Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

The rattle of my cell phone pulls me from a dead sleep. Rolling, I slap my hand down on it, bring it to my face and squint at the display. DISPATCH. 2:47 A.M . I answer with a curt utterance of my name.

"Burkholder."

"Sorry to wake you, Chief," comes my graveyard-shift dispatcher's voice. "I just took a call from Skid. Says he's got a fire and body out on Dogleg Road."

A quick punch of dread sends me bolt upright. My feet hit the floor. "A structure?" I ask, rising and going to the closet for my clothes. "House? Barn?"

"He's in the woods," she tells me. "Out by the covered bridge."

My befuddled brain tries to make sense of it as I yank a uniform shirt off a hanger. "A vehicle accident?"

"He didn't say. Sounded kind of shook up to be honest with you."

"Tell him I'm on my way," I tell her.

I'm vaguely aware of my husband, John Tomasetti, sitting up, rubbing his hands over his face. "Everything all right, Chief?"

"Not sure." I tug my trousers from a dresser drawer and step into them. "There's a fire in the woods off of Dogleg Road. Skid says there's a body."

"Odd combination." He picks up his cell, checks the time. "You want some company?"

Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation and a former detective with the Cleveland Division of Police. We've worked together on a dozen cases over the last few years. Not only do we make a good investigative team, but we've gotten pretty good at the whole husband and wife thing, too.

I grab my equipment belt off the chair and buckle up. "Don't you have to be in Columbus at seven?"

"Unfortunately." Groaning, he gets to his feet, rounds the foot of the bed, and puts his arms around me. "I'd rather hang out with you."

"Dead body might be a third wheel."

"Easy to ditch."

We've been married for two months now. A change I still can't quite reconcile. A joy I'm almost afraid to feel. Maybe because for the first time in my life, I'm unabashedly happy and I like the way it fits.

He kisses me.

I kiss him back, pull away an instant before I start to free-fall. "Tomasetti, has anyone ever told you that you have a macabre sense of humor?"

"I get that a lot."

Pulling away, I open the night table drawer, snatch up my .38, and holster it.

"Be careful out there, will you, Chief?" he says.

"See you at dinner," I tell him.

I brush my mouth across his and then I'm out the door.

Rural Ohio sleeps like the dead this time of night; the back roads are quiet and dark. Snow flutters in the headlights. Behind the wheel of my city-issue Explorer, I hit my emergency strobes, crank up the speedometer, and blow every stop sign that threatens to slow me down. It takes me seventeen minutes to make the usual thirty-minute drive.

Located in the heart of Amish country, Painters Mill is a picturesque village of fifty-three hundred souls, a third of whom are Amish. I was born Amish, but left at the age of eighteen when fate pulled the rug out from under me. I ran as far away from Painters Mill—and my roots—as I could, ending up in Columbus, where I found my way into the unlikely vocation of law enforcement. I attended the school of hard knocks, made a ton of mistakes along the way, and I learned how to not be Amish. Once I became a patrol officer and my life settled down, the roots I'd left behind began to call. When the position of chief came open and the town council courted me for the job, I went for it.

There have been plenty of bumps since, but I never looked back and I never regretted my decision. My parents are gone now, but my siblings and their families still live in the area. They're still Amish. We've come a long way since those early days. In terms of getting back the close relationship we once had, we're a work in progress.

By the time I make the turn onto Dogleg Road and head toward the covered bridge, big, wet flakes are coming down in earnest. I spot the emergency lights of Skid's cruiser, which is parked on the shoulder, and pick up my radio mike. "Ten-twenty-three," I say, letting my dispatcher know I've arrived on scene.

A tinge of surprise slips through me at the sight of Mona's personal vehicle parked behind the cruiser. She's the department rookie and the first female officer to grace the ranks of the Painters Mill PD. I happen to know she worked until midnight. She's prone to hanging around after her shift, especially if there's something interesting going on, so I don't think too much about her being here.

I park behind her car and get out. There's no one in sight. No other vehicles. No sign of a fire. But the smell of smoke hangs heavy in the air. I hit my radio. "Skid, what's your twenty?"

"Due north of my vehicle, Chief. A hundred yards."

Discerning the tension in his voice, I grab my Maglite, spot two sets of prints, and follow them through the ditch. I climb the fence, sweeping my beam left and right, and I break into a jog. Twenty yards into the trees, I spot the flicker of flashlights ahead. All the while, I try to imagine a scenario that might've led to a fire and dead body. This is a remote area that's prone to flooding in the spring. There are no farms or houses in the vicinity, and no road or dirt track that would accommodate a vehicle.

So what the hell was someone doing out here and how did they end up dead?

A hundred yards in, I enter a clearing. Ahead, I see the smoldering remnants of a fire, white smoke rising. Skid and Mona are standing about ten feet from the pile of glowing embers. Skid's holding a fire extinguisher at his side. I can tell by the way they're pacing around that they're agitated.

"We got someone in the fire!" Skid calls out.

I break into a run. As I draw closer, I notice the blackened post jutting from the center of the smoldering ash. Foreboding quivers in my gut as I take in the vaguely human form secured to the post.

"Is he alive?" My voice sounds normal as I reach them, but my pulse is racing, the hairs at my neck standing on end.

Of all the officers who work for me—all five of them—Skid is the most likely to put forth some smart-ass comment at an ill-timed moment. Tonight, all I see is disbelief and bafflement on his face.

"Can't get close enough to tell," he says. "Too damn hot."

"Was this burning when you arrived?" I ask.

"Fully engulfed." He hefts the extinguisher. "Chief, this dude was alive when we pulled up. Mona and I heard a scream. By the time we found him, he wasn't moving."

