An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(49)

“Yeah.” He glances at his watch and frowns. “If we strike out on AFIS, I’ll put out a press release.”

“Painters Mill has an active social media account,” I add. “A lot of citizens. It’s mostly recipes and garage sales, but I’ll put something out. Someone’s got to be missing her.”

He studies me a moment. “We probably need to keep some of this close to our chest, Kate. I mean, certain aspects of the crime.”

“I agree. Let’s think about what information we want to make public and what we don’t.”

“Sure.”

For a moment, the only sound comes from the rattle of a big rig on the road. “So you okay?” Rasmussen asks.

I meet his gaze, muster a smile that feels lopsided on my face. “Pissed off mostly.”

“Me, too.” Another silence, and then he adds, “Once we ID her, we’ll get him. Chances are she knows him. Or someone who knows her will know him. We’ll get him.”

Generally speaking, I would agree. Most victims know their killers. But something about this woman—maybe the tattoos and piercings—points to something else I haven’t quite gotten a handle on yet, so I let it go.

“Somewhere, a parent or husband or even a kid is waiting for her to come home,” I say.

“Yeah.” Grimacing, Rasmussen sets his hand on my shoulder, squeezes gently, and then he turns and walks away.



* * *



I call Mona on my way to the station. “Where are you?”

“At the station.”

“Find a computer. Pull up a map. Locate the nearest residences or business, churches or school, to the scene where the victim was found. Check to see if there’s a dumpster or garbage can. Then I want you to get out there, go through the garbage and see if you can find a purse or ID or … anything that might be related to our victim.”

“Duct tape or plastic, cell, stuff like that?”

“Clothing, too.” I pause, my mind spinning. “I know this is a long shot. Chances are, the killer ditched everything elsewhere. I know it’s dirty work—”

“Don’t worry about it, Chief. I’m on it. If there’s anything there, I’ll find it.”

“If you need help, call T.J.”

“I might do that just to see him climb into a dumpster.”

I feel myself smile. Not for the first time I’m thankful to have such a good team of officers working for me.

I think about other priorities. “Mona, find out who did the canvass. Check with them to see if they asked about game cams. Home security cams.”

“You got it.”

“I’m on my way to the station,” I tell her.

“Roger that.”





CHAPTER 17


I’ve just pulled into my parking slot at the police station when my cell phone chirps. I catch a glimpse of the display as I snatch it up. BCI LABR LONDON.

“Burkholder,” I snap.

“This is the latent-print examiner at the lab in London, Chief Burkholder,” she tells me. “We got a hit on those Jane Doe prints.”

“ID?”

“Paige Rossberger. Twenty-six years old. Last known address: Massillon.” She recites the street address and I write it down.

“She was in the system?” I ask.

“Arrested for prostitution in 2019. Two more arrests in 2020. Prostitution, second offense, and possession of a controlled substance. She was on probation.”

“Next of kin?”

Keys click on the other end. “Unmarried. No minor children. One surviving parent, her mother, lives in Massillon.”

“Email me everything you have,” I say.

“It’s on the way.”



* * *



I find Lois at her desk at the dispatch station, headset clamped over her ears, the switchboard ringing off the hook. She must see something in my eyes because she puts her caller on hold, gets to her feet, and gives me her full attention.

“I got an ID on our victim.” I tell her the name and spell it. “I need everything you can find on her. Known associates. Social media accounts. Get me contact info for her probation officer. I’ll send the rest of the info I have in an email. NOK have not been notified, so not a word to anyone.”

“You got it.”

Glock had been sitting in one of the cubicles down the hall and joins us. “Is she local?” he asks.

“Last known address is in Massillon.” I relay what I’ve learned so far.

“Since she was a working girl, she probably hung out with some sketchy individuals,” he says.

“And spent time with people she didn’t know.”

“Need a hand with anything?” he asks.

“Give me a few minutes to call the PD up there so they can do the notification. Then I thought we might make a run up there.”



* * *



I stop at the coffee station, locate the biggest mug I can find, fill it with coffee, and carry it into my office. While my laptop grinds to life, I call the Massillon PD and ask for the detective bureau.

“Davidson,” comes a curt male voice on the other end.

I identify myself and get right to the point. “I just IDed a body that was dumped along a rural road here in Painters Mill. Her name’s Paige Rossberger and she’s from Massillon.”