Page 60 of Sworn to Silence
He doesn’t give me time to ponder. “Looks like you got one hell of a mess on your hands.”
I snap off my latex gloves as he crosses to me. He sticks out his hand. Though the task I’d been doing is macabre, he doesn’t hesitate when we shake. “Nathan Detrick at your service.”
His grip is firm, but not bone-crunching and I give him points for that. His eyes are electric blue, his stare level and direct. His presence is surprisingly reassuring, and for the first time I realize I don’t want to shoulder the weight of this case alone.
“Thanks for coming.” I see intelligence in his eyes, and I know he’s summing me up, making judgments. Touché.
“We’ve met.” He stops pumping, but doesn’t let go of my hand.
“The Fairlawn Retirement Home benefit, last Christmas,” I say.
“Of course. I remember now. Prime rib. Tough as hell.”
“And Santa got juiced.”
He counters with a belly laugh. “We raised some money for a good cause, though, didn’t we?”
I nod, but our small talk is minimized by what we face at this moment.
He releases my hand and turns his attention to the body. “I read your press release. I can’t believe that slaughterhouse son of a bitch is back.”
“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.
