Page 64 of Sworn to Silence
I don’t know much about the dynamics of electricity. I do know it can be used for torture. While in the academy, I remember reading about the Mexican drug cartels using those kinds of tactics when they wanted to make an example of someone.
I look at the doc. I see the same outrage and disbelief in his eyes that I feel clenching my chest. “So this killer may have some electrical experience. At the very least, he tinkers.” It’s much too benign a word for a person who designed an instrument of torture. Tinkering is the kind of thing your dad does on Sunday afternoons in the garage. Monsters don’t tinker.
“This explains the burns Amanda Horner sustained.”
“Yes.”
“Why would he leave it?” I wonder aloud. But in the back of my mind, I know. He’s proud of this vile device. Hewantedus to find it.
The doc shakes his head. “That’s your area, Kate, not mine. I can definitively tell you he tortured her with this, probably with an electrical charge.”
For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the hum of the refrigeration units. I try to rally my thoughts, get my questions in order, but my mind doesn’t cooperate. “I’ll add that to the profile we’re building.”
I stare at the deep grooves cut into her wrists. The bloated abdomen. Her hands and feet. I try to see her as she must have been when she was alive. That’s when it strikes me that neither her nails or toenails are painted. This woman is totally unadorned. No highlights in her hair. Her earlobes aren’t pierced. No jewelry.
She is plain.
A dozen vehicles jam the street in front of the police station when I pull up. I see a ProNews 16 van parked in my reserved space and I’m forced to park half a block away. I slap a citation beneath his wiper on my way in.
Inside, the place is a madhouse. Both Lois and Mona stand at the dispatch station, manning a switchboard gone wild. T.J. sits at his cube, the phone to his ear, his back to the room. Glock slouches in his chair in his cubicle, his fingers pecking at the keyboard. I wonder where Skid and Pickles are, and realize they’re probably still at the Huffman place.
Steve Ressler spots me. His cheeks glow red as he rushes toward me. “Is it true there was a second murder?”
“Yes.” I don’t stop walking.
He keeps pace with me. “Who’s the victim? Has she been identified? Has the family been notified? Is it the same killer?”
“I gotta work, Steve,” I say. “Press conference at six.”
He tosses a dozen more questions at me, but I push past him and head to my office.
“Chief!” Mona’s hair is wilder than usual. Heavy on the eyeliner. Pink shadow. Clashing red lipstick. She’s ready for the cameras.
“How long has it been like this?” I ask.
“A few hours. I stayed to help Lois.”
“I appreciate that.” Across the room, Steve Ressler gives me the evil eye. “Everyone behaving?”
“Ressler’s a pushy asshole. Norm Johnston’s off the chart.”
“Tell anyone who asks there’s a press conference at six in the high school auditorium.”
“Gotcha.”
In my office, I flip on my computer and grab a cup of coffee while it boots. My phone rings. I look at it to see all four lines blinking in discord. Ignoring all of them, I dial Lois.
“Did you check missing persons reports?” I ask.
“Nothing, Chief.”
I think about the young woman at the morgue. I should be surprised no one has reported her missing. But I’m not. “Remind everyone of the meeting at four.”
“You mean the one that was supposed to start ten minutes ago?”
“And send Glock in, will you?”
“Sure.”
