While parts of the building have already fallen in on itself, other parts have been reclaimed by Mother Nature. As I walk around the building, evidence of people being here, regularly, and not that long ago, becomes apparent. There are bits of trash everywhere and it hasn’t been aged with time and exposure to the elements.
When I step around the building to find an area which might have been a courtyard at some point, it becomes clear that this was used fordog fighting. There are a few bite collars and food bowls still littering the area.
I’m aware that some kennels were cleaned up in the hope to deter anyone from coming back. I can almost picture them stacked to one side. The dirt in the middle of the open area has clearly been trampled.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. It’s soft, but I can almost hear the dogs barking and the people circling and yelling as those dogs are abused in the worst way.
It makes me think about Stella. She escaped a place just like this. Well, she was rescued.
There weren’t any dogs here when the McMinn Sheriff Department investigated.
No dogs, but the echoes of them still ring through here.
I can hear them.
I can feel their pain.
Even though it doesn’t really tell me anything, considering I have no idea how many people have walked over this earth, my eyes track footprints and drag marks throughout the area. It’s not a lead, but maybe it could be one? I’m aware that I’m grasping at straws right now.
But I can’t help it.
The longer I walk around the Old Mill, the more desolate the entire case feels. Where would they have gone next? If it were me, I would go to the middle of the state and pick a county there because there are too many deputies searching for something around here, anything that’ll break this case wide open.
Is there a reason they’ve been circling the counties around mine? Are they from this area and that’s why they’re comfortable here? How long has this been going on? Have they spent time on the other end of the state and now they’ve become my problem?
I hate not knowing how to answer any of these questions. They burn through my mind and leave me unsettled.
The more frustrated I get because I can’t find anything to help me figure out where to look next, the more I want to get in my truck and drive straight to Dogwood Ridge to wrap my arms around my woman.
I look at the position of the sun in the sky and know I’ve spent far longer out here than I initially intended. There’s no way I can take a few minutes to see my woman, not right now. I need to get back to my office and call Lyons.
The last time I spoke with him, he didn’t have any more information than I did, and certainly no new leads.
Knowing I’ll be too tempted if I drive right through Dogwood Ridge, I avoid the small town to get back to Sweetwater Valley. I don’t even slow as I walk past Carla. I can’t.
My cup of coffee from this morning is still sitting on my desk, but I know it’s gone very cold by this point. I curl my lip up at it for a moment before huffing out a breath and stalking back out of my office. Even though I know Carla is watching every step I take, she doesn’t stop me or ask me any questions.
Maybe she can see the thunder and frustration written all over my face. I’m so pissed about being on my back foot concerning this problem. No one should be in my county causing problems. Not my fucking county.
When will they make their way back to Loudon? Who could be helping them move and keep everything so quiet? These are towns that love to talk, but no one is whispering about who could be involved. Just that it happened.
The steaming coffee-filled mug is just what I need, but the moment I make my way back to my office and put it down on my desk, I’m not sure I’ll ever have the chance to finish it. It’s a chronic problem; one I’ll never find a solution to. A graveyard of mugs and half-finished coffee is just part of my destiny.
I’ve accepted it.
But while I have it, I take a few fortifying drinks from my mug before putting it down again. Then I’m picking up my phone receiver and giving Sheriff Lyons a call.
As the phone rings, I’m gritting my teeth and telling myself not to take my shit mood out on the man. It’s not his fault that I insisted on going to check out the Old Mill even though I knew nothing was found there worthwhile.
I don’t really get to be pissed because that report is fucking accurate. Did I really think this was going to go down any differently than it did?
I’m just pissed because this lead is another dead fucking end. Just like every other lead we’ve come across. It makes me feel like I’m failing. Not just myself, but the people of Dogwood Ridge as well.
Even though the need to call Helen just to hear her voice is riding me hard, I focus on the sound of the ringing down the line. Talking to Helen would be a lot fucking better than chatting with Lyons, that’s for fucking sure.
After the third time ringing, the call is picked up as he barks, “Lyons.”
“It’s Wilder, I grunt the words, trying not to sound like I’m barely maintaining a semblance of control.
