“Tell me this is about a car accident or heart attack.”
“I wish I could.”
“Good God.” A heavy sigh hisses through the line. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I stand in the bedroom of the old house with Doc Coblentz and Glock, and we try not to stare at what’s left of the woman hanging from the rafter. Doc digs into his field kit, pulls out a foil packet of mentholated petroleum jelly and hands it to me. “This’ll help.”
I tear open the packet and dab it below my nostrils. I offer it to Glock, but he shakes his head. “My mom gave me that stuff when I was a kid. Can’t stand the smell.”
Under different circumstances I might have laughed. This morning, I merely fold down the top of the packet and put it in my coat pocket.
We’ve donned shoe covers and plastic gowns, not only to preserve the scene but to protect us from biohazard. “Judging from the amount of blood,” the doc begins, “I’d say he killed her here.”
“Why change his MO?” I wonder aloud.
Glock jumps in with a theory. “Maximum effect.”
The doc and I both look at him. I’m no expert on serial killers; my experience is limited to a handful of murders I worked in Columbus. But I agree with Glock’s hypothesis. Whoever did this wanted to terrify. He wanted to show us the carnage he’s capable of. I’ve read that many serial murderers want to be caught. Not because they want to go to jail, but so they can claim ownership of their handiwork.
“He knew he wouldn’t be disturbed here,” I say.
“The closest neighbor is a mile away,” Glock adds.
I don’t want to look at the victim, but my eyes are drawn to her. Putrefaction has set in. Gases have built up inside the body, bloating it to nearly beyond recognition. The skin is mostly black with small patches tinted green. It’s the face that bothers me most. The eyes are gone completely. The wetlooking, black tongue sticks out between broken teeth.
I address Glock. “We need photos before we move her.”
“I’ll grab the Polaroid.” He leaves with a little too much enthusiasm.
Ten minutes ago, the parents of the teenagers arrived to pick up their children. Ronnie Stedt’s father tried to force his way into the house. Luckily, Glock was there to stop him. I explained to him that the area was a crime scene and the most helpful thing he could do was take his son to the police station where T.J. was waiting to take statements and fingerprints. On the outside chance we find latents here at the scene, we’ll be able to rule them out.
Frightened parents and traumatized teenagers are the least of my worries. Fifteen minutes ago, I called the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office and officially asked for assistance. I’m sure the suit from Columbus will be arriving soon. Already, I feel control of the case careening from my grasp.
Skid and Pickles are outside, setting up a perimeter. Once the crime scene tape is in place, they’ll conduct a search of the barns and outbuildings. They’ll also look for footprints and tire tracks. But with the snow coming down in earnest now, chances are slim that they’ll find anything useful.
Glock returns with the Polaroid. A mixture of snow and sleet patters against the windows as he begins snapping photos. The whir of the tiny motor seems unduly loud in the silence. The house is freezing cold. I wear several layers of clothing and long johns beneath my slacks, but I’m chilled to my bones.
“How long do you think she’s been here?” I ask.
Doc Coblentz shakes his head. “Hard to tell, Kate. Temperature is going to be a factor.”
“She looks frozen solid.”
“She is now. But if you’ll recall, two weeks ago we had a few days that were well above freezing.”
I remember; the temperature rose into the low fifties for almost a week before an arctic cold front blasted through. “So she’s been here a while.”
“I would venture to say that this body is in stage three decomposition. There’s quite a bit of bloating. The greenish hue of early putrefaction is giving way to black putrefaction. That stage usually takes four to ten days.” He shrugs. “But in these temperatures, that time frame would have been lengthened substantially. This time of year there’s little or no insect activity, which also plays a huge role in the decomposition process.”
“What’s your best guess?”
“Two weeks, maybe three.”
Two women in three weeks is all I can think. That this killer has come out of obscurity and escalated to this level so quickly is rare. What triggered the escalation?
