Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

An hour later, the area is crawling with law enforcement. The paramedics arrived first and pronounced the victim deceased. The scene was taped off and secured. The fire department extinguished the remaining coals. Once they deemed the area safe to enter, control of the scene was passed to the coroner.

Light snow angles down from a lowering night sky. I'm standing just outside the caution tape, waiting for Doc Coblentz. Forty feet away, the blackened post stands in macabre testament to what transpired. Earlier, I was able to locate the wire I had removed from the victim's wrists and torso and placed all three pieces in evidence bags. It's the first evidence I've retrieved in an expansive outdoor scene that promises to be difficult.

A few yards away, a Holmes County sheriff's deputy is talking to one of the EMTs. The wind has picked up and I can see the EMT shivering beneath her coat.

"Chief?"

I glance over my shoulder to see Dr. Ludwig Coblentz and a young male technician approach. It's been a couple of months since I saw the doc; he's gained a few pounds. He's wearing a heavy coat with a faux-fur-lined hood. Khaki trousers with the hem tucked into duck boots. Both men are carrying large medical cases at their sides.

"Hey, Doc." I cross to him and we shake hands, not bothering to remove our gloves.

"The older I get, the colder these Ohio winters get," he says with an exaggerated shiver.

"I think that's why they invented insulated coveralls."

"I think that's why they invented Florida."

His mouth curves briefly, and then his eyes flick toward the victim, and the burned post. He's a seasoned doctor; he's seen plenty of unusual scenes in the years he's been coroner. He's calm and professional with a mindset that keeps the darker aspects of his job in perspective. I don't miss the flash of shock or the quick downturn of his mouth.

"I was perplexed initially when the call came in," he tells me. "I kept trying to make sense of what I was hearing." He sighs. "Now I understand why none of it made sense."

"Sometimes, even when you know what happened it doesn't make sense."

"That is the truth."

I relay to him what little I know.

"Skid and Mona heard a scream?" he asks. "Are you sure?"

I nod. "A scream or shout."

"So unless the scream came from someone else, the perpetrator of the crime or a witness, this victim was alive just minutes before they got to him."

I watch as his doctor's mind works through the possibilities. "Because of the nature of the scream, they believe it was likely the victim," I tell him.

He nods. "How long ago was that?"

I glance at my watch. "About an hour and a half."

Grimacing, he sets down the case and bends to open it. He retrieves two individually wrapped gowns, two pairs of nitrile gloves, and shoe covers. He hands one set of each to me.

"The fire department extinguished the fire?" he asks.

I nod.

"Even so, we'll do our best to keep the scene as uncontaminated as possible."

We don't speak during the awkward dance of suiting up over the bulk of our coats and boots. When we're finished, I lift the tape for him and his technician, duck beneath it myself, and we enter the scene. I'd photographed both the victim and scene earlier. Seeing the corpse through the camera lens of my cell phone somehow gave me the distance I needed not to get caught up in what I was seeing. I zoomed for close-ups, but didn't get too close. As we cross to the body, I feel an unpleasant quiver in my stomach that tells me I'm not quite prepared for what comes next.

"Were you able to ID the victim?" Doc asks.

I shake my head. "Too much heat and smoke. As you can see, he's pretty badly burned."

"Accelerant?"

"We smelled diesel fuel," I tell him, aware that it's still discernible.

One of the EMTs has replaced the thermal blanket from earlier with a plain white sheet. Atop that she draped a waterproof blue tarp to prevent the lightly falling snow from soaking through and damaging any potential evidence.

Kneeling, the doc grasps the upper corners of both drapes. I brace as he peels them back. For a moment, I can't catch my breath. I've been exposed to several burn-related fatalities over the years. The car accident off the highway last summer. The barn fire a few years back. The house fire that killed an elderly couple shortly after I became chief. All deaths are disturbing, but there's something particularly gruesome when it comes to death by fire.

This victim is burned beyond recognition. When Skid and I laid the corpse on the ground a short time ago, he was supine. Now, the arms and legs have bent slightly. The knees are apart, likely from the muscles contracting. The flesh is blackened and peeling. The feet appear shrunken. The upper part of the body is rust colored and interspersed with black-looking flakes, either burned clothing or flesh or both. But it's the face that disturbs me. The forehead is bloodred and moist looking. The hair has burned away, especially around the face. The mouth is open, the tongue protruding like a piece of rotting fruit. The smell is an awful combination of singed hair, burning fabric, and overcooked meat.

I pull my scarf up over my nose and mouth, and try not to breathe.

"I'm not going to be able to tell you much, Kate, until I get the body on the table," he begins. "But I know you have an investigation to get started on, so I'll tell you what I can. All of it is preliminary at this point and subject to change, okay?"

