An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(46)

I release the Talk button and take a moment, try to get my head around what this means. The discovery of two bodies in such a short period of time in a town the size of Painters Mill is an anomaly. It simply doesn’t happen. I have no idea how this female was killed or who she is. At this point, I’m not even certain this is a homicide. She could have died from a drug overdose and whoever was with her panicked, wrapped her body in plastic, and dumped it.

In the chaos of my thoughts, one obvious question stands out. Is the death of this woman in any way related to the murder of Aden Karn?

I shine my flashlight on the victim. I can’t see much of her face due to the plastic and duct tape. But she looks young. I’ve no idea if she’s local or from out of town. Whatever the case, someone is probably missing her. Someone is worried because she didn’t come home. In the coming days, the people who loved her are going to have their lives taken apart piece by piece by piece.





CHAPTER 16


When you’re a cop and you need information, you can pretty much bet your ass you’re not going to get it any time soon. I spent most of the night at the scene where the body was discovered. Doc Coblentz was reticent; there was simply no way he could relay any preliminary information regarding cause or manner of death because the body was wrapped in plastic and bound with tape, all of which must be handled as evidence.

I was loath to call Tomasetti when he already has a major case on his plate. But with two homicides on my hands, even with the involvement of the sheriff’s department, I’m in over my head. So I called him and, of course, he came.

In an effort to preserve evidence, I limited the number of people allowed in to the scene to recover the body. That, of course, slowed down the process tremendously.

Once the body was recovered and the crime scene turned over to us by the coroner, I stayed another couple of hours, hoping the BCI techs would come up with some scrap of evidence. But there was nothing to be had. At dawn, rather than pacing the bridge and accomplishing nothing, I left the scene to interview the Amish girl who discovered the body.

All I learned was that the discovery was happenstance. A girl going to pick up groceries for her mamm. Instead, she discovered a scene out of a nightmare, one she and her family won’t forget any time soon.

Tomasetti did his job; he gave it his all and, as always, his presence was tremendously helpful. He got the victim fingerprinted quickly, the prints scanned and sent to AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. He gave the police lab in London, Ohio, a heads-up and asked them to expedite the evidence coming their way. I could tell he was distracted. No doubt he’s preoccupied with the two missing girls, wondering if today is the day their bodies will be found. If this is the day he’ll have to sit down with the parents and tell them their children won’t be coming home. He had to be in Cleveland at seven A.M., so he left around two so he could grab a couple of hours of sleep and a shower. I miss him already. I know he’s a strong man; he’s certainly been through worse. Even so, I worry.

It’s nearly eight A.M. now. I’m in the waiting area of the morgue at Pomerene Hospital, checking my phone for the hundredth time, waiting for information.

The door swishes open. I glance up to see Sheriff Mike Rasmussen enter, looking as tired and frazzled as I am. He looks at me with a frown as he strides over to me. “Anything from Coblentz?”

Shaking my head, I rise and we shake. “He’s not talking and I’ve been here an hour.”

“We should have heard back from AFIS by now.” He glances at his watch and curses. “We need to get her IDed.”

I’ve known Mike since I became chief. He’s a decent man with a boatload of common sense; he’s fair-minded and diplomatic, all of which make him not only a good sheriff, but a good politician.

“Anything new at the scene?” I ask.

“We got nothing, Kate. No one saw or heard anything. No vehicles or buggies. Not a footprint or tire track. Not a damn thing.”

Both of us were present when the victim was placed in a body bag, lifted onto a gurney, and loaded in the coroner’s van for the ride to the morgue. In order to preserve evidence, the duct tape and plastic were left in place; no one has had a good look at her face. She appeared to be nude beneath the plastic, but it was difficult to make out much detail. No ID was found at the scene. That was over four hours ago and we’re still waiting to identify her.

“You think this is connected to the Karn homicide?” Rasmussen asks.

“The timing is certainly suspect,” I tell him.

“Gotta be a link…”

“Chief Burkholder?”

At the sound of the voice, I glance over to see a young man clad in surgical scrubs emerge from the corridor leading to Doc Coblentz’s office and, farther back, the morgue.

“We’re ready for you,” he tells us.

Rasmussen and I cross to him, and the three of us exchange handshakes. “I’m Alan Han, the forensic investigator from Franklin County.”

“Thanks for coming,” I tell him.

“As you can imagine, we’re anxious for anything you can tell us,” Rasmussen says.

“I understand.” Han motions toward the corridor. “Suit up and we’ll get this done.”

We don’t speak as we enter the alcove and slip paper gowns over our clothing. Shoe covers over our boots. Gloves. Head covering. Masks. Han waits at the door, snaps on a fresh pair of gloves, and leads us into the morgue. Until this moment, I’d been so preoccupied by the occurrence of a second homicide that I hadn’t been plagued with the customary dread that precedes my every excursion to the autopsy room.