"We just now got the fire out," Mona says.

I look at her, notice the smaller extinguisher in her hand. "Hit those embers with foam."

She does.

"We gotta get him out." I glance at Skid. "Ambulance?"

"En route. Fire department, too."

In the years I've been a cop, I've come upon victims with thermal injuries of varying degrees. I've responded to house fires. Vehicle accidents. Chemical burns. Smoke inhalation. I've never seen anything like this. The torso is in an upright position. The clothes have burned away. The exposed flesh is brown and black with hideous rust-colored patches. The neck is rust colored and wet looking. The head is bowed, the lower part of the face brown, the forehead blistered and bloodied.

"We've got to get him out of there," I say.

"I'm game," he says.

The problem is the victim is surrounded by four feet of glowing embers on all sides. No way to reach him without getting burned.

"Mona." I toss her the keys to my Explorer. "Grab my toolbox. Water. Shovel. Hurry!"

She catches the keys with one hand, spins, and sprints toward our vehicles.

I look around for something—a log or flat stone—we can stand on or use to shove away the embers, but there's nothing around.

"Shit." I get as close as I can, reach out, but the heat sends me back. No way to reach the victim. It's an excruciating situation. I speak into my radio. "Expedite ten-fifty-two," I say, requesting a rush on the ambulance. "I got a burn victim."

Skid jogs around the periphery of the clearing, looking for something we can use to protect our feet. There's nothing but scraps of wood and kindling.

I can't stop looking at the victim. There's no movement. The body is affixed to the wood post. His hands are behind his back and held in place with something that didn't burn through.

"Chief!"

I glance toward the woods to see Mona running toward us, my equipment toolbox in one hand, two folding shovels in the other. I rush to her, grab a shovel, snap it to length, and jog to the smoldering ash. Setting the blade to the embers, I scoop away red-hot coals, toss them aside. Skid puts the fire extinguisher to use. Mona yanks a quart-size water bottle from her pocket, squirts it. The embers sizzle when the water hits. In the back of my mind, I'm aware that this is a crime scene. That we're probably contaminating evidence. No way to avoid it, because the preservation of life always comes first.

"Lay some foam on those embers!" I tell Mona.

She raises the smaller extinguisher and throws foam onto the freshly exposed embers.

I shovel for another minute. When there's enough room for me to reach the victim without getting burned, I go for it. Vaguely, I'm aware of Skid digging. Heat presses against my calves, walks up my legs. I smell fabric burning, feel the heat coming through the soles of my boots. I keep going.

The victim is monstrous. I hold my breath against the stench of singed hair and burning clothes. The underlying horror of cooked meat. Dear God.

Craning my neck, I get my first good look at the bindings. Wire. "Give me the bolt cutter!"

Mona thrusts the tool at me. I grab it, set the blades against the wire, and make the cut. The victim's arms swing free, lifeless. A second wire binds the torso to the post. I shift the bolt cutter and snip. The body slumps and begins to fall. Rushing forward, I grasp the victim's biceps with both hands. I feel the flesh slip beneath my duty gloves, and I steel myself against a wave of revulsion. Then Skid is beside me, taking the other arm, and we drag the victim from the embers. Twenty feet. We place him on the ground in a supine position. Arms outstretched at his sides.

"Water!" I say.

Mona knows the protocol and has it at the ready. I pour the entire bottle on the victim's head and throat and upper torso. It's not enough, but I know it doesn't matter. We're too late to make a difference. This victim is gone. The burns are too extensive.

For the span of several seconds, the only sound comes from our labored breaths. The woods are so quiet I can hear the tinkle of snow. The flutter of dry leaves. The low hum of wind through the branches. The sizzle and pop of the embers.

The distant wail of sirens breaks the spell. I look down at the victim, try not to recoil. I recall from my training that any burned clothing, shoes or belts, should be removed or cut away. This person is burned so severely I can't discern fabric from flesh.

Without speaking, Mona jogs to the edge of the clearing and throws up. Skid digs into my equipment box and pulls out a thermal blanket.

"What the hell happened here?" he says as he snaps it open and covers the body, leaving the face exposed.

At first sight of this victim, I'd wondered if it might be the result of someone trying to do away with a dead body. But having seen the wire bindings and knowing Mona and Skid heard a scream upon their arrival, I realize that's not the case.

Mona joins us. She's no shrinking violet, but her face is the color of paste.

"Did either of you see or hear anyone out here when you arrived?" I ask. "Signs that anyone had been here?"

"I didn't see anyone," Mona tells me. "To tell you the truth, Chief, we were so focused on putting out the fire we might've missed something."

"I didn't see a soul." Skid shakes his head, incredulous. "But that scream.… Chief, that poor son of a bitch was tied to that damn post and burned alive."

It's such a bizarre notion, I can't get my head around it. But I know what I saw. The wire. The post. The wood piled high and set afire.…

"Smelled like diesel fuel, too," I say.

He nods. "So, whoever did this used an accelerant."

I turn my attention to Mona. "Let's get this scene taped off. Twenty yards in every direction. Keep an eye out for footprints or anything else that doesn't belong here. If you see anything unusual, mark it and preserve it."

Nodding, she starts toward where our vehicles are parked.

"Skid, take a look around. See if you can find tracks or tire marks."

He tips his hat at me. "You got it."

The sirens are close now. Through the trees, I see the red and blue lights of a fire truck or ambulance. Mona's Maglite sweeps from side to side as she disappears into the trees.

I look down at the victim and feel a twinge of nausea. "What the hell happened to you?" I whisper.

The only answer is the song of the wind serenading the night.