Sworn to Silence

he indicates the cut on her neck. “This is the fatal wound. Sharp force injury is clearly visible. You can see that the wound path is relatively short.” He glances at the clipboard. “Eight point one centimeters.”

“Is that significant?”

“It tells me he knew where to cut to hit the artery.”

“Medical training?”

“Or maybe he’s done it before.”

Because I don’t want to address that, I go to my next question. “How did he initially subdue her? Drugs? What?”

“I’ll run a tox screen.” He looks at me over the tops of his glasses. “But I think he may have used a stun gun.”

“How can you tell?”

Slipping his chubby hands into disposable gloves, he tugs the sheet down to her abdomen.

I’ve been a cop for almost ten years. I’ve seen shootings. Bloody domestic disputes. Horrific traffic accidents. It still disturbs me to see the dead up close and personal. Fear of death is a primal response built into all of us to varying degrees. No matter how much I’ve seen, I’ll never get used to it.

“See these red marks?” he asks.

My eyes follow the swab. Sure enough, two small round abrasion-like dots mar the skin at her left shoulder. Two more appear on her chest, above her right breast. Another stands out on her left bicep. If I wasn’t looking at the body of a murder victim, I could almost convince myself I was looking at a cluster of chicken pox, or some other benign blemish. But as a cop I know these marks are much more sinister.

“Abrasions?” I look closer. “Burns?”

“Burns.”

“Most stun guns don’t leave marks.”

“You’re right,” he concedes. “That’s particularly true if it’s applied through clothing.”

“So he hit her with it when she was nude?”

He lifts his shoulders. “Probably. But these marks are not consistent with what I’ve seen in the past.”

“What are you getting at?”

“These burns are more substantial. I think the voltage or amperage of the stun gun was tampered with.”

I look at the marks and try not to shudder. Ten years ago I attended the police academy in Columbus. As part of our training, any cadet brave enough to volunteer was hit with a stun gun. Because I was curious, I volunteered. Even though the amperage was set low, it knocked me on my ass. It incapacitated me for a full minute. And it hurt like hell. I couldn’t imagine being at the mercy of some psychopath with a souped-up stunner.

“You think the stun gun is some kind of homemade job?” I ask.

“Or modified.” He nods. “Whatever the case, she was hit with it multiple times.”

I look at the scored flesh on her wrists. A quiver runs through my stomach when I see the white of bone. “What the hell did he bind her with?”

“Some type of wire. For quite some time, evidently.” He shakes his head so vigorously his jowls jiggle. “She struggled.”

Painters Mill is located in the heart of farm country. Many farmers grow and cut hay, so there’s plenty of baling wire around. Even if we identified the type, it would be impossible to trace.

The doctor lifts the sheet. “He used some type of chain on her ankles. Large links with some rust present. Judging from these bruises, he strung her up when she was still alive.”

The image my mind conjures is too horrific to contemplate. All I can think is that we’re not dealing with a human being. We’re not even dealing with an animal. Only true evil could inflict these kinds of horrors.

With the impersonal enthusiasm of the scientist he is, the doc removes the sheet completely. I mentally brace as Amanda Horner’s body comes into view. I see multiple burns and abrasions on gray flesh. I’m not squeamish, but my stomach feels jittery. I’m aware of my heart beating too fast. Saliva pooling in my mouth. I know what the doc is going to say next, and my eyes are drawn to the carving on her abdomen, above her navel.

The wound has been cleaned. The XXIII carved into her flesh is unmistakable. Realizing I’m holding my breath, I exhale.

“You need water, Kate?”

The question annoys me, but I resist the urge to snap. “Did you get photos?”

“Yes.”

My eyes go to the faint bruising on the insides of her thighs. “She was sexually assaulted?”

“There was minute vaginal tearing. Some anal tearing as well. I also found evidence of burns around the anus, probably from some type of electrical charge. I took swabs, but I don’t think there was any semen left behind.”

“What about hair or fibers?”

“No and no.”

“So he wore a condom.”

“A lubricated condom, actually. I found traces of glycerin and methylparaben inside her vagina and around the anus.”

I consider that. “How can a guy get close enough to rape and not leave hair behind?”

“I have two hypotheses on that.”

“Lay them on me.”

“He could have shaved his body hair. Wouldn’t be the first time a serial rapist has gone to those lengths to avoid the risk of leaving DNA behind.”

“And the second?”

“He could have raped her using some type of foreign object. I may know more when I get my swabs back from the lab.”

“So, our guy might know something about forensics and evidence.”

“Who doesn’t these days?” He shrugs. “People watch CSI. Everyone’s an expert.”

“Put a rush on the lab, will you?”

“You bet I will.”

Some of the tension leaves me when the doc drapes the sheet over the body. “What about time of death?”

“I took a core body temp as soon as I got her here, which was at three-fifty-three this morning.” The doc looks at the clipboard. “Liver temp was 83.6 degrees Fahrenheit. My best estimate on time of death is going to be between four and seven P.M. yesterday afternoon.”

Belinda Horner told me the last time she saw Amanda was around seven-thirty P.M. Saturday, so she was abducted at some point after that. “If he abducted her sometime Saturday night, he had her for quite a while before he killed her.” The thought sickens me. Makes me want to get my hands on the sick bastard responsible and forget I’m a cop.

“I’m afraid so.” He gestures toward the body. “Whoever did this took his time with her, Kate. He wasn’t in a hurry and kept her alive for a while.”

I try to keep my voice level. “So, he probably took her to a place where he felt safe. A place where he knew he wouldn’t be overheard.” There are a lot of places like that in farm country, where houses are often more than a mile apart.

I look at the doc. “Was she gagged?”

“Not that I can tell. No sign of tape residue. No visible fibers in her mouth.” He grimaces. “She bit her tongue.”

He listened to her scream, I think. “So he has a place that’s private. A place he can come and go as he pleases. A place that’s desolate where no one could hear her.”

“Or a house with a basement or soundproof room.”

The need to move, to work this case, pumps through me with an intensity that’s almost manic. My mind whirls with all the things I need to do. The people I need to question. I must decide which tasks to delegate and which to take on myself. I’m going to need the help of all my officers. I’ll need to call in my auxiliary officer, too. My