"I'll take anything you can give me." I force my gaze back to the deceased. "Probably the most important thing at this point is to get him identified."

"Let's see what this poor soul has to tell us." Giving a decisive nod to the technician, the doctor kneels, his knees cracking in protest. "I think it's safe to say this individual was likely male. We have extensive thermal injuries with charring, particularly on the lower extremities and torso." He looks at me over the tops of his glasses. "Where did you find the victim exactly?"

I'd seen him looking at the post; I can tell by his expression he already knows. "He was wired to the post."

He swivels his gaze to the post, the thick pile of ash around it, the pieces of kindling and branches at the periphery that hadn't yet burned.

"Just so all of us are on the same page here," he says. "Are you telling me this victim was tied to that post and burned?"

"I don't think anyone can say that with certainty," I say, "but that's what it looks like."

"Good God," he mutters.

He turns his attention back to the dead man and tugs the sheet to mid-thigh. I force myself to look at the victim, this time my cop's brain looking for useful information. I see a scrap of what looks like denim sticking out from beneath the victim's hip. The brass glint of a belt buckle seemingly cooked into a blackened and peeling torso. Flakes of material that's indeterminate in nature.

Removing a swab from his case, Coblentz indicates a small flap sticking out from beneath the victim's hip. "This is what's left of a belt," he says.

"Can we check to see if there's a wallet?" I ask.

"Most males keep their wallet in a rear pocket." The doc's brows knit. "Was this victim's back to the post?"

I nod.

"That might work to our advantage," he says. "At least in terms of identifying him."

"The post may have protected the back side of his body."

"Exactly."

It's the first suggestion of good news I've had since my arrival. "Hopefully, his wallet is intact."

"Fortunately, leather doesn't burn as readily as one might believe." He nods at the technician. "Let's roll him onto his right side," he says. "Away from us. Watch for slippage."

The technician kneels, back straight, and sets his hands on the victim's shoulder and hip.

I get to my feet and step back, watching as the two men logroll the body onto its side. The blackened surface gives way to singed denim and small patches of blue that's left on the buttocks and the backs of the victim's thighs.

"Extraction forceps," the doc says.

The technician swivels to the bag and hands him what looks like a medical pliers.

The doc presses the tip to a place where the denim hasn't quite burned away, then inserts the head between two layers of fabric, opens the small jaws, and pulls out a partially burned wallet.

"Here we go," he says.

The wallet is a bifold, much like the one Tomasetti carries. "It doesn't look too bad," I say.

He tosses me a ye-of-little-faith look.

With a gloved hand, I take the wallet. The technician is ready with a large sterile pad and sets it atop the tarp. Muttering a thanks, I set the wallet on the pad and use my index finger to open it. A quarter inch of a driver's license peeks out at me. The corners are blackened and melted, but the license is intact.

"Bingo." Carefully, I pinch the corner and ease the plastic from its nest.

A quiver of recognition kicks as I read the name. "Milan Swanz," I say. "He was Amish."

The doc looks at me a little closer. "You knew him?"

"I went to school with him. Arrested him. Twice." My eyes skim down to an address I'm familiar with. "Shit."

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cell phone and photograph the front and back of the ID. I go back to the wallet. There are no credit cards, which isn't unusual for the Amish. A five-dollar bill. A single. "Whoever killed him didn't take his cash," I murmur, and make a mental note to check to see if he had any credit or debit cards.

Finding nothing else of interest, I remove an evidence bag from my pocket, drop the wallet into it, and put it in my coat pocket.

I look at Doc. "We'll still need to cross-identify with DNA," I say. "To make sure someone didn't put Swanz's wallet on the body of someone else."

"DNA will be easy enough," the doc tells me. "Dental, too."

We stare at each other a moment. The doc's glasses are fogged. The tip of his nose is red and runny. I see disbelief and abhorrence in his expression, right alongside the steely determination I know will get him through. I feel the sum of those emotions roiling inside me.

"Is there any way to tell if this person was alive when he was burned?" I ask.

"Well, the autopsy will tell us if he died from thermal injuries or soot and smoke inhalation. Once we get him to the morgue, I'll run a test to check the level of carbon monoxide in the blood. Check for soot in the airway. In most arson cases, the cause of death is attributed to smoke inhalation. In the case of immolation, it's thermal burns."

We fall silent, as if the thoughts running through our heads are too dark to entertain.

"Anything else?" I ask.

"As you can imagine, this will likely be a complicated and difficult case," he tells me. "I'll probably bring in a forensic pathologist to assist."

I look down at the corpse, the blackened and peeling skin, the patches of burned denim, and I feel sick to my stomach. Milan Swanz was a troubled man who made plenty of mistakes in the thirty-six years he'd been on this earth. But he was a human being with a wife and children and parents who'd loved him despite his flaws.

