“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.
The lights overhead buzz with maddening clarity as I cross to the stainless-steel table. The victim is covered with a paper sheet. Several quarter-size points of moisture have soaked through. The morgue is a modern facility, but not even the state-of-the-art ventilation system can sift out the stench of decaying flesh.
Doc Coblentz turns to us and nods, his expression grim. “Dr. Han took blood and urine samples. We swabbed her. Took nail scrapings. Dental impressions.”
“Everything has been couriered to the lab in London, Ohio,” Han adds.
“We’ve cleaned her up and this is what we have.” The doc glances down at the victim. “Eighteen-to-twenty-five-year-old female. Caucasian. Five feet six. A hundred and thirty pounds. She was nude. Wrapped in plastic sheeting. Sheeting was secured with common duct tape.”
“Any ID?” Rasmussen asks.
“No.”
“Any idea how long she’s been dead?” I ask.
“Preliminarily, two days,” he tells me. “Maybe three.”
Doc nods at Han, giving him the floor.
“As you probably already know, I was able to get fingerprints,” the investigator begins. “They were sent to AFIS for matching. DNA was sent to the lab via courier.” He looks down at the victim as if trying to decide where to start. “We dusted the plastic sheeting. There were a couple of smudges, but no prints, preliminarily anyway. We sent all the sheeting as well as the duct tape to the BCI lab in London, Ohio, for further analysis.”
“Time frame on the prints or DNA?” This from Rasmussen.
“Less than twenty-four hours on the prints,” Han tells him. “DNA? Depending on how badly the lab is backed up.” He shrugs. “Four days. Maybe a week?”
I send a silent thank-you to Tomasetti for making that call. “Tox?”
“Ten days,” Han replies.
I look at the doc, meet his gaze. “Is this a homicide?”
“I think it’s safe to say we’re dealing with a homicide.” He reaches for the paper sheet and peels it away. “Here we go.”
No amount of toughness or experience or hardened heart can prepare you for the sight of a young woman who has been dead for two or three days.
Next to me, Rasmussen stiffens, takes a half step back. I don’t move, stand there, shaken, staring down at what was once a young woman. The only thought I have is: What in the name of God happened to you?
The flesh is gray with reddish-pink marbling in areas. The abdomen is swollen. The pelvic area sports a greenish tinge. The skin of the hands is brown and dry looking. She’s monstrous and I need to look away, focus on something else, anything else. I can’t, of course, because it’s my responsibility to see this. It’s my job to find the son of a bitch that perpetrated this atrocity.
Silently, I work to calm myself. I try to see her as the person she was. Blond hair. Dark brows. She’d been pretty, I realize. Young. Physically fit.
“Jesus,” Rasmussen mutters.
Doc Coblentz sighs beneath his mask. “I wish I could offer you something in the way of helpful information, but at this point I simply can’t. Most of what you need will come post-autopsy. But I’ll give you what I can.”
I look at him and nod, swallow the spit that’s pooled in my mouth.
I find my voice. “Did you find any jewelry?” I ask. “Clothing?”
“No.”
I study the victim’s hair. Too blond to be natural. I take in the pink paint on the toenails and fingernails. Probably not Amish, and a dark sense of relief sweeps through me even as that little voice in the back of my head whispers that she could have been on rumspringa …
“She has several piercings and a few other identifying markers,” the doc tells us. “That includes a navel piercing. Nose piercing. Brow piercing. Tattoo on the ankle.” He indicates the right ankle.
Due to the dark coloration of the skin, it’s difficult to make out the tattoo.
“Looks like a marijuana leaf.” Rasmussen leans close, narrows his eyes. “If her prints aren’t on file, we might be able to check with some of the area tattoo parlors.”
“Another tattoo at the small of her back,” Doc Coblentz tells us. “We photographed everything and will send JPEGs to you ASAP.” Turning, he plucks a swab from a stainless tray on the counter. “Her hands were bound. Behind her back.”
“With duct tape,” Han interjects. “Which was also sent to the lab.”
“Sexual assault?” Rasmussen asks.
“I’ll get to that in a minute.” The doc indicates the victim’s throat. “We’ve got marks here. Bruising. So I took an X-ray, which revealed the hyoid bone was fractured.”
“She was strangled?” I ask.
“Yes, but I don’t know if that’s what killed her. Kate, she also had a plastic bag over her head. It was sealed with tape at the base of her neck. She also had adhesive around her mouth.”
“From tape?”
“I don’t know, but that is a likely scenario,” he tells me. “I won’t know cause of death until after I get her on the table.”
The horror of that takes some of the breath from my lungs. “Any other injuries?” I ask.
“There is evidence of sexual assault. A multitude of lacerations and bruising, both vaginal and anal. Enough injury to cause hemorrhage. I suspect foreign-object rape as well. Not causal of death, but there may be additional internal injuries as well.”
I stare at the victim, aware that my heart is pounding, my face hot with anger, my mouth so dry I can’t swallow, can’t speak. The heat of outrage almost overcomes me.
“Did you find the object?” Rasmussen asks.
“No.”
I look at the sheriff. “We need to get someone back out to the scene to look.”
He nods. “Road is still blocked. I’ll get a deputy out there.” His mouth tightens into a snarl. “Semen?”
“We expedited samples of everything to the lab,” Han tells us.
The doc looks down at the victim and grimaces. Over the top of his mask, through the goggles, he looks tired and … angry. It’s the first time in all the years I’ve worked with him that I’ve seen any sign of emotion. I wonder if in the past he’s been better at hiding it or if something about this particular case got under his skin.
“At least one bite mark on her left breast.” Using the swab, he indicates the left breast. “Possibly the buttock, too.”