I look at Glock, and I know we’re both wondering the same thing. “Would a boot or shoe have done it?” I ask.
“This type of injury would require a relatively sharp object or, at the very least, something heavy.”
“Murder straight up,” Glock says.
“Is it possible he was hanging on to the side of the pit until the weight of his body broke his fingers?” I ask.
“That’s a good question, Kate, but the answer is no. That kind of stress would not cause this type of fracture. It certainly wouldn’t have opened the flesh. Had this man been hanging on to the side of the pit with his fingers for any length of time, the metacarpophalangeal joint might have eventually dislocated, causing him to lose his grip. As you can see, the joints are intact.”
I nod, but my mind is reeling. I can’t fathom someone killing an Amish father in such a cold-blooded manner. “Did you find anything unusual with the other two victims?”
“Not during the prelim exam.”
“How soon can you finish the autopsies?” I ask.
“I’ll need at least a couple of hours per body.”
I nod, but I’m deeply troubled by these new developments. “In that case, we’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for the heads-up.” I start toward the door.
I hear Glock behind me as I leave the autopsy suite. In the alcove, I yank off my gown and gear and toss everything into the biohazard receptacle. I hear Glock doing the same, but I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see the emotions banging around inside me: outrage, anger, a keen sense of injustice. Contrary to popular belief, those kinds of emotions are not a cop’s best friend, particularly if you’re female and trying to maintain some semblance of credibility. But when I think about the four orphaned children, the emotions swamp me all over again.
It’s still raining when we leave through the Emergency Services exit. Neither of us bothers with a hood this time. In the face of such a brutal act of murder, petty discomforts seem enormously inconsequential.
By the time I yank open the door of the Explorer and slide inside, I’ve gotten myself under control.
“Pretty damn cold-blooded,” Glock comments as he slides in beside me.
“We need to talk to those kids.” I shove the key into the ignition.
“You think they saw something?”
“Or someone.”
“If that’s the case, why didn’t they mention it?”
“Maybe we didn’t ask the right questions.” I think back to my interview with them and shake my head. “I didn’t ask them specifically if they’d seen anyone else at the scene.”
“Still, you’d think they’d have mentioned it.”
“True. But they had an awful lot to deal with. They’d just lost their parents and uncle. They were upset and not thinking clearly.”
“Or scared,” he adds.
Considering all the implications of that, I shove the Explorer into gear and start down the lane toward the road. “Only one way to find out.”
CHAPTER 5
John Tomasetti unpacked the last moving box, set the framed commendation on his desk, and looked around at his new digs. The office was bigger than most—big enough to piss off some of the more senior agents. A window looked out over the newish business park dotted with winter-dead Bradford pear trees. The rosewood desk had a matching credenza with a hutch. There was a comfortable leather chair with adjustable lumbar support. Not bad for a guy who, a year ago, had been on his way out the door.
John had tried to be optimistic about the move from the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation headquarters in Columbus to the smaller field office in Richfield, near Cleveland. This was another chance for a fresh start, replete with a new office, new work environment, new supervisor. All of those things were nice perks. But the truth of the matter was, none of them had impacted his decision to make the move. The real reason was solely jurisdictional—so he could continue working Coshocton and Holmes counties. He didn’t have a particular fondness for either county. What he did have a fondness for was a certain chief of police.
The truth of the matter was, he hadn’t wanted to go back to Cuyahoga County. Hadn’t wanted to go anywhere near Cleveland. Too many memories there. Too many mistakes. Too much of everything, and all of it was bad. Yet here he was.…