Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Most cops don't attend autopsies. It's rarely necessary in these days of high tech and probably a good rule of thumb anyway, especially if you're squeamish. As a general rule, I don't attend the actual autopsy. I do, however, make it a point to see the victim's body after it has been cleaned up and is in a clinical atmosphere with good lighting and the coroner present to answer questions. The body is an integral piece of evidence. Every aspect of the case begins and ends with the victim.

Of course, there's a human element involved, too. The loss of a life, especially violently and at the hands of another, is profound. A good investigator will never lose sight of that. Whether on a quest for information, a personal ritual, or to pay homage—or any combination thereof—those torturous minutes I spend with the dead establish a connection. It's an important dynamic, because when I walk out of that room I'm not looking into the death of some random stranger. I'm one step closer to knowing them. I've seen what happened to them, the ugliness and the brutality of it. In the days and weeks that follow, as I come to know my victim on an almost intimate level, I will remember that part of them. And I'll be all the more driven to find the person responsible.

Tomasetti and I don't speak as we ride the elevator down to the morgue, which is located in the basement of Pomerene Hospital. He uses those scant seconds to check his cell, his texts and emails. But I know the brunt of his attention is on me. I pretend not to notice and I use that small span of time to shore up and slip a little more securely into my thick-skinned cop persona.

When the floor indicator bell dings, I'm ready. As the door swishes open, Tomasetti brushes his fingertips across my knuckles. "You got this?"

"Yep."

Doc Coblentz's administrative assistant, Carmen, looks up from a desk that's jammed with manila folders, and smiles. She's wearing a suede skirt with brown riding boots and a cream-colored sweater with a coordinating scarf tied at her neck.

"Morning, Chief!" she says brightly. "Agent Tomasetti."

Not for the first time I wonder how someone who spends so much time in close proximity to the dead can remain so upbeat. "I think you're one of the best-dressed women in Painters Mill," I tell her.

"I appreciate that, Chief." Beaming, she laughs. "To be honest with you, I don't get many compliments down here."

"Can't take that too personally," says Tomasetti as we sign in. "Your clientele tend to be pretty quiet."

She hefts another hearty laugh. "Doc's expecting you. Go right in."

We go through the door and enter the medical section of the facility. To my right is an alcove where supplies and sterile biohazard gear are stored. Doc Coblentz's partially glassed-in office is on the left. As usual, the blinds are pulled, but the door stands open. An old Simon they were tortured and murdered. And so they came here for the freedom to worship without persecution. But that was centuries ago and, of course, the world is a different place now. We're tolerant."

"All of that said, there may be something there," he says. "Not only could what happened to Swanz be some sort of reenactment, but there are a lot of Amish and Mennonites in the area."

"It means something to murder an individual in that manner," I say slowly, thinking as I speak. "It makes a statement about the killer. His motive. His mindset."

"You mean aside from his being a crazy son of a bitch?"

I nod. "He'd have to know such an unusual and violent murder would generate a lot of interest. A lot of media coverage."

"A psychopath looking for his fifteen minutes of fame?" Tomasetti frowns when his cell chirps.

He's reaching for it when my own cell erupts. Holding Tomasetti's gaze, I fish it out of my pocket, see HOLMES COUNTY SHERIFF on the display. "Hey, Mike."

"Chief, where you at?"

The urgency in his voice gives me pause. "Just left the morgue."

"Look, one of my deputies just found a second set of tire tracks. There's a two-track off the township road north of where the body was found. It looks like the killer came in that way, not via Dogleg Road."

I tighten my grip on the phone. "Tread marks?"

"I got better than that. The son of a bitch dropped a pair of pliers."

I reach for the door handle, slide into the Explorer, see Tomasetti do the same. "Fingerprints?"

"We can hope. Deputy is personally delivering those pliers to BCI as we speak."

"On my way," I tell him, and disconnect.

Township Road 3423 is a desolate stretch of timeworn asphalt that runs parallel to Dogleg Road, with a three-hundred-yard stretch of woods between. The lights of two sheriff's department cruisers light up the naked treetops. The overgrown pullover is already cordoned off. The BCI crime scene van idles just outside the perimeter. I park behind the van.

