Sworn to Silence

CHAPTER 3

Snow swirls in the beams of the headlights as I turn the Explorer onto the long and narrow lane that will take us to the Stutz farm. Next to me, T.J. is reticent. He’s my youngest officer—just twenty-four years old—and more sensitive than he would ever admit. Not that sensitivity in a cop is a bad thing, but I can tell finding the body has shaken him.

“Hell of a way to start the week.” I force a smile.

“Tell me about it.”

I want to draw him out, but I’m not great at small talk. “So, are you okay?”

“Me? I’m good.” He looks embarrassed by my question and troubled by the images I know are still rolling around inside his head.

“Seeing something like that . . .” I give him my best cop-to-cop look. “It can be tough.”

“I’ve seen shit before,” he says defensively. “I was first on the scene when Houseman had that head on and killed that family from Cincinnati.”

I wait, hoping he’ll open up.

He looks out the window, wipes his palms on his uniform slacks. In my peripheral vision I see him glance my way. “You ever see anything like that, Chief?”

He’s asking about the eight years I was a cop in Columbus. “Nothing this bad.”

“He broke her teeth. Raped her. Cut her throat.” He blows out a breath, like a pressure cooker releasing steam. “Damn.”

At thirty, I’m not that much older than T.J., but glancing over at his youthful profile, I feel ancient. “You did okay.”

He stares out the window and I know he doesn’t want me to see his expression. “I screwed up the crime scene.”

“It’s not like you were expecting to walk up on a dead body.”

“Footwear impressions might have been helpful.”

“We still might be able to lift something.” It’s an optimistic offering. “I walked in those drag marks, too. It happens.”

“You think Stutz knows something about the murder?” he asks.

Isaac Stutz and his family are Amish. A culture I’m intimately acquainted with because I was born Amish in this very town a lifetime ago.

I make an effort not to let my prejudices and preconceived notions affect my judgment. But I know Isaac personally, and I’ve always thought of him as a decent, hardworking man. “I don’t think he had anything to do with the murder,” I say. “But someone in the family might have seen something.”

“So we’re just going to question him?”

“I’m going to question him.”

That elicits a smile. “Right,” he says.

The lane curves left and a white clapboard farmhouse looms into view. Like most Amish farms in the area, the house is plain but well kept. A split rail fence separates the backyard from a chicken coop and pen. I see a nicely shaped cherry tree that will bear fruit in the spring. Beyond, a large barn, grain silo and windmill stand in silhouette against the predawn sky.

Though it’s not yet five A.M., the windows glow yellow with lantern light. I park next to a buggy and kill the engine. The sidewalk has been cleared of snow and we take it to the front door.

The door swings open before we knock. Isaac Stutz is a man of about forty years. Sporting the traditional beard of a married Amish man, he wears a blue work shirt, dark trousers and suspenders. His eyes flick from me to T.J. and back to me.

“I’m sorry to bother you so early, Mr. Stutz,” I begin.

“Chief Burkholder.” He bows his head slightly and steps back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

I wipe my feet on the rug before entering. The house smells of coffee and frying scrapple, an Amish breakfast staple consisting of cornmeal and pork. The kitchen is dimly lit, but warm. Ahead, a mantel clock and two lanterns rest on a homemade shelf built into the wall. Lower, three straw hats hang on wood dowels. I look beyond Isaac and see his wife, Anna, at the cast-iron stove. She is garbed in the traditional organdy kapp and a plain black dress. She glances at me over her shoulder. I make eye contact, but she looks away. Twenty years ago, we played together. This morning, I’m a stranger to her.

The Amish are a close-knit community with a foundation built on worship, hard work and family. Though eighty percent of Amish children join the church when they turn eighteen, I’m one of the few who didn’t. As a result, I was put under the bann. Contrary to popular belief, shunning is not a type of punishment. In most cases, it’s thought to be redemptive. Tough love, if you will. But it didn’t bring me back. Because of my defection, many Amish do not wish to associate with me. I accept that because I understand the ideology of the culture, and I don’t begrudge them in any way.

T.J. and I enter the house. Always respectful, T.J. removes his hat.

“Would you like coffee or hot tea?” Isaac asks.

I’d give up my side arm for a cup of hot coffee, but decline the offer. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about something that happened last night.”

He motions toward the kitchen. “Come sit next to the stove.”