I step closer to the corpse. I see hair matted with dried blood. Her bowels had released at some point and feces dribbled down her back to puddle on the floor. I can feel my heart hammering, a low buzz inside my head. “Was she alive when he hung her up?”
“Judging from the amount of blood on the floor, I would say her heart was still beating.”
“What about the wound?” I ask.
The doc looks at Glock. “Did you get a shot of the blood on the floor?” Glock nods. “Got it.”
Coblentz steps into the biohazard, leaving a footprint. Though he wears two pairs of latex gloves, I cringe when he touches the body at the jawline to expose the wound. “I’ll have a better idea once I get her to the morgue, but upon preliminary inspection the wound looks very similar to that of the first victim. See here? It’s short. Deep with smooth edges. Doesn’t look like the blade was serrated.”
I try to look at the body with the unaffected eye of a cop. I owe that to this young woman. To this town. I owe it to myself. But my emotions and the revulsion inside me are like a beast pounding its cage door.
For an hour, we work the scene in grim silence. I’m in the process of bagging the victim’s hands when movement at the door snags my attention. I look up to see Sheriff Nathan Detrick standing just inside the room, looking like a man who’s just been struck by lightning.
“Holy God almighty,” he says, his gaze fastened to the corpse.
I met him once, briefly, in the two years I’ve been chief. He’s a beefy man of about fifty years. A weight lifter, I’m sure. Maybe a runner. But his age is beginning to take a toll on a body that was once the envy of every over-forty male in some testosterone-laden gym. His head is bald, but it suits him. I find myself wondering if he shaves his scalp to hide male pattern baldness or if it’s a natural state.
He doesn’t give me time to ponder. “Looks like you got one hell of a mess on your hands.”
I snap off my latex gloves as he crosses to me. He sticks out his hand. Though the task I’d been doing is macabre, he doesn’t hesitate when we shake. “Nathan Detrick at your service.”
His grip is firm, but not bone-crunching and I give him points for that. His eyes are electric blue, his stare level and direct. His presence is surprisingly reassuring, and for the first time I realize I don’t want to shoulder the weight of this case alone.
“Thanks for coming.” I see intelligence in his eyes, and I know he’s summing me up, making judgments. Touché.
“We’ve met.” He stops pumping, but doesn’t let go of my hand.
“The Fairlawn Retirement Home benefit, last Christmas,” I say.
“Of course. I remember now. Prime rib. Tough as hell.”
“And Santa got juiced.”
He counters with a belly laugh. “We raised some money for a good cause, though, didn’t we?”
I nod, but our small talk is minimized by what we face at this moment.
He releases my hand and turns his attention to the body. “I read your press release. I can’t believe that slaughterhouse son of a bitch is back.”
“It’s been a tough couple of days.”
“We’re glad you called us.” He lowers his voice. “Just so you know, I’m not big on jurisdictional bullshit. This is your baby.”
I wonder if he means it. I wonder if the suit from BCI will feel the same way. “I appreciate that.”
It’s evident why this man won his bid for office by a landslide. Straightforward an
d charismatic, he possesses leadership qualities I admire. A big teddy bear here to save all of us from our own incompetence. But I’ve known a lot of law enforcement types over the years. And I know the teddy bear could easily transform into a man-eating grizzly if someone rubs him the wrong way. T.J. told me just last week that Detrick is in the midst of an ugly divorce. Rumor has it he’s got a nasty temper.
“I’m going to need help getting her down,” the doc says.
To avoid excessive contamination of the scene, I’ve limited the number of people inside the house to Glock, myself, the coroner, and now Detrick. It’s up to us to help the doctor lower and bag the body.
Doc Coblentz steps away from the body, leaving thick, oil-like tracks on the floor. I pick up the three-rung aluminum stepladder Glock brought in earlier. Though the booties will protect my shoes from biohazard, I cringe as I step into the pool to set up the ladder.
“I’ve got it.” Glock scoots the ladder closer to the body and steps onto it. “If you guys lift her and put some slack in the chain, I’ll unhook it.”
