Page 61 of Sworn to Silence
“Looks like the Roman numeral XXII,” Glock says.
“It’s him,” Detrick whispers. “He’s back. After all this time.”
I want to scream and rail that it’s not possible.I shot him! He’s fucking dead!
The doc sighs. “Help me roll her over.”
Glock kneels beside the doc, sets both gloved hands gently, almost reverently on the woman’s hip. The doc takes her shoulder and the men roll her onto her stomach. I snap several more shots.
“God in heaven.”
The shock in the doctor’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. I lower the camera. That’s when I notice the small object protruding from between her buttocks.
Detrick steps back. “Good Lord.”
Glock rises to his full height.
The doctor touches the small protrusion that hadn’t been visible before, but does not remove it from her body. “Some type of foreign object.”
Revulsion shudders through me.
“Let’s get this poor child zipped in.” He places the bag next to the body and smoothes it with gloved hands. With Glock’s help, the two men roll her onto it.
As the black vinyl is zipped, something inside me breaks loose. I’m not usually squeamish, but my stomach roils. I feel eyes on me as I snap off my gloves. I remove my shoe covers, yank off the gown and toss all of it into the biohazard bag someone hung on the doorknob. I sense Detrick staring at me, but I don’t look at him as I brush past him and rush from the room.
My vision dims as I stagger down the hall and into the kitchen. I curse when I see John Tomasetti standing on the back porch in his long black coat and city slicker shoes. He looks at me oddly as I push open the door. He says something as I pass by him, but I’m too upset to comprehend the words.
Cold air bites through the sweat on my face. Vaguely, I’m aware of the ambulance parked in the driveway, the engine rumbling. At the end of the lane a ProNews 16 van idles, exhaust billowing into the frigid air. I see a Holmes County cruiser parked next to Glock’s city car. I’m not sure where I’m going until I yank open the door of the Explorer and slide behind the wheel. I hear my ragged breaths tearing from my throat. I feel like crying, but I’ve deprived myself that outlet for so many years I can’t. I haven’t eaten yet today, but stomach acid rushes hotly to my mouth. I swing open the door and throw up in the snow.
After a moment, the nausea passes. Slamming the door, I put my hands on the wheel and lay my forehead on them. A tap on my window nearly sends me out of my skin. I open my eyes to see the suit from BCI standing outside the Explorer, his expression as inscrutable as stone. He’s the last person I want to talk to, but as has been the case as of late, I don’t have a choice.
Instead of rolling down the window, I swing open the door, forcing him back a step.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Peachy. I enjoy throwing up.” I slide out and slam the door. “What the hell do you think?”
He’s amused, and that’s pissing me off. For a moment the only sound comes from the tinkle of sleet against the ground. I’m cold and shivering and it takes some effort to keep my teeth from chattering.
“They’re taking the body to the morgue,” he says. “Thought you might want to know.”
I nod, get my temper under control. “Thanks.”
He glances over his shoulder toward the news van. “Vultures smell blood.”
“Once word of this second murder hits the airwaves, we’ll be seeing a lot more of them.”
“You might consider holding a press conference. That way you can deal with them on your terms. Nip any rumors in the bud.”
It’s a good idea. I’ve been so immersed in the case, I hadn’t considered the media end of it. “I’ll get something going.”
He stares hard at me, a bad-cop look that has probably convinced more than one recalcitrant suspect to spill his guts. “Look, I know you don’t want me here—”
“This has nothing to do with you personally,” I cut in.
“That’s the same thing they said about you.” He looks amused again. “Politics sucks, huh?”
“Something like that.”
