“Forensic odontologist will be here later this morning,” Han adds.
“She went through a lot,” I hear myself say.
“Yes, she did,” Doc replies.
“Was this done by one person?” I ask. “More than one?”
“I don’t know,” Doc tells me.
“This took some time,” Rasmussen says slowly. “The rape. The bag over the head. Wrapping the body in plastic with tape. It required some privacy.”
I look at Rasmussen. “It didn’t happen at the scene,” I say. “She was raped and murdered elsewhere and dumped in that creek.”
“I agree,” the sheriff replies.
“When we canvassed, did we check for security or game cams?” I ask.
“We got nothing.”
I look at Doc. “We need photos of everything you have.”
“I’ll send them as soon as humanly possible,” he tells me.
“How soon can you do the autopsy?” I ask.
“I’ll cancel everything on my schedule. We’ll do it today. Probably this afternoon or evening.” He looks down at the victim and sighs. “I figure we owe this poor young lady that much.”
* * *
I don’t speak to anyone as I strip off the biohazard gear and stuff everything into the receptacle. I’m vaguely aware of the sheriff speaking to Han in the corridor. Wanting only to get out, I leave the alcove, rush down the hall and into the restroom, where I scrub my hands clean with the hottest water I can tolerate. I shove open the door and nearly plow into Rasmussen, who’s waiting his turn. We make eye contact for two seconds; then, without speaking, I brush past him and go directly to the door marked STAIRS and take them two at a time to the ground-level floor. I hit the security bar with both hands, punch open the door. The reception area is a blur as I rush through. I exit through the double doors, sucking in fresh air, letting it fill my lungs. I break into a run as I leave the portico. I don’t stop until I reach the Explorer. Breaths rushing, I yank open the door, but I don’t get in. My mouth is full of saliva, so I go to the island of grass and spit. I set my hands on my knees and gulp air, and I wait for my stomach to settle.
“Shit,” I pant. “Shit. Damn it.”
“Kate.”
I straighten to see Rasmussen striding toward me, his expression concerned. “Hell of a damn thing to see,” he growls.
Hoping I don’t look as strung out as I feel, I take another breath, try to get a handle on my emotions and remind myself I have a job to do. I sure as hell don’t have time to curl up in a ball and let some murderous prick get away with what was done to that girl.
For a time, neither of us speaks.
“Mike, how did that happen?” I say. “I mean, here? In Holmes County? In Painters Mill? What kind of monster does that?”
It’s not a very cop-like opening question. Too much emotion. Too much anger. I grapple for composure, can’t quite get my hands on it.
The sheriff clears his throat. Looks down at the ground. “I don’t know.”
“Two bodies inside a week.”
He narrows his eyes. “Gotta be related.”
“The homicides … are different in nature.”
“Yeah.”
I raise my eyes to his. “Do we have any missing females in the county?”
“We’re checking now.”
I try to remember if I’ve heard anything from the Amish and I make a mental note to get in touch with my sister, do a little poking around, even if no one has reported anything.
“We’re going to need to set up a task force,” I say.
“I’ll get things rolling on my end.”
“I’ll get with BCI.”
“Look, I know you’re tied up with the Karn thing. I can jump right into this one, Kate. I got the manpower. Take some pressure off you and your department.”
He’s right, of course. The sheriff and I have worked multiple cases together and we’ve never had a beef about who does what. But I’ve never been very good at taking a back seat, even when it’s the prudent thing to do.
I nod, but I feel the gravity of the case pressing down on me. “Mike, we need to get her identified.”
“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.”