“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.
My eyes are drawn to the Roman numerals on her abdomen. The carving is crude, but the similarities to the wounds on Amanda Horner’s body are unmistakable. “Cause of death?”
“The same. Exsanguination. He cut her throat and she bled to death.”
I need to get a better look at her. I want to see her hair, her nails, her toes—anything that might help me identify her, but my feet refuse to take me closer.
“He raped her. Sodomized her.”
“DNA?”
“I took swabs, but there wasn’t any fluid.”
“He wore a condom?”
“Probably. I’ll know more when I get the results back.” The doc sighed. “He tortured this girl, Kate. Look at this.”
Rounding the gurney, he crosses to the counter and picks up a stainless steel tray about the size of a cookie sheet. “This was inside her rectum.”
I can’t bring myself to look at the object. I can’t even meet the doctor’s eyes. Instead, I lower my head slightly and rub at the ache between my eyes. “Postmortem?”
“Ante.”
Taking a deep breath, I force my gaze to the tray. The object is a steel rod, about half an inch in diameter and ten inches long. There’s a tiny eyehook on one end. The other is tapered. It looks homemade; I can see where whoever made it used some type of grinder to shape it.
“Foreign object rape?” I ask. In the back of my mind, I wonder if the killer is impotent. If maybe he’s gone to a urologist for erectile dysfunction treatment. I make a mental note to check it out.
“I don’t think that’s how or why he used this object.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think it’s some type of homemade electrode.” He picks up the object. “There’s copper here. See?” The doc runs a gloved finger along the length of the steel. “I worked for an electrician part-time when I was in high school. Copper is one of the best conductors of electricity.”
I don’t know much about the dynamics of electricity. I do know it can be used for torture. While in the academy, I remember reading about the Mexican drug cartels using those kinds of tactics when they wanted to make an example of someone.
I look at the doc. I see the same outrage and disbelief in his eyes that I feel clenching my chest. “So this killer may have some electrical experience. At the very least, he tinkers.” It’s much too benign a word for a person who designed an instrument of torture. Tinkering is the kind of thing your dad does on Sunday afternoons in the garage. Monsters don’t tinker.
“This explains the burns Amanda Horner sustained.”
“Yes.”
“Why would he leave it?” I wonder aloud. But in the back of my mind, I know. He’s proud of this vile device. He wanted us to find it.
The doc shakes his head. “That’s your area, Kate, not mine. I can definitively tell you he tortured her with this, probably with an electrical charge.”
For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the hum of the refrigeration units. I try to rally my thoughts, get my questions in order, but my mind doesn’t cooperate. “I’ll add that to the profile we’re building.”
I stare at the deep grooves cut into her wrists. The bloated abdomen. Her hands and feet. I try to see her as she must have been when she was alive. That’s when it strikes me that neither her nails or toenails are painted. This woman is totally unadorned. No highlights in her hair. Her earlobes aren’t pierced. No jewelry.
She is plain.
A dozen vehicles jam the street in front of the police station when I pull up. I see a ProNews 16 van parked in my reserved space and I’m forced to park half a block away. I slap a citation beneath his wiper on my way in.
Inside, the place is a madhouse. Both Lois and Mona stand at the dispatch station, manning a switchboard gone wild. T.J. sits at his cube, the phone to his ear, his back to the room. Glock slouches in his chair in his cubicle, his fingers pecking at the keyboard. I wonder where Skid and Pickles are, and realize they’re probably still at the Huffman place.
Steve Ressler spots me. His cheeks glow red as he rushes toward me. “Is it true there was a second murder?”
“Yes.” I don’t stop walking.
He keeps pace with me. “Who’s the victim? Has she been identified? Has the family been notified? Is it the same killer?”
“I gotta work, Steve,” I say. “Press conference at six.”
He tosses a dozen more questions at me, but I push past him and head to my office.
“Chief!” Mona’s hair is wilder than usual. Heavy on the eyeliner. Pink shadow. Clashing red lipstick. She’s ready for the cameras.
“How long has it been like this?” I ask.
“A few hours. I stayed to help Lois.”
“I appreciate that.” Across the room, Steve Ressler gives me the evil eye. “Everyone behaving?”
“Ressler’s a pushy asshole. Norm Johnston’s off the chart.”
“Tell anyone who asks there’s a press conference at six in the high school auditorium.”
“Gotcha.”
In my office, I flip on my computer and grab a cup of coffee while it boots. My phone rings. I look at it to see all four lines blinking in discord. Ignoring all of them, I dial Lois.
“Did you check missing persons reports?” I ask.
“Nothing, Chief.”
I think about the young woman at the morgue. I should be surprised no one has reported her missing. But I’m not. “Remind everyone of the meeting at four.”
“You mean the one that was supposed to start ten minutes ago?”
“And send Glock in, will you?”
“Sure.”