Our boots thud hollowly on the hardwood floor as the three of us move into the kitchen. A rectangular wood table covered with a blue-and-white-checkered tablecloth dominates the room. In its center, a glass lantern flickers, casting yellow light onto our faces. The smell of kerosene reminds me of my own childhood home, and for a moment I’m comforted by that.

Wood scrapes against the floor as the three of us pull out chairs and sit. “We received a call last night about some of your livestock,” I begin.

“Ah. My milk cows.” Isaac shakes his head in self-deprecation, but I can tell by his expression he knows I didn’t come here at five A.M. to censure him about a few wayward cattle. “I have been working on the fence.”

“This isn’t about the livestock,” I say.

Isaac looks at me and waits.

“We found the body of a young woman in your field last night.”

Across the room, Anna gasps. “Mein gott.”

I don’t look at her. My attention is focused on Isaac. His reaction. His body language. His expression.

“Someone died?” His eyes widen. “In my field? Who?”

“We haven’t identified her yet.”

I see his mind spinning as he tries to absorb the information. “Was it an accident? Did she succumb to the cold?”

“She was murdered.”

He leans back in the chair as if pushed by some invisible force. “Ach! Yammer.”

I glance toward his wife. She meets my gaze levelly now, her expression alarmed. “Did either of you see anything unusual last night?” I ask.

“No.” He answers for both of them.

I almost smile. The Amish are a patriarchal society. The sexes are not necessarily unequal, but their roles are separate and well defined. Usually, this doesn’t bother me. This morning, I’m annoyed. The unspoken Amish convention does not apply when it comes to murder, and it’s my job to make that clear. I give Anna a direct look. “Anna?”

She approaches, wiping her chapped hands on her apron. She’s close to my age and pretty, with large hazel eyes and a sprinkling of freckles on her nose. Plain suits her.

“Is she Amish?” she asks in Pennsylvania Dutch, the Amish dialect.

I know the language because I used to speak it, but I answer in English. “We don’t know,” I tell her. “Did you see any strangers in the area? Any vehicles or buggies you didn’t recognize?”

Anna shakes her head. “I didn’t see anything. It gets dark so early this time of year.”

It’s true. January in northeastern Ohio is a cold and dark month.

“Will you ask your children?”

“Of course.”

“You think one of the gentle people is responsible for this sin?” Defensiveness rings in Isaac’s voice.

He is referencing the Amish community. They are for the most part a pacifistic culture. Hardworking. Religious. Family oriented. But I know anomalies occur. I, myself, am an anomaly.

“I don’t know.” I rise and nod at T.J. “Thank you both for your time. We’ll see ourselves out.”

Isaac follows us through the living room and opens the door for us. As I step onto the porch, he whispers, “Is he back, Katie?”

The question startles me, but I know I’ll hear it again in the coming days. It’s a question I don’t want to ponder. But Isaac remembers what happened sixteen years ago. I was only fourteen at the time, but I remember, too. “I don’t know.”

But I’m lying. I know the person who killed that girl is not the same man who raped and murdered four young women sixteen years ago.

I know this because I killed him.

Cumulus clouds rimmed with crimson churn on the eastern horizon when I park the Explorer on the shoulder behind T.J.’s cruiser. The crime scene tape is incongruous against the trees, locust posts and barbed wire. The ambulance is gone. So is Doc Coblentz’s Escalade. Glock stands at the fence, looking out across the field as if the snow whispering across the jagged peaks of earth holds the answers we all so desperately need.

“Go home and get some sleep,” I say to T.J. His shift began at midnight. In light of the murder, sleep is about to become a rare commodity for all of us.

I shut down the engine. The cab seems suddenly quiet without the blast of the heater. He reaches for the door handle, but doesn’t open it. “Chief?”

I look at him. His little-brother eyes are troubled. “I want to catch this guy.”

“Me, too.” I open my door. “I’ll call you in a few hours.”

He nods and we get out of the Explorer. I start toward Glock, but my mind is still on T.J. I hope he can handle this. I have a terrible feeling the body he found this morning isn’t the last.

Behind me I hear T.J. start his cruiser and pull away. Glock glances in my direction. He doesn’t even look cold.

“Anything?” I ask without preamble.

“Not much. We bagged a gum wrapper, but it looked old. Found a few hairs in the fence. Long strands, probably hers.”

Glock is about my age with military short hair and two-percent body fat on a physique that puts Arnold Schwarzenegger to shame. I hired him two years ago, earning him the honor of becoming Painters Mill’s first African-American police officer. A former MP with the Marine Corps, he’s a crack shot, possesses a brown belt in karate, and he doesn’t take any shit from anyone, including me.

