Page 59 of Sworn to Silence
“Why change his MO?” I wonder aloud.
Glock jumps in with a theory. “Maximum effect.”
The doc and I both look at him. I’m no expert on serial killers; my experience is limited to a handful of murders I worked in Columbus. But I agree with Glock’s hypothesis. Whoever did this wanted to terrify. He wanted to show us the carnage he’s capable of. I’ve read that many serial murdererswantto be caught. Not because they want to go to jail, but so they can claim ownership of their handiwork.
“He knew he wouldn’t be disturbed here,” I say.
“The closest neighbor is a mile away,” Glock adds.
I don’t want to look at the victim, but my eyes are drawn to her. Putrefaction has set in. Gases have built up inside the body, bloating it to nearly beyond recognition. The skin is mostly black with small patches tinted green. It’s the face that bothers me most. The eyes are gone completely. The wetlooking, black tongue sticks out between broken teeth.
I address Glock. “We need photos before we move her.”
“I’ll grab the Polaroid.” He leaves with a little too much enthusiasm.
Ten minutes ago, the parents of the teenagers arrived to pick up their children. Ronnie Stedt’s father tried to force his way into the house. Luckily, Glock was there to stop him. I explained to him that the area was a crime scene and the most helpful thing he could do was take his son to the police station where T.J. was waiting to take statements and fingerprints. On the outside chance we find latents here at the scene, we’ll be able to rule them out.
Frightened parents and traumatized teenagers are the least of my worries. Fifteen minutes ago, I called the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office and officially asked for assistance. I’m sure the suit from Columbus will be arriving soon. Already, I feel control of the case careening from my grasp.
Skid and Pickles are outside, setting up a perimeter. Once the crime scene tape is in place, they’ll conduct a search of the barns and outbuildings. They’ll also look for footprints and tire tracks. But with the snow coming down in earnest now, chances are slim that they’ll find anything useful.
Glock returns with the Polaroid. A mixture of snow and sleet patters against the windows as he begins snapping photos. The whir of the tiny motor seems unduly loud in the silence. The house is freezing cold. I wear several layers of clothing and long johns beneath my slacks, but I’m chilled to my bones.
“How long do you think she’s been here?” I ask.
Doc Coblentz shakes his head. “Hard to tell, Kate. Temperature is going to be a factor.”
“She looks frozen solid.”
“She is now. But if you’ll recall, two weeks ago we had a few days that were well above freezing.”
I remember; the temperature rose into the low fifties for almost a week before an arctic cold front blasted through. “So she’s been here a while.”
“I would venture to say that this body is in stage three decomposition. There’s quite a bit of bloating. The greenish hue of early putrefaction is giving way to black putrefaction. That stage usually takes four to ten days.” He shrugs. “But in these temperatures, that time frame would have been lengthened substantially. This time of year there’s little or no insect activity, which also plays a huge role in the decomposition process.”
“What’s your best guess?”
“Two weeks, maybe three.”
Two women in three weeks is all I can think. That this killer has come out of obscurity and escalated to this level so quickly is rare. What triggered the escalation?
I step closer to the corpse. I see hair matted with dried blood. Her bowels had released at some point and feces dribbled down her back to puddle on the floor. I can feel my heart hammering, a low buzz inside my head. “Was she alive when he hung her up?”
“Judging from the amount of blood on the floor, I would say her heart was still beating.”
“What about the wound?” I ask.
The doc looks at Glock. “Did you get a shot of the blood on the floor?” Glock nods. “Got it.”
Coblentz steps into the biohazard, leaving a footprint. Though he wears two pairs of latex gloves, I cringe when he touches the body at the jawline to expose the wound. “I’ll have a better idea once I get her to the morgue, but upon preliminary inspection the wound looks very similar to that of the first victim. See here? It’s short. Deep with smooth edges. Doesn’t look like the blade was serrated.”
I try to look at the body with the unaffected eye of a cop. I owe that to this young woman. To this town. I owe it to myself. But my emotions and the revulsion inside me are like a beast pounding its cage door.
For an hour, we work the scene in grim silence. I’m in the process of bagging the victim’s hands when movement at the door snags my attention. I look up to see Sheriff Nathan Detrick standing just inside the room, looking like a man who’s just been struck by lightning.
“Holy God almighty,” he says, his gaze fastened to the corpse.
I met him once, briefly, in the two years I’ve been chief. He’s a beefy man of about fifty years. A weight lifter, I’m sure. Maybe a runner. But his age is beginning to take a toll on a body that was once the envy of every over-forty male in some testosterone-laden gym. His head is bald, but it suits him. I find myself wondering if he shaves his scalp to hide male pattern baldness or if it’s a natural state.
