CHAPTER 2
While waiting for the coroner to arrive, I document every aspect of the victim and scene. I take photos of everything within a fifty-foot radius: the bicycle, the lunch box, the hat, the tire imprints in the gravel shoulder, even the beer bottle in the ditch, the scrap of paper in the grass. Relief settles over me when I see the coroner’s Escalade roll up to the caution tape.
I’ve known Doc Coblentz since I became chief. He’s a Painters Mill icon of sorts, one of five doctors in town with an upstanding reputation. He’s a pediatrician with a busy practice and a big personality, and the children he treats adore him as much as their parents. Doc is a regular at LaDonna’s Diner. He’s a weekend warrior at the farmers’ market, where he’s been known to set up a booth and give cooking lessons. He and his wife are socially active around town; they’re generous donors to the library and animal shelter. Despite his duties as coroner, he’s one of the most optimistic individuals I know.
“Morning, Chief.” Hefting his medical bag, he ducks beneath the crime scene tape and approaches.
“Glad you’re here, Doc.”
“Saved me from devouring that plate of pancakes I’d just ordered at the diner.” He pats his protruding abdomen. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell my wife I was there.”
“My lips are sealed.”
He’s a corpulent man wearing his trademark khakis, a button-down shirt—said buttons stretched taut over a Volkswagen-size belly—and one of the ugliest ties I’ve ever laid eyes on.
He reaches me and we shake hands. “Hit-and-run?” he asks.
Even as he asks the question, I see his eyes moving to the victim, taking in details, the position of the body, the amount of blood. I tell him what little I know. “There’s a strange wound on his abdomen. I’d say it looks like a stab or even a bullet wound, but it’s oddly shaped.”
His eyebrows shoot up, not in surprise, but curiosity. Both of us have been around long enough to expect the unexpected. “Let’s see what the victim has to tell us.”
Setting down his medical case, he opens it and pulls out prewrapped biohazard protection for both of us. Though this is an outdoor scene and we’re at the mercy of the elements, it’s protocol to protect as much of the scene as possible. He passes me a disposable Tyvek suit, hair and shoe covers, and fresh examination gloves. We take a minute to don all of it. Then he picks up the medical case and we approach the victim.
“Copious amount of blood from the mouth,” he murmurs.
I tell him about the broken tooth Glock noticed. “Internal injuries?”
“Possibly. Trauma from being struck. Could have bitten his tongue when he fell. Or a broken rib puncturing the lung. Something like that.”
We reach the dead man. Doc sets down the case and kneels. “I don’t have to tell you that none of what I’m about to say is an official ruling.” He gives me a stern look over the top of his glasses. “The only reason I’m going to say anything at this point is because I know that if this is a result of foul play, whatever I can tell you will help you get started with your investigation. So, I’m going to call it as I see it and do the best I can. Final assessment will come post-autopsy.”
“I understand.”
He turns his attention back to the victim. With a gloved hand, he lifts the hem of the shirt and pulls it up. The wound I saw earlier looms into view. Simultaneously, we lean closer. This time, I take in the details. The injury isn’t round like a bullet wound, but in the shape of a cross—two one-inch lines crossed at their centers—and about the diameter of a quarter.
“Any idea what that is?” I ask quietly.
The doc leans even closer, squinting. “Some type of penetrating wound.”
I stare at the injury, trying to imagine a traffic scenario that could’ve caused it. A T-post sticking out of the bed of a pickup truck? The victim traveling fast and running into something and impaling himself? The driver panicking and fleeing the scene?
I take in the broken tooth and cut lip. “Maybe he got into a scuffle or fight and was stabbed?”
Grimacing, the doc meets my gaze, his expression sober. “I’ve seen an injury similar to this just one time in all the years I’ve been practicing medicine. It was a hunting accident. Eight or nine years ago. A young man shot himself in the foot with a crossbow.” He nods toward the wound. “The wound he sustained looked exactly like that one.”
I stare at him, shocked, the thought making me shudder with such force that I feel gooseflesh on my arms. I look down at the dead man, a slew of dark possibilities crowding my mind. “So he was killed with an arrow?”
“It’s called a bolt, actually,” the doc tells me. “It looks like this particular bolt was tipped with what’s referred to as a broadhead with four blades.” He indicates the wound. “They’re razor-sharp and do a tremendous amount of damage.”
“Is it possible this was an accident?” I ask.
“I suppose it’s possible.” He shrugs, but his expression is skeptical. “If someone was out practicing or shooting targets. I have no idea what kind of range a crossbow has.”
I’ve never used a crossbow, never been around them, but I know of hunters who use them, the Amish included. It’s an incredibly powerful weapon, easy to use, accurate, and extremely deadly. I almost can’t get my head around the idea of a man being killed with one.
I look around. “So, if this man was shot with a crossbow, where’s the bolt?”
“I’m no expert, Kate, but I do happen to know the bolt fired from a powerful crossbow can travel with so much velocity that it can go completely through a body and continue traveling.”
Despite the warmth of the sun, a chill slides between my shoulder blades and down my back. Carefully, I work my cell from my pocket and snap four close-up photos of the wound, my mind churning with the implications of what I’ve been told.
“Doc,” I say slowly, “if the bolt went through, there would be an exit wound, correct?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Can we check?”
“Let’s roll him over. Gently. I’ll take the shoulders. You take the hip. Once we’ve got him on his side, I’ll lift the shirttail, and we’ll have a quick look.”
Setting his gloved hands on the decedent’s shoulder, Doc gives me a nod. Discomfort quivers in my gut when I set my hands on the victim’s hip. The body is still warm to the touch, and I’m reminded that a short time ago, this young man was alive with hopes and dreams and people who loved him. At the doctor’s nod, we roll. The shirt coming off the asphalt makes a wet peeling sound. Keeping one hand on the shoulder, Doc Coblentz uses the other to pull the shirttail upward toward the victim’s shoulders.
Sure enough, a slightly smaller four-point wound is located just to the left of the spine.
“I’d say that’s an exit wound,” the doc says.
“So, if the bolt went clean through,” I say slowly, “it should be somewhere in the area.”
“I believe that is a logical assumption.”
Which might be our first important piece of physical evidence.