“Be careful,” Doc Coblentz says quickly. “The flesh may slough off so make sure you’ve got a good grip.”
I jolt when Detrick puts his hand on my shoulder. “She’s going to be heavy. Let me do it.”
I want to be annoyed with him, but I’m more annoyed with myself. For the first time in a long time, I want to step aside and let someone else handle my job.
Doc Coblentz directs Detrick to the extra biohazard gear. He dons shoe covers and ties an apron around his parka. Slipping on latex gloves, the sheriff nods. With the doctor spotting one side of the body and Detrick on the other, Glock steps onto the top rung of the ladder and reaches for the hook end of the chain. “Lift her,” he says.
The two men lift simultaneously. Working quickly, Glock unhooks the chain. All three men gently lower the body to the floor. The woman’s head shifts and black fluid spreads over the wood planks. I want to close my eyes to escape the sight. Instead, I cross to where Glock left the camera, pick it up and begin taking photos. Somehow the lens gives me the distance I need. I snap shots of the rafter and chain.
I lower the camera. No one speaks. All eyes are fastened on the corpse. I’m cold, but I feel sweat on my back. “We need to bag the chain.” The normalcy of my voice surprises everyone, including me.
I cross to the box of garbage bags I’d brought in and snap one open. Glock carries the chain to me and places it inside the bag. “If we can figure out who manufactured the chain,” I say, “we might be able to find out where he bought it.”
“Probably be best to send it off to BCI,” Detrick offers.
“I agree.”
On the other side of the room, the doc unzips the body bag and opens it wide. He then approaches the body, squats beside it, his expression deeply troubled. “She’s got superficial cutting on her abdomen. Like the others.”
My feet take me closer. I lift the camera and snap four shots in quick succession.
“Looks like the Roman numeral XXII,” Glock says.
“It’s him,” Detrick whispers. “He’s back. After all this time.”
I want to scream and rail that it’s not possible. I shot him! He’s fucking dead!
The doc sighs. “Help me roll her over.”
Glock kneels beside the doc, sets both gloved hands gently, almost reverently on the woman’s hip. The doc takes her shoulder and the men roll her onto her stomach. I snap several more shots.
“God in heaven.”
The shock in the doctor’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. I lower the camera. That’s when I notice the small object protruding from between her buttocks.
Detrick steps back. “Good Lord.”
Glock rises to his full height.
The doctor touches the small protrusion that hadn’t been visible before, but does not remove it from her body. “Some type of foreign object.”
Revulsion shudders through me.
“Let’s get this poor child zipped in.” He places the bag next to the body and smoothes it with gloved hands. With Glock’s help, the two men roll her onto it.
As the black vinyl is zipped, something inside me breaks loose. I’m not usually squeamish, but my stomach roils. I feel eyes on me as I snap off my gloves. I remove my shoe covers, yank off the gown and toss all of it into the biohazard bag someone hung on the doorknob. I sense Detrick staring at me, but I don’t look at him as I brush past him and rush from the room.
My vision dims as I stagger down the hall and into the kitchen. I curse when I see John Tomasetti standing on the back porch in his long black coat and city slicker shoes. He looks at me oddly as I push open the door. He says something as I pass by him, but I’m too upset to comprehend the words.
Cold air bites through the sweat on my face. Vaguely, I’m aware of the ambulance parked in the driveway, the engine rumbling. At the end of the lane a ProNews 16 van idles, exhaust billowing into the frigid air. I see a Holmes County cruiser parked next to Glock’s city car. I’m not sure where I’m going until I yank open the door of the Explorer and slide behind the wheel. I hear my ragged breaths tearing from my throat. I feel like crying, but I’ve deprived myself that outlet for so many years I can’t. I haven’t eaten yet today, but stomach acid rushes hotly to my mouth. I swing open the door and throw up in the snow.
After a moment, the nausea passes. Slamming the door, I put my hands on the wheel and lay my forehead on them. A tap on my window nearly sends me out of my skin. I open my eyes to see the suit from BCI standing outside the Explorer, his expression as inscrutable as stone. He’s the last person I want to talk to, but as has been the case as of late, I don’t have a choice.