“Find any prints?” I ask. “Tire tracks?”

He shakes his head. “Scene was pretty trampled. I was going to try to lift some impressions, but it doesn’t look promising.”

Capturing footwear impressions or tire tracks in snow is tricky. Several layers of a special wax must first be sprayed onto the impression to insulate it. That prevents the loss of detail from the exothermic reaction of the hardening dental stone casting material.

“Do you know how to do it?” I ask.

“I need to pick up the supplies at the sheriff’s office.”

“Go ahead. I’ll stay until I can get Skid out here.” Chuck “Skid” Skidmore is my other officer.

“Last I heard he was laid out on a pool table with some blonde at McNarie’s Bar.” Glock smiles. “Probably hungover.”

“Probably.” Skid is as fond of cheap tequila as Rupert is of his Glock. The moment of levity is short lived. “Once you lift the impressions, get imprints from all the first responders. Send everything over to the BCI lab. Have them run a comparison analysis and see if we have something that stands out.”

BCI is the acronym for the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation in London, Ohio, a suburb of Columbus. A state agency run by the attorney general’s office, the bureau has a state-of-the-art lab, access to law enforcement databases, and a multitude of other resources that may be utilized by local police agencies.

Glock nods. “Anything else?”

I smile, but it feels unnatural on my face. “Think you could postpone your vacation?”

He smiles back, but it looks strained. If anyone is deserving of some downtime, it’s Glock. He hasn’t had any measurable time off since I hired him. “LaShonda and I don’t have any big plans,” he says, referring to his wife. “Just finishing up the nursery. Doc says any day now.”

We study the scene in companionable silence. Even though I’m wearing two pairs of socks inside waterproof boots, my feet ache with cold. I’m tired and discouraged and overwhelmed. The press of time is heavy on my shoulders. Any cop worth his weight knows the first forty-eight hours of a homicide investigation are the most vital in terms of solving it.

“I’d better get those supplies,” Glock says after a moment.

I watch him traverse the bar ditch, slide into his cruiser and pull away. I turn back to the field where drifting snow whispers across the frozen earth. From where I stand, I can just make out the bloodstain from the victim, a vivid red circle against pristine white. The crime scene tape flutters in a brisk north wind, the tree branches clicking together like chattering teeth.

“Who are you, you son of a bitch?” I say aloud, my voice sounding strange in the predawn hush.

The only answer I get is the murmur of wind through the trees and the echo of my own voice.

Twenty minutes later Officer Skidmore arrives on the scene. He slinks out of his cruiser toting two coffees, a don’t-ask expression, and a half-eaten doughnut clutched between his thumb and forefinger.

“Why the hell can’t people get murdered when it’s seventy degrees and sunny?” he mutters, shoving one of the coffees at me.

“That’d be way too convenient.” I take the coffee, pop the tab and brief him on what we know.

When I’m finished he considers the scene, then looks at me as if expecting me to throw up my hands and tell him the whole thing is a big, ugly prank. “Hell of a thing to find out here in the middle of the night.” He slurps coffee. “How’s T.J.?”

“I think he’ll be okay.”

“Fuckin’ kid’s gonna have nightmares.” His eyes are bloodshot and, as Glock had predicted, I realize he’s sporting a hangover.

“Late night?” I ask.

He has powdered sugar on his chin. His grin is lopsided. “I like tequila a lot more than she likes me.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard that. Originally from Ann Arbor, Michigan, Skid lost his job with the police department there because of an off-duty DUI. Everyone knows he drinks too much. But he’s a good cop. For his sake, I hope he can get a handle on it. I’ve seen booze ruin a lot of lives, and I’d hate to see him added to the heap. I told him the day I hired him if I caught him drinking on the job I’d fire him on the spot. That was two years ago and so far he’s never crossed the line.

“You think it’s the same guy from back in the early nineties?” he asks. “What did they call him? The Slaughterhouse Murderer? The case was never closed, was it?”

Hearing the sobriquet spoken aloud raises gooseflesh on my arms. The local police and FBI worked the case for years after the last murder. But as the evidence grew cold and public interest dwindled, their efforts eventually slacked off. “It doesn’t feel right,” I offer noncommittally. “It’s hard to explain a sixteen-year gap in activity.”

“Unless the guy changed locales.”

I say nothing, not wanting to speculate.

Skid doesn’t notice. “Or he could have been sent to prison on some unrelated charge and just got sprung. Saw it happen when I was a rookie.”

