’s cruisers were parked along the right-hand shoulder of the road, and two unmarked sedans sat on the left.
    “I’m guessing this is our spot,” Beth said.
    Scott pulled to the shoulder behind the sheriff’s cruiser, and Beth and I pulled up behind them. We stepped from the car and followed Bill and Scott toward the group of deputies huddled near the first car. I glanced at the last cruiser in the line and saw a man sitting in the back with a small brown-and-white dog, which I thought was odd. The dog had a leash attached around its neck to its collar. We stopped with the group of six deputies—I recognized a pair of them from the RV at the rest area the previous day.
    “What are we looking at here?” Bill asked.
    One of the deputies from the day prior spoke up, a short, round man with the name Mullins embroidered in yellow on his brown long-sleeved sheriff’s shirt. “Guy in the cruiser there stopped for a dog on the side of the street.”
    “I’m assuming it’s the dog in the car with him?” I interrupted.
    “Correct.” Deputy Mullins continued, “So he stops at the side of the road, and the dog runs into the cornfield at the disturbed area there.” Mullins pointed toward a line of bent-over and