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.”
He’s still staring at me. A stare so intense I grow uncomfortable beneath it. “I’m a pretty good cop,” he says. “I’m here. You may as well use me. I might even be able to help.”
He’s right, of course. But the thought of this man poking around in this case sends a shiver through me. My ensuing silence is all the answer he needs.
Giving me a final look, Tomasetti turns and starts toward a black Tahoe parked near the road. I watch him walk away, his words echoing in my ears.
CHAPTER 15
It’s nearly three P.M. when I leave the Huffman place. I feel like I’ve spent the morning in hell. Three hours at the scene have wrung me out until there’s nothing left. On the outskirts of Millersburg, I call Lois. I can tell by her voice she’s stressed. “We got media here, Chief. I swear to God these people are curling my hair.”
I don’t tell her there are probably more on the way. “I need you to set up a press conference.”
“You’re going to invite
“You know what they say about keeping your enemies close.”
“You are a glutton for punishment.”
“Let’s do it at the high school auditorium. Six o’clock.”
“You got it.”
“Call all of my officers and tell them we’re meeting at four o’clock. The room you set up. That’s going to be our command center.” I name each member of my small force, including Mona. “Notify Detrick and Tomasetti, too.”
“Tomasetti that Mafia-looking guy?”
Her description elicits a smile. “And check to see if there have been any missing persons reports filed. White female. Twenty to thirty years old. Blonde. Start with the five-county area. If you don’t find anything there, go to Columbus, Wheeling, Massillon, Canton, Newark, Zanesville—”
“Slow down.”
“Steubenville. Check with county and city agencies.”
“Okay, I got it.”
“Patch me through to T.J., will you?”
The line clicks. T.J. picks up an instant later. “Hey, Chief.”
“Did you get the statements from the teenagers?”
“Lois is typing them now.”
“Anything on Patrick Ewell?” Ewell was the man who paid cash for a box of condoms at the Super Value Grocery.
“I ran a background.” Paper rattles. “Ewell, Patrick Henry. Thirty-six years old. Lives on Parkersburg Road with his wife, Marsha, and two teenage kids. No record. No arrests. Not even a frickin’ speeding ticket.” The pitch of T.J.’s voice changes. “Get this, Chief. He works at the slaughterhouse.”
It’s a tenuous connection, but I’m just desperate enough to follow up. “Find out what he does there. And find out if he was at the Brass Rail on Saturday.”
“You got it.”
I’d rather talk to Ewell myself, but I need to get the second victim identified first. “See if there’s a connection between Ewell and Amanda Horner.”
“Okay.”
I consider everything we know about Ewell. “Why would a married man with two grown kids buy a box of condoms?”
“Uh, birth control?”
“You’d think for a couple married that long, they’d have a better method.”
T.J. clears his throat. That a man of twenty-four years is embarrassed by such talk fills me with hope that the world is not as bleak as it feels at the moment. “Thanks, T.J.”
“Don’t mention it, Chief.”
I feel slightly more human as I pull into the parking lot of Pomerene Hospital. I double-park near the entrance. Sleet patters my head and shoulders as I jog toward the revolving doors. The redhead at the information desk eyes me with a little too much interest as I pass. I send her a passable smile, but she turns her attention back to her computer.
The hospital basement is hushed and not as well lit as the upper floors. My boots thud dully against tile as I pass the yellow and black biohazard sign. I push through the set of swinging doors and see Doc Coblentz in his office, sitting at his desk. “Doc?”
“Ah, Chief Burkholder. I’ve been expecting you.” Wearing a white lab coat and navy slacks, he rises and crosses to me. “Any ID on the victim yet?”
“We’re checking missing persons reports.” I take a deep breath, trying to prepare for what comes next. “Do you have a prelim?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve got her cleaned up. I did the initial exam. If you’d like to take a look.”
That’s the last thing I want to do, but I need to identify this young woman. Somewhere out there, loved ones are worried. She may have children. People whose lives will be irrevocably changed by her death.
I go directly to the alcove. Hanging up my coat, I quickly don a gown and booties. The doc is waiting for me when I emerge. “The cuts on her abdomen do appear to be the Roman numeral XXII.”
“Postmortem?”
“Antemortem.” He starts toward the second set of swinging doors, and we enter the gray tiled room I’ve come to despise.
Three stainless steel gurneys are shoved against the far wall. A fourth gleams beneath a huge overhead light. I see the outline of the body beneath a blue sheet and brace.
Doc Coblentz snags a clipboard off the counter. Sliding a pen from the breast pocket of his lab coat, he looks through his bifocals and jots something on the form, then returns the clipboard to the counter. “I’ve been a doctor for the better part of twenty years. I’ve been coroner for nearly eight. This is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen.”
Gently, he pulls down the sheet. Revulsion sends me back a step as I take in the brownish-green hued skin. Her mouth sags open; I see her tongue tucked inside. The wound at her neck is a black, gaping mouth.
My eyes are drawn to the Roman numerals on her abdomen. The carving is crude, but the similarities to the wounds on Amanda Horner’s body are unmistakable. “Cause of death?”
“The same. Exsanguination. He cut her throat and she bled to death.”
I need to get a better look at her. I want to see her hair, her nails, her toes—anything that might help me identify her, but my feet refuse to take me closer.
“He raped her. Sodomized her.”
“DNA?”
“I took swabs, but there wasn’t any fluid.”
