“Correct.”
I glance at my watch. “It’s six-thirty A.M. now, so time of death was probably between ten last night and twelve-thirty this morning.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Can I borrow your scissors a sec?” I ask.
“Of course.” He passes them to me.
I reach for the boy’s wrist, cut through the speaker wire, and drop the wire into a second evidence bag. “Quite a bit of bruising at the wrist,” I comment.
The doctor grimaces. “This poor boy struggled.”
“I need to bag his hands so the CSU can check beneath his nails for DNA.” When I glance down at the victim’s hands, I see that the fingers are claw-like and rigid. “He’s in rigor?” I ask.
“Not yet. Rigor usually starts with the face, the jaw, the neck.”
“But his hands . . .”
“Cadaveric spasm more than likely. That happens when the victim experiences extreme agitation or tension in the moments before death.”
I don’t want to think about the horrors this boy endured before his death. I’ve been a victim of violent crime; I’ve seen my share of violence. But I cannot imagine the terror and helplessness of being bound, watching every member of your family systematically shot and knowing you’re next.
The doc moves to Amos Plank. I know it’s an emotional response, but I feel inordinately repulsed by the elder Plank’s body. Not because of the condition of his corpse, but because of what he may have done to his family. There’s a part of me that feels as if the man doesn’t deserve the reverence with which we handled the dead boy.
“Did you move him, Kate?”
I nod.
“Is he your shooter?”
“I don’t know. Looks that way.”
“Since we’ve some question as to whether or not this man is the perpetrator of these crimes and time is of the essence, I’ll go ahead and get a core temp for you now. It’s much more accurate this way and you’ll be able to get to work on a time line.” The doctor tugs up the man’s shirt and exposes his abdomen.
Though entering middle age, Amos Plank is a lean man. I can see the outline of his ribs from where I stand. Minimal body hair. White skin that has seen little sun.
“You might want to note that there are no visible lacerations or bruises about the abdomen.”
“Duly noted.”
“I’m going to make a small incision.” The doc places his hand flat against the abdomen, pulls the skin taut. Using a scalpel, he quickly makes the incision just below the lowest rib, about half an inch long. A line of blood appears as the skin opens, but the wound does not bleed. Next, he inserts the stem of a long digital meat thermometer, guiding it upward to just under the rib cage.
“Going to take a minute or so,” he says. “I’ll continue with the exam.”
Setting his hands on the head of the corpse, he gently moves it from side to side. “Rigor has set in about the face and neck. Eyes are cloudy.”
“Any idea when you might get to the autopsies?” I’m thinking about the two girls in the barn. I want to know how they died. If they were sexually assaulted.
“I’ll juggle some appointments and begin immediately.”
I’m watching the doctor examine the dead man’s hands when a shadow on the corpse’s wrist snags my attention. Grabbing my Maglite, I train the beam on the wrist. I almost can’t believe my eyes. Just above the hand, a faint bruise encircles the wrist.
“Is that a bruise on his wrist?” I ask.
Doc Coblentz looks at me over the tops of his glasses, then his eyes follow the beam of my flashlight. His brows knit as he stares at the marks. “It certainly looks like it.”
Before even realizing I’m going to move, I reach for the corpse’s arm. I feel cold flesh through the thin latex of my glove. The stiffness of the joint associated with the early stages of rigor. In the stark light from my Maglite, I see clearly the circular pattern of the bruise.
“It’s the same bruising pattern we found on the boy’s wrists,” I say.
Something pings in my head, like a piece of puzzle I couldn’t make fit finally clicking into place. Realization trickles over me like ice water. Everything I thought I knew about this scene flies out the window. “He was bound,” I murmur.
The doctor is already looking at the other wrist. From where I kneel, I can see the bruising there, too. The doc shoots me a grim look. “I don’t believe we’re dealing with a suicide here, Kate.”
“The killer staged the scene,” I whisper.
“That appears to be the case.”
I think of the mother and baby lying dead in the yard, and a chill runs the length of my body hard enough to make me shudder. I think of the two girls in the barn, the evidence of torture, and all I can think is that there’s a cold-blooded killer running loose in my town. A monster with a bloodlust for killing and an appetite that has spiraled out of control.
CHAPTER 4