“Or the Roman numeral twenty-three,” I finish.
He looks at me and in his eyes I see the same horror and disbelief I feel clenching my chest. “It’s been sixteen years since I’ve seen anything like it,” he whispers.
Staring at the bloody carving on this young woman’s body, I’m filled with a revulsion so deep I shiver.
After a moment, Doc Coblentz leans back on his heels. Shaking his head, he motions toward the marks on her buttocks, the broken fingernails and teeth. “Someone put her through a lot.”
Outrage and a fear I don’t want to acknowledge sweep through me. “Was she sexually assaulted?”
My heart pounds as he shines the pen light onto her pubis. I see blood on the insides of her thighs and shudder inwardly.
“Looks like it.” He shakes his head. “I’ll know more once I get her to the morgue. Hopefully the son of a bitch left us a DNA sample.”
The fist twisting my gut warns me it isn’t going to be that easy.
Looking down at the body, I wonder what kind of monster could do this to a young woman with so much life ahead. I wonder how many lives will be destroyed by her death. The coffee has gone bitter on my tongue. I’m no longer cold. I’m deeply offended and angered by the brutality of what I see. Worse, I’m afraid.
“Will you bag her hands for me, Doc?”
“Sure.”
“How soon can you do an autopsy?”
Coblentz braces his hands on his knees and shoves himself to his feet. “I’ll shuffle some appointments and do it today.”
We stand in the wind and cold and try in vain not to think about what this woman endured before her death.
“He killed her somewhere else.” I glance at the drag marks. “No sign of a struggle. If he’d cut her throat here, there’d be more blood.”
The doctor nods. “Hemorrhage ceases when the heart stops. She was probably already dead when he dumped her. More than likely the blood here is residual that leaked from that neck wound.”
I think of the people who must have loved her. Parents. Husband. Children. And I am saddened. “This wasn’t a crime of passion.”
“The person who did this took his time.” The doctor’s eyes meet mine. “This was calculated. Organized.”
I know what he’s thinking. I see it in the depths of his eyes. I know because I’m thinking the very same thing.
“Just like before,” the doctor finishes.
CHAPTER 3
Snow swirls in the beams of the headlights as I turn the Explorer onto the long and narrow lane that will take us to the Stutz farm. Next to me, T.J. is reticent. He’s my youngest officer—just twenty-four years old—and more sensitive than he would ever admit. Not that sensitivity in a cop is a bad thing, but I can tell finding the body has shaken him.
“Hell of a way to start the week.” I force a smile.
“Tell me about it.”
I want to draw him out, but I’m not great at small talk. “So, are you okay?”
“Me? I’m good.” He looks embarrassed by my question and troubled by the images I know are still rolling around inside his head.
“Seeing something like that . . .” I give him my best cop-to-cop look. “It can be tough.”
“I’ve seen shit before,” he says defensively. “I was first on the scene when Houseman had that head on and killed that family from Cincinnati.”
I wait, hoping he’ll open up.
He looks out the window, wipes his palms on his uniform slacks. In my peripheral vision I see him glance my way. “You ever see anything like that, Chief?”
He’s asking about the eight years I was a cop in Columbus. “Nothing this bad.”
“He broke her teeth. Raped her. Cut her throat.” He blows out a breath, like a pressure cooker releasing steam. “Damn.”
At thirty, I’m not that much older than T.J., but glancing over at his youthful profile, I feel ancient. “You did okay.”
He stares out the window and I know he doesn’t want me to see his expression. “I screwed up the crime scene.”
“It’s not like you were expecting to walk up on a dead body.”
“Footwear impressions might have been helpful.”
“We still might be able to lift something.” It’s an optimistic offering. “I walked in those drag marks, too. It happens.”
“You think Stutz knows something about the murder?” he asks.
Isaac Stutz and his family are Amish. A culture I’m intimately acquainted with because I was born Amish in this very town a lifetime ago.
I make an effort not to let my prejudices and preconceived notions affect my judgment. But I know Isaac personally, and I’ve always thought of him as a decent, hardworking man. “I don’t think he had anything to do with the murder,” I say. “But someone in the family might have seen something.”
“So we’re just going to question him?”
“I’m going to question him.”