Tomasetti and I disembark simultaneously and start toward a deputy who's unrolling a line of yellow tape from tree to fence post to tree in an effort to protect as much of the scene as possible.

"We're not going to be able to get in there." Tomasetti states the obvious as we approach the tape.

"Might be able to get a look if we're lucky," I say.

We stop a few feet from the tape. From where I'm standing, I can see the opening in the trees, demarking the mouth of a trail. In the summertime, raspberries flourish in these woods. I've picked them myself a time or two. Families come here to pick berries or hike along the creek. It's a pretty, private tract, surrounded by eighty-foot-tall trees. At night, teenagers come here to drink. Lovers come to park.

Looking frustrated, Tomasetti sighs. "How well do you know the area?"

"Walked it plenty of times." I fish my cell from my pocket, tap a few keys, and tilt the screen so that Tomasetti can see the map I pulled up. "We're here." I indicate the spot with my index finger. "There's a trail that cuts through the woods and goes all the way to the township road. Probably half a mile or so. Small creek there." I slide my finger slightly right. "Body was found about here."

He gestures to the pullover behind us. "Why would the killer park here, when Dogleg Road is closer to where the victim was burned?"

"More private on this side," I tell him. "Both roads are quiet. Lots of trees for cover. It's part of a floodplain, which means no farms or houses."

"So the killer is likely familiar with the area," he murmurs.

"Or he did his homework."

He raises his gaze from the phone, looks around. "Any idea how the victim spent his last hours?"

"Not yet."

"So let's say the killer brought him here. Parked in that pullover. They got out of the vehicle. At that point, the killer marched or dragged the victim through the woods, along the trail, all the way to the clearing. Once there, he tied the vic to the post. Set the fire."

"Dragging the victim would explain the broken bone in his wrist." I think about that a moment. "If the victim was conscious, how did the killer subdue him? Control him? Did he carry him? Drag him?" Not for the first time I entertain the possibility that there were two of them.

"We also have the broken hyoid bone," he says. "Maybe the killer overpowered him. Strangled him to unconsciousness."

"Tomasetti, if Mona and Skid are right about the scream they heard, the victim was still alive. The killer may have seen them coming and left. Or been on his way out."

"Or watching the victim burn to death," he says darkly.

"If Skid and Mona did interrupt him, he probably left in a hurry."

"Might explain the pliers."

"Kate!"

I glance over to see Sheriff Mike Rasmussen slide from his cruiser and stride toward us, his expression grim.

"Anything?" I ask.

The three of us exchange handshakes. "Nothing yet."

"You get a photo of the pliers?" I ask.

"Coming your way." He tugs out his phone, taps a few keys. "They're common fence pliers."

I look down at my cell, study the photo. "A tool anyone who lives in a rural area keeps on hand," I murmur.

"Were they new?" Tomasetti asks. "Rusted?"

"New, I'd say," Rasmussen tells him.

"So the killer may have purchased them recently," I say.

"You got someone looking into the pliers?" Tomasetti asks.

"We're stretched tight." Rasmussen looks at me and raises his brows.

"I'll put someone on it." I hit the speed dial for Dispatch.

My first-shift dispatcher, Lois, picks up on the second ring. I can tell by her tone the station is a madhouse. I don't ask. "I'm emailing you a JPEG of pliers," I tell her. "I need to know where they were purchased. Who's on?"

"Everyone."

"Tell T.J. to check with the hardware store here in Painters Mill. Farm store, too. Send Pickles up to Millersburg. Tell him to check with Walmart and Tractor Supply while he's there. Any feedstores in the area. I need the names of customers who purchased a shovel or posthole digger, wire, and/or fence pliers in the last two months."

"You got it."

I glance at the time, feel the thump of urgency against my chest. "Is anyone there at the station?" I ask.

She pauses as if looking around. I hear the din of voices in the background. The chime of the switchboard. "Mona's still here."

"Tell her to meet me at Swanz's place." I tell her the address. "I'm headed that way now."