Sworn to Silence (21 page)

“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 and 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.

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.”

“Okay.”

I consider everything we know about Ewell. “Why would a married man with two grown kids buy a box of condoms?”

“Uh, birth control?”

“You’d think for a couple married that long, they’d have a better method.”

T.J. clears his throat. That a man of twenty-four years is embarrassed by such talk fills me with hope that the world is not as bleak as it feels at the moment. “Thanks, T.J.”

“Don’t mention it, Chief.”

I feel slightly more human as I pull into the parking lot of Pomerene Hospital. I double-park near the entrance. Sleet patters my head and shoulders as I jog toward the revolving doors. The redhead at the information desk eyes me with a little too much interest as I pass. I send her a passable smile, but she turns her attention back to her computer.

The hospital basement is hushed and not as well lit as the upper floors. My boots thud dully against tile as I pass the yellow and black biohazard sign. I push through the set of swinging doors and see Doc Coblentz in his office, sitting at his desk. “Doc?”

“Ah, Chief Burkholder. I’ve been expecting you.” Wearing a white lab coat and navy slacks, he rises and crosses to me. “Any ID on the victim yet?”

“We’re checking missing persons reports.” I take a deep breath, trying to prepare for what comes next. “Do you have a prelim?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve got her cleaned up. I did the initial exam. If you’d like to take a look.”

That’s the last thing I want to do, but I need to identify this young woman. Somewhere out there, loved ones are worried. She may have children. People whose lives will be irrevocably changed by her death.

I go directly to the alcove. Hanging up my coat, I quickly don a gown and booties. The doc is waiting for me when I emerge. “The cuts on her abdomen do appear to be the Roman numeral XXII.”

“Postmortem?”

“Antemortem.” He starts toward the second set of swinging doors, and we enter the gray tiled room I’ve come to despise.

Three stainless steel gurneys are shoved against the far wall. A fourth gleams beneath a huge overhead light. I see the outline of the body beneath a blue sheet and brace.

Doc Coblentz snags a clipboard off the counter. Sliding a pen from the breast pocket of his lab coat, he looks through his bifocals and jots something on the form, then returns the clipboard to the counter. “I’ve been a doctor for the better part of twenty years. I’ve been coroner for nearly eight. This is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen.”

Gently, he pulls down the sheet. Revulsion sends me back a step as I take in the brownish-green hued skin. Her mouth sags open; I see her tongue tucked inside. The wound at her neck is a black, gaping mouth.