My most pressing—and difficult—responsibility lies with notifying the family that Milan Swanz is gone. When that is done, I'll be able to focus on what I do best. Find the son of a bitch who killed him and bring him to justice.

I fish my cell phone from my pocket as I duck beneath the crime scene tape and hit the speed dial for Dispatch. My third-shift dispatcher picks up on the first ring.

"Hey, Chief."

"I need you to run Milan Swanz through LEADS," I say, referring to the Law Enforcement Automated Data System. "Run his wife, Bertha, too."

"You need the address?"

"I know where he lives." I sigh. "I need the names and contact info for his parents. Get me the names of any known associates you can come up with. Find out if there's a vehicle registered to him."

"You got it." I hear the click of her fingertips flying over the keyboard.

"They're Amish," I add. "There may not be much out there on the parents. Call me."

I disconnect, spot Holmes County sheriff Mike Rasmussen, and head that way.

He spots me and starts toward me. "Just got the call half an hour ago," he says. "What the holy hell happened?"

I reach him and we shake. He's wearing an official parka over insulated coveralls. His coat is open at the collar and I'm pretty sure he's wearing plaid pajamas beneath the coveralls.

I recap what little I know so far.

Mike Rasmussen is a seasoned cop. Like me, he's been around the block a few times and isn't easily surprised. When I'm finished speaking, he stares at me blank faced as if waiting for me to break into laughter and admit the whole thing is a sick joke.

"Are you shitting me?" he says. "Burned at the stake? Like some kind of fucking witch?"

"We just IDed him. Milan Swanz. He's local. Amish."

His eyes narrow. "Why is that name familiar?"

"Because he's got a record."

"What charges?"

I shake my head. "Just in Painters Mill and off the top of my head: Drunk driving. Disturbing the peace. Drunk and disorderly."

He looks at me a little more closely. "You know him?"

"Not well. I went to school with him. Arrested him twice myself in the last two or three years. He led a troubled life, I think."

"Any ongoing disputes?"

"I don't know. I'm going to go speak with his family now."

"Damn." He grimaces. "Is he married?"

I nod. "I'll probably speak to his parents, too."

"Jesus." He scrubs a hand over jaw stubble. "I'm still trying to get my head around this one."

"Not easy, is it?"

He looks past me, toward the post just inside the crime scene, and shakes his head. "Look, this is your jurisdiction, Kate, but if you need a hand…"

"I'll take all the help you can spare. This is an extraordinarily hei nous crime. I thought it might be a good idea to bring in BCI. Maybe set up a task force."

"Whatever you need." He offers up a small smile. "Since you and Tomasetti are married now, can you work together?"

"As far as I know there aren't any rules against it." I shrug. "Painters Mill falls inside his region. We'll see."

"That's good. I think the three of us make a pretty good team."

I look past him, see Mona and Skid standing a few yards away, talking. "First light we need to set up a search grid of the immediate area. Metal detectors. Dogs. The whole nine yards. Expand from there. Chances are this happened just a few hours ago. We did a preliminary search, but it was dark. We might've missed something. Killer could have dropped something, left something behind."

"There's a pullover on the other side of those woods." He motions toward the trees beyond the crime scene. "I'll get a deputy out there, see if there are any tire marks or prints."

"That's good." I sigh. "Snow isn't helping."

"Never does. This one's going to be a tough scene to process all around."

"I'll call Tomasetti," I tell him. "Have your guys get with Skid and set up that search."

"Will do."

"Can you spare a few guys to start a canvass?" I ask. "Not many houses in the area, but we should check."

"I'll do it," he says. "Never know when you might get lucky."

Back in the Explorer, I call Tomasetti as I pull onto the road.

"I appreciate your getting me out of that meeting with the suits," he says by way of greeting.

Despite the disturbing images still playing hide-and-seek in my brain, I smile. "So you heard."

"Came over my Spillman a few minutes ago," he says, referring to the software system used by law enforcement and other agencies to record dispatch activities for police, fire, and emergency medical services.

"Where are you?" I ask.

"Just outside Painters Mill. Crime scene tech should be pulling in there about now. What about you?"

"I'm on my way to Swanz's residence to do the notification."

"Shit."

"Yep."

"Want some company?"

Usually, it's protocol to have a fellow officer present at a notification. You never know how someone is going to react. Some departments even keep a chaplain on call. In this case, however, since the family is Amish, I opt to do it alone.

"I'd rather have you at the scene," I tell him.

"I won't take it personally." He makes the statement lightly, but we're still thinking about the notification. "Call if you need me."

"I will," I say. "I'll meet you at the scene as soon as I finish up."