Hating the speculation and questions, knowing there will be plenty more in the days ahead, I shrug. “Could be a copycat.”

He sniffs a runny nose. “That would be odd for a town this size. I mean, Jesus, what are the odds?”

Because he’s right, I don’t respond. Speculation is a dangerous thing when you know more than you should. I dump my remaining coffee and crumple the cup. “Keep the scene secure until Rupert gets back, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

“And give him a hand with the impressions. I’m heading to the station.”

I anticipate the heater as I start for the Explorer. My face and ears burn with cold. My fingers are numb. But my mind isn’t on my physical discomfort. I can’t stop thinking about that young woman. I can’t stop thinking about the uncanny parallels of this murder with the ones from sixteen years ago.

As I put the Explorer in gear and pull onto the road, a dark foreboding deep in my gut tells me this killer isn’t finished.

Downtown Painters Mill is composed of one major thoroughfare—aptly named Main Street—lined with a dozen or so businesses, half of which are Amish tourist shops selling everything from wind chimes and bird houses to intricate, handmade quilts. A traffic circle punctuates the north end of the street. A big Lutheran church marks the southernmost section of town. To the east lies the brand-new high school, an up-and-coming housing development called Maple Crest and a smattering of bed-and-breakfasts that have sprung up over the last couple of years to accommodate the town’s fastest growing industry: tourism. On the west side of town, just past the railroad tracks and mobile home park, is the slaughterhouse and rendering plant, the farmer’s mercantile and a massive grain elevator.

Since its inception in 1815, Painters Mill’s population has remained steady at about 5,300 people, a third of whom are Amish. Though the Amish keep to themselves for the most part, no one is really a stranger, and everyone knows everyone else’s business. It’s a wholesome town. A nice place to live and a raise a family. It’s a good place to be the chief of police. Unless, of course, you have a vicious, unsolved murder on your hands.

Sandwiched between Kidwell’s Pharmacy and the volunteer fire department, the police station is a drafty cave carved into a century-old brick building that had once been a dance hall. I’m greeted by Mona Kurtz, my third-shift dispatcher, as I push open the door and enter the reception area. She looks up from her computer, flashes an over-the-counter white smile and waves. “Hey, Chief.”

She’s twentysomething with a mane of wild red hair and a vivacity that makes the Energizer Bunny seem lazy. She talks so fast I understand only half of what she says, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing since she usually relays more information than I need to hear. But she enjoys her job. Unmarried and childless, she doesn’t mind working the graveyard shift and has a genuine interest in police work. Even if that interest derives from watching CSI, it was enough for me to hire her last year. She hasn’t missed a day since.

Seeing the pink message slips in her hand and the fervor in her eyes, I wish I’d waited until her shift was over before arriving. I enjoy Mona and appreciate her enthusiasm, but I don’t have the patience this morning. I don’t pause on the way to my office.

Undeterred, she crosses to me and shoves a dozen or so messages into my hand. “The phones are ringing off the hook. Folks are wondering about the murder, Chief. Mrs. Finkbine wants to know if it’s the same killer from sixteen years ago.”

I groan inwardly at the power and speed of the Painters Mill rumor mill. If it could be harnessed to generate electricity, no one would ever have to pay another utility bill again.

She frowns when she glances down at the next slip. “Phyllis Combs says her cat is missing, and she thinks it might be the same guy.” She looks at me with wide brown eyes. “Ricky McBride told me the vic was . . . decapitated. Is it true?”

I resist the urge to rub at the ache behind my eyes. “No. I’d appreciate it if you’d do your best to nip any rumors in the bud. There are going to be a lot flying around in the next few days.”

“Absolutely.”

I look down at the pink slips and decide to put her enthusiasm to good use. “Call these people back. Tell them the Painters Mill PD is investigating the crime aggressively, and I’ll have a statement in the next edition of the Advocate.” The Advocate is Painters Mill’s weekly newspaper, circulation four thousand. “If you get any media inquiries, tell them you’ll fax a press release this afternoon. Everything else is ‘no comment,’ you got that?”

She hangs on to every word, looking a little too excited, a little too intense. “I got it, Chief. No comment. Anything else?”

“I could use some coffee.”

“I got just the thing.”

I envision one of her soy-espresso-chocolate concoctions and shudder. “Just coffee, Mona. And some aspirin if you have it.” I start toward the sanctuary of my office.

“Oh. Sure. Milk. No sugar. Is Tylenol okay?”

