After a few more minutes, I heard the sound of an engine approaching up Monarch Trail. I saw what looked like a solitary uniformed figure on an ATV, an all-terrain vehicle, approaching fast. It was one of those side-by-side, 2-seater models with a steel rollover frame around the passenger compartment. This must be the Deputy. He skidded to a stop next to me as he braked, kicking up a small cloud of dust and pebbles. He jumped off the ATV.
He was maybe 25 with a smooth face. He was clean-shaven, but it appeared he would have difficulty growing a full beard even if he didn’t shave. He looked almost baby-faced. But there was nothing babyish about him otherwise. He was big, probably six foot six, somewhere north of 250 pounds. No bulging muscles, perhaps even a bit flabby in the belly, but still powerful with his thick arms and legs. He towered over me. He had big black boots, really big boots, much larger than my size 12. He wore a brown police uniform and wide-brimmed hat. Over the breast pocket of the shirt was stitched Willow Run Police Department.
Skipping introductions, he blurted out, “Where’s the body?”
“Deputy Powell? I’m Nathan Parker, the one who called…..”
“Yeah, yeah, I already figured that out,” he said impatiently. “Where’s the body?”
“Let me just take you through what……”
“We can talk later.” He then continued, speaking very slowly and enunciating each word clearly. “For the last time, where is the body?”
His face was turning red with anger. He had already lost patience with me. But I hoped by taking it a bit slowly that I might explain this mess away. There was no reason for this to be a confrontation. After all, we were both on the same side, weren’t we?
“It was over there,” I said, trying to be firm about it, but it came out sounding a bit sheepish.
“What do you mean was? I told you don’t mess with my crime scene.” His red face was now contorted, the veins stuck out on his neck, and he sprayed spittle in my direction as he spoke.
“First, let me show you some pictures of what I saw.” Not wanting to spook him, I slowly retrieved my cell phone from my shirt pocket and flipped it open to display the pictures taken earlier. I scrolled slowly through the shots.
At first, he watched with impatient disinterest. But gradually he admitted, “OK, so maybe you found a body.” His anger had subsided. Then he spoke slowly, clearly, and firmly. “Now show it to me.”
I led him to the spot where the body had been and pointed out the pool of dried blood. I squatted down, and he followed suit. “The body was here.” I pointed to a spot on the ground. “You can see the blood stain there.”
He slowly stood up. He outwardly remained surprisingly controlled for someone who moments ago seemed ready to remove my head. But even though I could not see his eyes under his wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses, I could feel the laser of his stare penetrating me. “Mister, please don’t tell me you dragged me all the way out here for a blood stain.”
“No, there was a body,” I said, sounding more like a child trying to convince a parent the boogieman was under the bed. “You saw the pictures.”
“What I see is a blood stain. Don’t even know if it’s human.”
“But there was a body, right here,” I pleaded my case, pointing to the ground. “You saw the pictures.”
He clenched his jaws and hung his head in seeming pity that I was stuck with being me. I could feel him becoming more distant, starting to disengage, to lose interest in my story. “I see you then managed to add your own footprints to the scene.” He gestured toward the jumble of footprints on the ground. “Tell me more.”
At least now he seemed ready to listen. “I waited for you over there in the shade.” I intentionally left out the part about climbing up the slope, finding the trail of prints, and the guy with the rifle. I had to spoon-feed him only what occurred down here, since I was probably in enough legal peril already, without adding all the details. “When I came back over here just before you arrived, the body was gone.”
He looked back down at the ground, hands on hips, exhaling slowly but loudly. It was as if he was disappointed in me as an entity, a failed experiment of the human race.
My earlier impulse to investigate the scene had caught up to me. When I was a cop, I could rightly gather the facts and follow where the evidence led. And I had fallen back on that habit, aggressively chasing the evidence. But I was rusty. And as a private citizen, I had no authority, no standing to do that. I had no practical option but to tell him more to defend my actions.
“Deputy, I am an ex-cop from Cincinnati. I was out here hiking. I found a body. I called 9-1-1. They transferred me to you. While I was waiting, over there in the shade, someone took the body. There is a trail of footprints leading from this spot and over that ridge. I followed it. Whoever took the body then got into a vehicle and drove away. It was probably only a few minutes ago. There may still be time to catch up to him. We can use your ATV.”
He listened to all this without interrupting, even nodding his head in understanding. If I could see his eyes, it would help me sense his mood better. But his eyes remained hidden behind the dark glasses. Regardless, I felt certain I was winning him over. So I continued.
“Let’s follow the trail,” I suggested, turning and taking a long stride in that direction.
My backpack was ripped off, jerking me backward. A hand grabbed my collar and propelled me down onto my knees. A forearm into my mid-back sent me sprawling face down onto the ground. A knee in my back pinned me there. Within seconds, I heard the click of handcuffs securing my wrists behind me.