I lead him into the bar ditch. It’s a short walk to the body, but his breathing is labored by the time we climb the fence. “How the hell did a body get all the way out here?” he mutters.
“Someone dumped her or she dragged herself before she died.”
He gives me a look, but I don’t elaborate. I don’t want him walking into this with preconceived notions. First impressions are important in police work.
We duck under the crime scene tape Glock has strung through the trees like toilet paper at Halloween. T.J. has clipped an AC work light to a branch above the body. It doesn’t cast much light, but it’s better than flashlights and will free up our hands. I wish for a generator.
“Scene is secure.” Glock approaches holding two cups of coffee and shoves one at me. “You look like you could use this.”
Taking the Styrofoam cup, I peel back the tab and sip. “God, that’s good.”
He glances at the body. “You figure someone dumped her?”
“Looks that way.”
T.J. joins us, his gaze flicking to the dead woman. “Jeez, Chief, I hate to see her laid out like that.”
I hate it, too. From where we stand I can see her breasts and pubic hair. The woman inside me cringes at that. But there’s nothing I can do about it; we can’t move her or cover her until we process the scene. “Do either of you recognize her?” I ask.
Both men shake their heads.
Sipping my coffee, I study the scene, trying to piece together what might have happened. “Glock, do you still have that old Polaroid?”
“In my trunk.”
“Take some photos of the body and the scene.” I think of the trampled snow and mentally kick myself for disturbing the area. A boot tread might have been helpful. “I want shots of the drag marks, too.” I speak to both men now. “Set up a grid inside the crime scene tape and walk it, starting at the trees. Bag everything you find, even if you think it’s not important. Be sure to photograph everything before you touch it. See if you can find a boot tread. Keep your eyes open for clothing or a wallet.”
“Will do, Chief.” Glock and T.J. start toward the trees.
I turn to Doc Coblentz, who is standing next to the body. “Any idea who she is?” I ask.
“I don’t recognize her.” The doc removes his mittens, slides his chubby fingers into latex gloves. He grunts as he kneels.
“Any idea how long she’s been dead?”
“Hard to tell because of the cold.” He lifts her arm. Red grooves mark her wrist. The surrounding flesh is bruised and smeared with blood. “Her hands were bound,” he says.
I look at the scored flesh. She’d struggled violently to get free. “With wire?”
“That would be my guess.”
Her painted fingernails tell me she’s not Amish. I notice two nails on her right hand are broken to the quick. She’d fought back. I make a mental note to get nail scrapings.
“Rigor has set in,” the doc says. “She’s been dead at least eight hours. Judging from the ice crystals on the mucous membranes, probably closer to ten. Once I get her to the hospital, I’ll get a core body temp. Body temp drops a degree to a degree and a half per hour, so a core will narrow down TOD.” He releases her hand.
His finger hovers above the purple flesh of her cheek. “Lividity in the face here.” He looks up at me. His glasses are fogged. His eyes appear huge behind the thick lenses. “Did someone move her?” he asks.
I nod, but I don’t mention who. “What about cause of death?”
Removing a penlight from his inside pocket, the doctor peels back an eyelid and shines it into her eye. “No petechial hemorrhages.”
“So she wasn’t strangled.”
“Right.” Gently, he sets his hand beneath her chin and shifts her head to the left. Her lips part, and I notice two of her front teeth are broken to the gum line. He turns her head to the right and the wound on her throat gapes like a bloody mouth.
“Throat was cut,” the doc says.
“Any idea what kind of weapon made the wound?”
“Something sharp. With no serration. No obvious sign of tearing. Not a slash or it would be longer and more shallow on the edges. Hard to tell in this light.” Gently, he rolls her body to one side.
My eyes skim the corpse. Her left shoulder is covered with bright red abrasions or possibly burns. More of the same appear on her left buttock. Both knees are abraded as well as the tops of her feet. The skin at both ankles is the color of ripe eggplant. The flesh isn’t laid open like her wrists, but her feet had definitely been bound.
My heart drops into my stomach when I notice more blood on her abdomen, just above her navel. Obscured within the dark smear is something I’ve seen before. Something I’ve imagined a thousand times in my nightmares. “What about that?”
“Good God.” The doctor’s voice quivers. “It looks like something carved into her flesh.”
“Hard to make out what it is.” But in that instant I’m certain we both know. Neither of us wants to say it aloud.
The doc leans closer, so that his face is less than a foot from the wound. “Looks like two X’s and three I’s.”