Sworn to Silence (20 page)

Death is a terrible thing, but murder is worse. No matter how many times I see it, the ugliness and senselessness of it frighten me on some primal level. My speedometer hits eighty miles per hour on the highway, but I slow to a reasonable speed once I reach Thigpen Road because it’s slick with snow. The Huffman place is down a short lane and surrounded by skeletal trees, like bony fingers holding the place together.

I turn the Explorer in to the driveway and follow the tire tracks to the rear of the house. Ronnie Stedt and a teenaged girl I don’t recognize huddle inside a pickup truck.

Jamming the Explorer into Park, I swing open the door. The kids disembark and rush toward me.

“What happened?” I ask.

Stedt’s face is the color of paste. His eyes are glassy. He stops a couple of feet away and I smell vomit. “There’s a dead person inside.”

I look at the female. Her cheeks are bright red and streaked with mascara. She looks a lot tougher than Ronnie Stedt. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“J-Jess Hardiman.”

“Is there anyone else in the house?” I slide my .38 from its holster.

“Just the . . . body.”

“Where?”

“B-bedroom.”

“Stay here. If you see something or get scared, get in the truck and hit the horn, okay?”

Both heads bob.

I jog to the back door and shove it open. The house smells of death and marijuana. An old Led Zeppelin song blares from a radio on the counter. My nerves crawl like worms beneath my skin. Fear runs thick in my veins as I enter the living room. I don’t think there’s anyone in the house. But I’m afraid of what waits ahead.

I move into the hall. It’s narrow and dark. The smell is stronger here. Blood and feces laced with the underlying stench of putrefaction. I sidestep a puddle of vomit. To my left, the bedroom door stands open. I don’t want to look, but I can’t stop. I see a horribly bloated corpse. Brown skin stretched impossibly tight. Hair matted and hanging down. Breasts drooping like wrinkled fruit. Ankles bound and chained to a beam in the ceiling. Black feet. A wet, black tongue protruding between swollen lips.

A sound escapes me as I stumble backward into the hall. My breaths come shallow and fast. My stomach roils, and my mouth fills with bile. Footsteps sound behind me. I swing around, my gun rising.

Glock halts, his hands come up. “Jesus Christ, it’s me.”

“Goddamnit.” I lower my weapon. “I almost plugged you.”

His gaze flicks down the hall. “Scene clear?”

I shake my head because I can’t find my voice. I’m dangerously close to throwing up.

He moves past me and peers into the bedroom. “Holy hell.”

While Glock clears the rest of the house, I struggle to pull myself together. By the time he meets me in the hall, I have my cop’s coat of armor back in place.

“It’s clear,” he says.

I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, as if he thinks I’m going to lose it. “Damn it, Glock, I should have asked Detrick to assist,” I manage. “I should have formed a task force.”

“Even if you had, it wouldn’t have prevented this. She’s been there a while. Fuckin’ hindsight.”

I walk into the living room. Behind me I hear him speaking into his radio. Through the kitchen window, I see Ronnie Stedt and his girlfriend standing where I left them.

Glock comes up beside me. “Pickles and Skid are on the way.”

I nod toward the teenagers. “We need to talk to them. I’ll take the Stedt boy.”

“Chick looks tough.”

“You’re tougher.”

“I’m a Marine,” he says, as if that explains everything.

I go through the back door and approach Ronnie Stedt. The air smells incredibly clean and I gulp it like water. He looks at me, then quickly glances away. “Come here,” I say.

Glock ushers the girl toward his cruiser. Ronnie watches them walk away and gets a scared-little-boy look on his face.

“You okay?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I never seen anything like that in my life.”

I motion toward the Explorer. “Let’s get out of the cold.”

Casting a final glance at his girlfriend, he trails me to the Explorer. I put him in the passenger seat, then climb behind the wheel. “You need a smoke?” I ask.

“I don’t smoke.” He heaves a sigh. “Cigarettes, anyway.”

“I’m going to let you slide on the pot.”

“Thanks.”

I start the engine and turn on the heater. “What were you doing here?”

“Nothin’.”

I make eye contact, but he looks away. “You’re not in any trouble,” I say. “I just need to know how you found that body.”

Looking thoroughly busted, he shakes his head. “We skipped school. We were just going to hang out.” He shrugs. “I can’t believe this happened.”

“Was there anyone here when you arrived?” I ask.

“No.”

“Did you touch anything? Move anything?”

“We just walked in. Drank a beer. Then we saw that . . . 
thing
in the bedroom. Jesus . . .”

Their level of shock and genuine fear indicates these kids had nothing to do with what happened. “Do your folks know you’re here?”

He shakes his head. “My dad’s going to kill me.”

“I’ll leave the explaining up to you.” I see a cell phone clipped to his belt. “You need to call them right now.”

Sighing, he reaches for his phone.

I dial Doc Coblentz’s number from memory. “We need you out at the Huffman place on Thigpen Road,” I say.

“Tell me this is about a car accident or heart attack.”

“I wish I could.”

“Good God.” A heavy sigh hisses through the line. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I stand in the bedroom of the old house with Doc Coblentz and Glock, and we try not to stare at what’s left of the woman hanging from the rafter. Doc digs into his field kit, pulls out a foil packet of mentholated petroleum jelly and hands it to me. “This’ll help.”

I tear open the packet and dab it below my nostrils. I offer it to Glock, but he shakes his head. “My mom gave me that stuff when I was a kid. Can’t stand the smell.”

Under different circumstances I might have laughed. This morning, I merely fold down the top of the packet and put it in my coat pocket.

We’ve donned shoe covers and plastic gowns, not only to preserve the scene but to protect us from biohazard. “Judging from the amount of blood,” the doc begins, “I’d say he killed her here.”

“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 murderers
want
to 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.

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.”