I’m still thinking about the second victim when Glock walks in. “What’s up?”
“Close the door.”
He reaches behind him and the door clicks shut.
“I need you to drop everything,” I begin.
He moves to the visitor chair and sits. “All right.”
“This is just between you and me, Glock. No one can know what you’re doing or why. And I can’t tell you everything.”
“Tell me what you can and I’ll run with it.”
Relief flits through me that he trusts me enough to work blind. “I want you to dig up everything you can on a man by the name of Daniel Lapp.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s local. Amish. No one has seen him in sixteen years.”
The time frame doesn’t elude Glock,
and for the first time he looks surprised. “He’s Amish?”
“People assumed he fled the lifestyle.”
“He got family here?”
I nod. “A brother. I’ve already talked to him.”
“He give you anything?”
“No.”
Glock studies me a little too closely. “You going to tell me why we’re looking at this guy?”
“I can’t. I just need you to trust me, okay?”
He nods. “Okay. I’ll see what I can dig up.”
Just like that. No questions. No objections at being left in the dark. I feel a pang of guilt. Like maybe I don’t deserve that kind of trust.
“This a priority?” he asks after a moment.
“The highest,” I answer, and hope to God he can find what I could not.
CHAPTER 16
The storage room down the hall from my office has undergone an extreme transformation from catchall to command center. An eight-foot folding table surrounded by mismatched chairs sits in the center of the room. At the front, a half-podium squats atop a rickety card table. Next to the podium is an easel affixed with a pad. Someone nailed a dry-erase board to the wall. A single telephone sits on the floor next to the wall jack, and I realize the cabling won’t reach all the way to the table.
Glock and I are the first to arrive. I’m glad because I need a few minutes to gather my thoughts and mentally prepare. It’s important for me to appear competent and in control, particularly since the investigation has become multi-jurisdictional.
“Not bad,” Glock comments, referring to Mona’s and Lois’s ingenuity.
“It’ll do in a pinch.” I muster a halfhearted smile. “How bad is my eye?”
“It’s in full bloom, Chief. Purple’s not a bad color on you, though.”
A flurry of activity at the door snags my attention. I glance over to see Detrick and two uniformed deputies enter. I motion to the table and chairs. “It’s every man for himself.”
Detrick crosses to me and extends a beefy hand. “ME give you anything on the vic?”
His grip is firm and dry and I find myself wishing I were so calm. “Cause of death is the same as the first vic. I’ll go over everything in the briefing.”
He nods and motions to his two deputies. “I brought some manpower for you. This is Deputy Jerry Hunnaker.”
Hunnaker is slightly overweight with a cocky smirk that rubs me the wrong way. When we shake he grinds my knuckles, and I wonder if Detrick is lending me his dead weight.
The second deputy is tall and angular and looks more like a high school pole-vaulter than a cop. But his eyes are level, his expression natural and though I’ve already pegged him as inexperienced, I know he’ll be more of a help to me than the cocky shit with the grip.
“Deputy Darrel Barton.” Detrick sets his hand on the deputy’s shoulder, a proud papa introducing his favorite son.
In the few minutes I’ve spent with Detrick, the room has filled. I see Steve Ressler standing at the door and cross to him. “The press conference is at six,” I say.
“I’d like to sit in on this to see what the police are doing.”
“This is a task force meeting, Steve. Some of what we’ll be discussing is not for public consumption.”
“Or maybe you don’t want the public to know you don’t have squat on this guy.”
He looks pleased by his own audacity. I wonder how he would feel if I acted on the impulses running through me and coldcocked him. I nod toward the door. “You can voice your concerns at the press conference.”
Turning on his heel, Ressler stalks out.
I take my place at the podium and scan the group. Detrick sits at the table, flanked by his two deputies. Glock and T.J. sit opposite him, segregated by agency and loyalties. Skid and Pickles take chairs at the back of the room. Mayor Auggie Brock sits alone, looking like a new kid on the first day of school. Mona stands near the door, her arms folded at her chest. Behind her, John Tomasetti leans against the doorjamb, his overnight bag at his feet. The gang’s all here.
Pulling in a deep breath, I begin. “We are now a multi-jurisdictional task force set up by the mayor and town council.”
A hushed stir goes around the room, and I know my team is wondering why I didn’t brief them beforehand about the formation of the task force.
I fix my eyes on Auggie and continue. “We will be working in conjunction with the Holmes County Sheriff, Nathan Detrick.”
The sheriff stands briefly, then takes his seat.
“And Agent John Tomasetti with the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation out of Columbus,” I say.
Heads turn. From his place at the door, the agent nods, and I can’t help but think he really does look sort of Mafia-like.
