His words would come back to haunt him.
Four months later sixteen-year-old Loretta Barnett’s body was discovered by fishermen on the muddy bank of Painters Creek. She’d been accosted in her home, sexually assaulted, taken to an unknown location where her throat was cut. It was later ascertained that her body had been thrown from a covered bridge west of town.
At that point, McCoy called the FBI to assist. Forensics suggested the killer used a stun gun to subdue his victims. Both victims sustained genital trauma, but no DNA was found, which, according to Special Agent Frederick Milkowski, indicated the killer had had either worn a condom or resorted to foreign object rape. The killer may have shaved his body hair.
Bruising at the victim’s ankles indicated she had been hung upside down by some type of chain until she bled out. Most disturbing was the discovery of the Roman numeral VII carved into the flesh of her abdomen.
At that point it became evident the police had a serial murderer on their hands. Because the victims were murdered via exsanguination, a practice associated with many slaughterhouses, McCoy and Milkowski turned to the local slaughterhouse for clues.
I read McCoy’s investigative notes:
Every person who’d ever worked for the Honey Cut Meat Packing plant was questioned and fingerprinted. Male employees were asked to give DNA samples. Nothing ever came to fruition. And the killing continued . . .
By the end of the following year, four women were dead. Each died via exsanguination. Each suffered unspeakable torture. And each had a successive Roman numeral carved into her abdomen, as if the killer were keeping some twisted tally of his carnage.
Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck when I look at the crime scene and autopsy photos. The similarities to the murder this morning are undeniable. I know what the citizens of Painters Mill will think. That the Slaughterhouse Killer is back. There are only three people on this earth who know that is impossible, and one of them is me.
A knock on the door makes me jump. “It’s open.”
Mona walks in and sets a cup of coffee and a Sam’s Club–size bottle of Tylenol on my desk. Her eyes flick to the folder. “There’s a woman from Coshocton County on line one. Her daughter didn’t come home last night. Norm Johnston is on line two.”
Norm Johnston is one of six town councilmen. He’s a pushy, self-serving bastard and all-around pain in the ass. He hasn’t liked me since I busted him for a DUI last spring and dashed his hopes of climbing Painters Mill’s political ladder all the way to mayor. “Tell Norm I’ll call him back,” I say and hit line one.
“This is Belinda Horner. I haven’t heard from my daughter, Amanda, since she left to go out with her girlfriend Saturday night.” The woman is talking too fast. Her voice is breathless and raw with nerves. “I assumed she’d spent the night with Connie. She does that sometimes. But I didn’t hear from her this morning. I called and found out no one has seen her since Saturday night. I’m really getting worried.”
Today is Monday. I close my eyes, praying the body lying on a slab in the Millersburg morgue isn’t her daughter. But I have a bad feeling in my gut. “Has she stayed gone this long before, ma’am? Is this unusual behavior for her?”
“She always calls to let me know if she’s staying out.”
“When’s the last time her friend saw her?”
“Saturday night. Connie can be incredibly irresponsible.”
“Have you contacted the State Highway Patrol?”
“They told me to check with the local police department. I’m afraid she’s been in a car accident or something. I’m going to start calling hospitals next.”
I grab a pad and pen. “How old is your daughter?”
“Twenty-one.”
“What does she look like?”
She describes a pretty young woman who fits the description of the victim. “Do you have a photo?” I ask.
“I have several.”
“Can you fax the most recent one to me?”
“Um . . . I don’t have a fax machine, but my neighbor has a computer and scanner.”
“That’ll work. Scan the photo and e-mail it as an attachment. Can you do that?”
“I think so.”
As I jot her contact information, my phone beeps. I look down and see all four lines blinking wildly. I ignore them and give her my e-mail address.
My stomach is in knots by the time I hang up, but I have a sinking suspicion Belinda Horner is going to have a much worse day than me.
Mona knocks and peeks in. “I got the state highway patrol on one. Channel Seven in Columbus is on line two. Doc Coblentz is on three.”
I answer line three with a curt utterance of my name.
“I’m about to start the autopsy,” the doc says. “I thought you might want a heads-up.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“You get an ID yet?”
“I’m working on something now.”
“God help the family.”
God help us all, I silently add.
I spend ten minutes returning calls and then open my e-mail program. When I hit Send/Receive, an e-mail with an attachment from J. Miller appears in my in-box.
I open the attachment and find myself staring at the image of a young woman with pretty blue eyes, dark blonde hair and a dazzling smile. The likeness is unmistakable. And I know Amanda Horner will never smile like that again.
Hitting Doc Coblentz’s direct number, I wait impatiently until he picks up. “Hold off on the autopsy.”
“I assumed you wanted a rush.”
I tap the Print key on my computer. “I do, but I think her parents will want to see her before you start cutting.”
Coblentz makes a sound of sympathy. “I don’t envy you your job.”
At this moment I hate my job with a passion I cannot describe. “I’m going to drive down to Coshocton County and pay the mother a visit. Can you give the chaplain at the hospital a call? Ask him to meet us at the morgue. We’re going to need him.”
CHAPTER 4
The Horners live in the Sherwood Forest mobile home park on Highway 83 between Keene and Clark. The sky is as hard and gray as concrete as I turn onto the gravel street. Next to me, Glock studies the map I printed before leaving.
“There’s Sebring Lane,” he says, pointing.
I make a right and see a dozen mobile homes lined up like Matchbox cars on either side of the street. “What’s the lot number?”
“Thirty-five, there at the end.”
I park the Explorer in front of a blue and white 12 by 60 Liberty mobile home circa 1980. A living room
