“What club?”
“The Brass Rail.”
My officers have been called there on several occasions. The place draws a young crowd high on hormones and booze and God only knows what else. “What’s Connie’s last name?”
“Spencer.”
I pull a pad from my pocket and jot. “What time did Amanda leave here?”
“Seven-thirty or so. She was always running late. Waited till the last minute to do everything.” She squeezes her eyes closed and chokes back a sob. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Did Amanda have a boyfriend?”
“No. She was such a good girl. So young and pretty. Smart, too. Smarter than me and her daddy put together.” She looks at me, her mouth trembling. “She was going back to college this fall.”
I have no words to console her.
“Do you mind if we take a look at her room?” I ask.
She gives me a thousand-yard stare.
“Could you show us her room, ma’am?” Glock asks quietly.
Keening softly, she shuffles toward the hall. I follow close behind. We pass a tiny bathroom. I see pink towels with lace and a matching shower curtain. She stops at the next door, pushes it open. “This is her room. Her things.” Her body convulses with sobs. “Oh, my baby. My poor, sweet baby girl.”
I step past her and try to assess what I see with the unbiased eye of a cop. Not easy to do when the grief in the room is so palpable you can’t breathe.
The bed is a twin. Unmade. With lacy pink sheets and a matching comforter. Little-girl bedclothes, I think. Probably had them since she was a kid.
A lamp, alarm clock and several framed photographs sit atop the single night table. I cross to it and pick up a photo of Amanda and a young man. “Who’s this?”
Belinda blinks back tears. “Donny Beck.”
“Boyfriend?”
She nods. “Ex. He was crazy about Amanda.”
“Was she serious about him?”
“She liked him, but not as much as he liked her.”
I exchange looks with Glock. Another photo depicts Amanda atop a sorrel horse, grinning as if she’d just won the Kentucky Derby.
“She loves horses.” Belinda Horner looks as if she’s aged ten years in five minutes. Her eyes and cheeks are sunken, her makeup streaked down her face like that of a sad clown. “Harold and I bought her riding lessons for her high school graduation. We couldn’t really afford it. But she loved it so much.”
I replace the photo. “Did she keep a diary, ma’am? Journal? Anything like that?”
“Not that I know of.” She picks up a ratty-looking stuffed bear and smells it. Hugging the bear, she bursts into tears.
I look around, hoping to spot something—anything—that will tell me more about Amanda Horner. Being as unobtrusive as possible, I look through the night table. Finding nothing, I move to the dresser and quickly rifle through T-shirts and jeans, socks and underwear.
The sound of a car door slamming outside alerts me that Harold Horner has arrived home. Without speaking, Belinda rushes from the room. “Harold!
I look at Glock. “Jesus.”
He shakes his head. “Yeah.”
I enter the living room as the front door bursts open.
“I got here as fast as I could.” Harold Horner is a large man. Wearing a red flannel shirt and denim jacket, he looks like a lumberjack. He is bald with the rough hands of a workingman. I notice his eyes are the same color as his daughter’s. He scans the faces in the room. “Where’s Amanda?”
Showing him my badge, I identify myself. “I’m afraid we have some bad news about your daughter, sir.”
“Aw, Jesus. Aw, God. What happened? What’s going on?”
“She’s dead,” Belinda Horner blurts. “Our baby is dead. Oh Harold, dear God.” He goes to her and she collapses in his arms.
I drop Glock at the station with instructions to head over to the Brass Rail. I’d rather do that myself; I’ve never been good at delegating. But I need to speak with Doc Coblentz. Revisiting the dead is one responsibility I won’t put on my officers.
Earlier, Glock completed the tedious task of lifting tire tread and footwear impressions at the crime scene. Mona couriered everything to the Bureau of Criminal Investigation and Identification lab in London, Ohio, which is over a hundred miles away. A courier fee isn’t in the budget, but I can’t spare an officer. I’ll pay for it out of my own pocket if necessary.
The lab will scan each impression and imprint into a computer and run a comparison analysis, matching impressions at the scene against the imprints of the first responders. It’s a long shot, but I’m hoping one impression will stand out and give us our first clue as to the identity of the killer.
It’s almost noon by the time I park adjacent the main entrance of Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg. I pass the information desk and take the elevator to the basement. A yellow and black biohazard sign glares at me as I go through the swinging doors. Doc Coblentz sits at a desk inside a glassed-in office where the miniblinds are open. He spots me and rises. Wearing a white lab coat and baggy tan trousers, he looks like an aging Pillsbury doughboy.
“Chief.” He extends his hand and we shake. “The parents were here a few minutes ago and identified her.” He shakes his head. “Nice family. Sad as hell to see something like this happen.”
“They see the chaplain?”
“Father Zimmerman took them to the chapel.” With a nod, he’s ready to get down to business. “I haven’t done the autopsy yet. All I have for you is a prelim.”
“I’ll take whatever you have.” The thought of seeing Amanda Horner’s body fills me with dread. But my need for hard facts overrides that human frailty. Right now, information is my most powerful tool. I want to catch the son of a bitch who did this. There is a part of me that wants to pull out my sidearm and fire a round into his face so he can’t put anyone else through the hell he’s putting the Horners through.
That need drives me forward when the doctor motions to a small alcove. “Grab a gown and shoe covers on the shelf there,” he says. “I’ll take your coat.”
Reluctantly, I relinquish my parka. He hangs it on a hook outside the door. Quickly, I don a sterile gown, slip the disposable shoe covers over my boots and leave the alcove.
Doc Coblentz motions toward the adjoining room labeled with a larger biohazard sign. “It’s not pretty,” he says.
“Murder never is.”
We go through another set of swinging doors and enter the autopsy room. Though it’s equipped with a separate ventilation system from the rest of the building, I discern the smell of formalin and an array of other, darker odors I don’t want to identify. Four stainless steel gurneys are parked against the far wall. A huge scale used for weighing bodies stands in the center. A smaller scale used for weighing individual organs squats on the stainless steel counter along with an assortment of trays, bottles and instruments.
The doc snags a clipboard from a shelf and takes me to the fifth gurney, the only one in use. He pulls down the sheet and Amanda Horner’s face comes into view. Her skin is gray now. Someone closed her eyes, but the left lid has come back up. A sticky-looking film coats the eyeball.
Sighing, Doc Coblentz shakes his head. “This poor child endured a horrible death, Kate.”
“Torture?”
“Yes.”
I steel myself against a slow rise of outrage. “Do you know the cause of death?”
“Exsanguination more than likely.”
“Any idea what kind of knife he used?”
“Something damn sharp. No serration. Probably short-bladed.” Using a long wooden swab with a cotton tip,