I spend the next ten minutes summarizing the details of both murders. When I finish, I cross to the dry-erase board mounted on the wall. I write the words Persons of Interest and underline it. Everyone is expecting me to write the words Slaughterhouse Killer, but I begin with another name. Scott Brower. “He was at the Brass Rail on Saturday night. A witness reported seeing him with Amanda Horner.” I relay details about his record and his arrest just that morning, then go to my next suspect.
“Patrick Ewell.” I write the name on the board. “T.J.?”
The young officer looks down at his notes. “To recap … Ewell bought uh … rubbers at the Super Value Grocery in Painters Mill on Friday. Uh, the lubricated kind which is what the perpetrator used. Ewell paid cash, but we were able to identify him using the surveillance camera. He works at the slaughterhouse. Payroll department. I’ve since questioned him. Wife alibied him.”
I break in. “Wives have been known to lie to protect their husbands. He remains a person of interest.” I give T.J. a pointed look. “What about the other two condom guys?”
“They’ve been identified. Willie Stegmeyer and Bo Gibbas.”
“Have you talked to them?”
“Ran out of time, Chief, but they’re next on my list.”
I jot the names on the board. I feel myself hesitate before I write Slaughterhouse Killer. “I don’t like the label, but since most of you are familiar with it, we’ll go with it.” I scan the room. “As all of you know, the killings we’re dealing with now are similar to four murders that occurred in the early nineties. I’m not convinced we’re dealing with the same killer, and I caution you not to make assumptions this early in the game. We could have a copycat. I base that possibility on the hiatus between killings.”
I see divergence on the faces of my audience and add, “The possibility that the killer was incarcerated or injured or even changed locales exists. But keep an open mind and don’t be afraid to think outside the box.”
I glance down at my assignment sheet. “Here’s where we are in terms of investigation. Officer Skidmore is working with DRC to get the names of convicts incarcerated during that sixteen-year period.” I glance at Skid. “Report?”
He sits up straighter, but it doesn’t help his disheveled appearance. From where I stand, I can see his eyes are bloodshot. His hands aren’t quite steady when he picks up a sheet of paper. “I entered official inquiries yesterday.” He names several Ohio counties and cities. “DRC gave me priority, so we should hear back this afternoon or first thing tomorrow.”
Tomasetti pipes up from his place at the door. “I can expedite your inquiries with DRC.”
Skid nods. “That’d be great.”
I continue, “Expand your search to hospitals, both medical and mental. I want to know if there were any males between the ages of twenty and forty hospitalized with debilitating injuries, such as from a car accident or serious psychological problems that required institutionalization.”
Skid whistles. “Might take awhile. Lotta crazy people out there.”
A few snickers erupt.
I turn back to the dry-erase board. “Similar crimes.” I write the words on the board. “Pickles, I’ve got queries going with OHLEG, but I know someti
mes for whatever reason data doesn’t get entered. I want you to make some calls to local police departments. Look for murders involving a knife, the cutting of the throat, carving on the abdomen, and sex crimes involving a knife. Start with the surrounding eight-county area. Hit the bigger cities, too, including Columbus, Massillon, Newark, Zanesville and Cambridge.”
Pickles looks at me as if I’ve just told him he won the lottery. “You got it, Chief.”
I glance at Detrick’s cocky deputy. “Hunnaker, Doc Coblentz says foreign-object rape was involved with both victims. There’s a possibility this suspect is impotent. I want you to check with area urologists and get a list of men treated for erectile dysfunction.”
Hunnaker shifts in his chair and tries not to look embarrassed.
The second deputy, Barton, whispers, “Don’t worry, Hun, you can leave yourself off the list.”
Laughter rumbles through the room. I don’t join them, but the humor eases some of the tension.
Sheriff Detrick nods as if he approves. “What about doctor/patient confidentiality? Won’t that be a problem?”
“Not if we can get a warrant.” I look at Auggie Brock, purposefully putting him on the spot. “Don’t you play golf with Judge Seibenthaler?”
Auggie can’t hold my gaze. “Judge doesn’t know a damn four iron from a putter,” he says.
That earns him a few laughs, but the mood remains somber. “Call him,” I say. “See if you can get warrants if we need them.”
I address Barton. “I want a list of all registered sex offenders for the same counties and towns I mentioned earlier. Most police departments have lists online.”
Nodding, he jots in a small notebook. “Pedophiles, too?”
“That, too.” I turn my attention to Glock. “Tread and footwear imprints.”
The former Marine leans back and addresses everyone with the cool competence of a CEO talking to a group of high school seniors. “I just got off the phone with BCI. Second batch of evidence has arrived at the lab and is being processed as we speak. We’ve got priority.” He gives Tomasetti a pointed look, telling everyone Super Agent raised his magic wand and lit a fire. “With regard to the first batch of tire imprints and footwear impressions, they ran a comparison analysis and we got a partial tread. They’re trying to match it up with a manufacturer now. If they can do that, they’ll work on finding the retailer.”
Kate Burkholder 01-Sworn to Silence Page 16