A question occurs to me just as I reach my office. I stop and turn to her. “Has anyone filed a missing person report for a young female in the last few days?”

“I haven’t seen anything come across the wire.”

But it’s still early. I know the call will come. “Check with the State Highway Patrol and the Holmes County sheriff’s office, will you? Female. Caucasian. Blue. Dark blonde. Fifteen to thirty years of age.”

“I’m on it.”

I walk into my office, close the door behind me and resist the urge to lock it. It’s a small room crowded with a beat-up metal desk, an antique file cabinet speckled with rust, and a desktop computer that grinds like a coffee mill. A single window offers a not-so-stunning view of the pickup trucks and cars parked along Main Street.

Working off my coat, I drape it over the back of my chair, hit the power button on the computer and head directly to the file cabinet. While the computer boots, I unlock the cabinet, tug out the bottom drawer and page through several case files. Domestic disputes. Simple assault. Vandalism. The kinds of crimes you expect in a town like Painters Mill. The file I’m looking for is at the back. My fingers pause before touching it. I’ve been the chief of police for two years, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to look at the file. This morning, I don’t have a choice.

The folder is fat and brown with frayed edges and metal clasps that are broken from use. The peeling label reads: Slaughterhouse Murders, Holmes County, January 1992. I take the file to my desk and open it.

My predecessor, Delbert McCoy, was a stickler for detail and it shows in his record-keeping. A typed police report with dates, times and locations stares up at me. I see witness names replete with contact information and background checks. It appears every facet of the investigation was carefully documented. Except for one incident that was never reported to the police . . .

I page through the file, taking in the highlights. Sixteen years ago a killer stalked the quiet streets and back roads of Painters Mill. Over a two-year period he murdered four women with indiscriminate savagery. Because of the killer’s MO, exsanguination, which is similar to the “bleeding” of livestock during slaughter, some headline-grabbing reporter dubbed him “The Slaughterhouse Killer” and the name stuck.

The first victim, seventeen-year-old Patty Lynn Thorpe, was raped and tortured, her throat slashed. Her body was dumped on Shady Grove Road—just two miles from where T.J. discovered the body this morning. A chill hovers at the base of my spine as I read the autopsy report.

ANATOMICAL SUMMARY:

I. Incised wound of neck: Transection of left common carotid artery.

I skim the Notes and Procedures, External Examination and other details until I find what I’m looking for.

DESCRIPTION OF INCISED NECK WOUND:

The incised wound of the neck measures eight centimeters in length. Said wound is transversely oriented from the midline and upwardly angulated toward the left earlobe. The left common carotid artery is transected with hemorrhage in the surrounding carotid sheath. Fresh hemorrhage and bruising is present along the entire wound path.

OPINION:

This is a fatal incised wound or sharp force injury associated with the transection of the left carotid artery with exsanguinating hemorrhage.

It is strikingly similar to the wound on the body discovered this morning. I continue reading.

DESCRIPTION OF SECONDARY STAB WOUND:

A secondary abdominal wound located above the navel is noteworthy. The wound is irregular in shape, measuring 5 centimeters by 4 centimeters in height and width, respectively, with minimal depth of penetration at 1.5 centimeters. Fresh hemorrhage is noted along the wound path, which goes through the skin and subcutaneous tissue, though the penetration did not breach muscle. The wound was ante mortem.

OPINION:

This is a superficial cutting wound and is found to be non-life-threatening.

Again, very similar to the wound carved into the abdomen of the victim found this morning.

I turn to the police report where Chief McCoy scribbled a footnote.

The abdominal wound appears to be the capital letters V and I or perhaps the Roman numeral VI. The laceration on the victim’s neck was not the wild slash of a crazed killer, but the calculated incision of someone who knew what he was doing and wanted a specific end result. The perpetrator used a knife with a nonserrated blade. The carving on the victim’s abdomen was not made public.

Below, the report notes that the victim sustained vaginal and rectal trauma, but smears sent to the lab didn’t return foreign DNA.

I flip through several more pages, stopping at Chief McCoy’s handwritten notes.

No fingerprints. No DNA. No witnesses. Not much to go on. We continue to work the case and follow up on every lead. But I believe the murder was an isolated incident. A drifter passing through on the railroad.

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:

In an informal interview, J.R. Purdue of Honey Cut–Purdue Enterprises, the corporate entity that owns and operates the Honey Cut Meat Packing plant, states, “The wounds are consistent with the type of incision used to bleed livestock, but on a smaller scale . . .”

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.”