decayed. “Why did he kill these two girls differently than the others?” I say, thinking aloud.
The doc arches a brow as if to say,
Glock comes up beside me. “Maybe this guy’s a sexual sadist. Came here for the girls, killed the rest of the family because they were potential witnesses or they were in the way.”
I look at Doc Coblentz. “Were the girls raped?”
The doc nods. “There’s some chafing visible, but the lighting is too bad for me to draw any kind of definitive conclusion. I really don’t want to rule on that until I get them to the morgue.”
I study the two dead girls. “There’s a definite sexual element to this,” I say. “But I think there’s something else. Something obscure we’re missing.”
“Like what?” Glock asks.
“I’m not sure. There’s something about way the bodies are displayed. The fact that they’re nude. The torture aspect.” I’m thinking aloud now. Brainstorming. Throwing out theories and ideas. “It’s visual. Almost a theatrical element to it.”
Glock is good at this and we play off of each other. “Was this premeditated?” he asks.
“If he stalked them, he would have known the rest of the family would be here,” I say. “He would have known he’d have to kill them, too.”
“Maybe his compulsion is so strong, collateral damage didn’t matter.”
Doc Coblentz cuts in. “This killer spent a good deal of time torturing these two young women.” He tugs a fresh glove from his crime scene kit and works his fingers into it. “Look at this.”
Glock and I follow him back to Mary Plank’s body. Using a fresh swab, the doctor indicates a series of bright red abrasion-like marks on her buttocks, thighs and breasts. “Those are burns.”
“From a cigarette?” My mind is already jumping ahead to the possibility of DNA on a butt.
“Propane torch.”
“Sick motherfucker,” Glock mutters.
Nodding grimly, the doc directs my attention to several stripe-like bruises about the buttocks and back. “I believe these bruises were caused by that small bat.”
“He burned them. He beat them. Raped them.” I feel that quivery sensation again, as if my stomach is slowly climbing into my throat. “And then he killed them.”
For a moment the only sound comes from the
Turning away from the girls, I address Glock. “Bag all of those tools and courier them to BCI. I want it there by the time the lab opens for business.”
Glock is already reaching for the crime scene kit where the bags and labels are stored. “I’m on it.”
“I’m going to make the call.” I sigh, knowing that as bad as this day has been, it’s probably going to get worse.
Pulling out my phone, I leave the tack room. Skid and Pickles are standing outside the door. Both still wear gloves and shoe covers. In an effort to preserve the scene and prevent the contamination of evidence, I’ve limited the number of people allowed in the barn and house to me, Glock, Skid, Pickles and Doc Coblentz. It will be up to us to deal with the dead.
“The doc is going to need some help getting those bodies down,” I say.
The men aren’t happy about the assignment; I recognize their green-around-the-gills expressions. But they’re far too professional to complain.
“I want you fully geared, including hair caps. I want the victims’ hands bagged.”
Without waiting for a response, I walk briskly down the aisle. My boots thud with a little too much force against the packed dirt floor. I’m shaking by the time I reach the door. Once outside, I can breathe again, and I stand there, gulping air. After a moment I’m feeling calmer, and I notice that the eastern horizon is awash with color. Beyond, the leaves of the maple tree rattle in a cool breeze. In the driveway, three ambulances wait to transport the dead. All of these things remind me that I’m still alive, and that even in the face of death, life prevails.
I dial John Tomasetti’s home number from memory. We’ve had an on-again, off-again relationship for about ten months now, but neither of us is very good at the relationship thing. Probably has to do with the amount of baggage we’re toting around. Of course that didn’t keep him from trying to get me into bed. It didn’t keep me from succumbing when I probably shouldn’t have.
To say we both have issues would be an understatement. Most of Tomasetti’s stem from the murders of his wife and two children two and a half years ago in a horrific act of revenge by a career criminal. The parallels to this case don’t elude me, and I realize that’s why I’ve been putting off the call. He’s a strong man, but even the strong have a breaking point.
But I need his help. His expertise. His instincts. His support. If I’ve learned anything in my years in law enforcement, it’s that the living come first. We can always deal with the dead in our nightmares.
He answers on the third ring with a curt utterance of his last name. He’s cranky upon waking. I wish I didn’t know that about him.
“It’s Kate.”
A beat of silence ensues, and I wonder if he thinks the call is personal. I can practically feel his walls going up. Maybe he’s afraid I’m lonely and drunk and calling him in the middle of the night to scream and rant, though I’ve never fallen to that particular low. “This is an official call,” I clarify.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got a major crime scene here in Painters Mill. Seven vics. All DOA. No sign of the perpetrator. I need a CSU.”
I hear rustling on the other end of the line, and I can’t help but remember what he looks like in bed. Boxer shorts. Tousled hair. Beard stubble thick enough to chafe my skin . . .
“Tell me about the vics,” he says.
“Amish family. Five kids. Two teenaged girls were tortured.”
“Sexual assault?”
“I don’t know yet. Probably.”
“Damn.” More rustling. I can tell he’s getting dressed. Stepping into creased trousers. Shrugging into a crisp shirt—an expensive one because John Tomasetti knows how to dress. He’ll take his tie with him and put it on at the office. Stop at Stauf’s for a cranberry muffin and double espresso. He likes his coffee strong.
“Do you know them?” he asks.
“No. They’re from Lancaster. Moved here about a year ago.”
“Premeditated?”
“Probably.”
“What about motive?”
“I don’t know. Looks . . . thought out. Killer spent some time with the two girls.” I relay details of the torture aspect of the case.
“You have a suspect?”
“No.”
The telephone line hisses, reminding me of the miles between us, both figuratively and literally.
“I’ll get a CSU out there pronto to give you guys a hand with the scene.” He pauses. “You want me to come down?”
I hesitate a moment too long. He knows what I’m thinking, and he snaps at me. “For God’s sake, Kate. I can handle it.”
“You don’t have to come for this one, John. There were kids. A baby . . .”
“Let me get it cleared,” he growls. “Give me a day or two to tie some things up.”
“Thanks,” I say. “See you then.”
CHAPTER 5
The closest neighbor to the Planks is a pig farm owned by William Zook, who is also Amish. It’s nearly nine A.M. when Glock and I pull into the driveway and park between the barn and house. About nine hours have passed