Instead of rolling down the window, I swing open the door, forcing him back a step.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Peachy. I enjoy throwing up.” I slide out and slam the door. “What the hell do you think?”
He’s amused, and that’s pissing me off. For a moment the only sound comes from the tinkle of sleet against the ground. I’m cold and shivering and it takes some effort to keep my teeth from chattering.
“They’re taking the body to the morgue,” he says. “Thought you might want to know.”
I nod, get my temper under control. “Thanks.”
He glances over his shoulder toward the news van. “Vultures smell blood.”
“Once word of this second murder hits the airwaves, we’ll be seeing a lot more of them.”
“You might consider holding a press conference. That way you can deal with them on your terms. Nip any rumors in the bud.”
It’s a good idea. I’ve been so immersed in the case, I hadn’t considered the media end of it. “I’ll get something going.”
He stares hard at me, a bad-cop look that has probably convinced more than one recalcitrant suspect to spill his guts. “Look, I know you don’t want me here—”
“This has nothing to do with you personally,” I cut in.
“That’s the same thing they said about you.” He looks amused again. “Politics sucks, huh?”
“Something like that.”
He’s still staring at me. A stare so intense I grow uncomfortable beneath it. “I’m a pretty good cop,” he says. “I’m here. You may as well use me. I might even be able to help.”
He’s right, of course. But the thought of this man poking around in this case sends a shiver through me. My ensuing silence is all the answer he needs.
Giving me a final look, Tomasetti turns and starts toward a black Tahoe parked near the road. I watch him walk away, his words echoing in my ears. I’m a pretty good cop. I find myself wondering if he’s good enough to crack a sixteen-year-old case and all the secrets buried beneath it.
CHAPTER 15
It’s nearly three P.M. when I leave the Huffman place. I feel like I’ve spent the morning in hell. Three hours at the scene have wrung me out until there’s nothing left. On the outskirts of Millersburg, I call Lois. I can tell by her
voice she’s stressed. “We got media here, Chief. I swear to God these people are curling my hair.”
I don’t tell her there are probably more on the way. “I need you to set up a press conference.”
“You’re going to invite more of them?”
“You know what they say about keeping your enemies close.”
“You are a glutton for punishment.”
“Let’s do it at the high school auditorium. Six o’clock.”
“You got it.”
“Call all of my officers and tell them we’re meeting at four o’clock. The room you set up. That’s going to be our command center.” I name each member of my small force, including Mona. “Notify Detrick and Tomasetti, too.”
“Tomasetti that Mafia-looking guy?”
Her description elicits a smile. “And check to see if there have been any missing persons reports filed. White female. Twenty to thirty years old. Blonde. Start with the five-county area. If you don’t find anything there, go to Columbus, Wheeling, Massillon, Canton, Newark, Zanesville—”
“Slow down.”
“Steubenville. Check with county and city agencies.”
“Okay, I got it.”
“Patch me through to T.J., will you?”
The line clicks. T.J. picks up an instant later. “Hey, Chief.”
“Did you get the statements from the teenagers?”
“Lois is typing them now.”
“Anything on Patrick Ewell?” Ewell was the man who paid cash for a box of condoms at the Super Value Grocery.
“I ran a background.” Paper rattles. “Ewell, Patrick Henry. Thirty-six years old. Lives on Parkersburg Road with his wife, Marsha, and two teenage kids. No record. No arrests. Not even a frickin’ speeding ticket.” The pitch of T.J.’s voice changes. “Get this, Chief. He works at the slaughterhouse.”
It’s a tenuous connection, but I’m just desperate enough to follow up. “Find out what he does there. And find out if he was at the Brass Rail on Saturday.”
“You got it.”
I’d rather talk to Ewell myself, but I need to get the second victim identified first. “See if there’s a connection between Ewell and Amanda Horner.”