“I’ve killed a lot of brain cells since then. Let me pull the file.”
He could have refused to talk to me because I’m using my home phone. Sometimes if a cop isn’t certain of who he’s talking to, he’ll call them back at the police department. I’m guessing it was the fact that I’m looking at a cold case that prompts him to speak to me without verifying my credentials.
He comes back on the line a few minutes later. “You think you got a lead on this case?” he asks.
“We’ve had three murders here in Painters Mill. I’m looking at cold cases in surrounding states for a signature match.”
“Anything I can do to help. What do you need specifically?”
“The report I’m looking at mentions a ritualistic carving on the victim. I’m wondering if you can tell me anything about the carving.”
Papers rattle on the other end. “I’ve got the coroner’s report here. Says, and I quote ‘carving in the skin is superficial and is located eight centimeters above the navel.’ ”
“What is the carving of?”
More papers rattle. “I don’t see any notes, but I got a crime scene photo here. Let me get my glasses.” He pauses. “It kinda looks like a capital I and a V.”
“Like a Roman numeral?”
“Could be.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Was there any reason this data wasn’t entered into VICAP?”
“We didn’t start using VICAP here until 2001. Nothing in the archive has been entered yet. Lack of manpower and budget. You know how that goes.”
“Can you scan and e-mail that photo to me?”
“Sure thing. What’s your e-mail address there?”
I rattle off my e-mail address and hang up. My first impulse is to call John, but I hesitate. All I have are some vaguely suspicious circumstances. My looking at Detrick as a suspect could be perceived as an embittered and disgruntled former chief lashing out at the person who took her case. I need more before I involve anyone else. I’m not even convinced I’m right about Detrick. If I move prematurely, the whole thing could blow up in my face like a stick of dynamite.
Back at my laptop, I pull up a spreadsheet and start a timeline, filling in the blanks with information gleaned by phone or the Internet. Detrick was a wilderness guide for Yukon Hunting Tours from February 1980 to December 1985. All three Fairbanks murders occurred during that period. In early 1986 he moved to Dayton, Ohio, where he began his law enforcement career with the police department, working as a patrol officer until 1990. The murders in Kentucky and Indiana happened while he lived in Dayton. If I’m correct, Lucinda Ramos was victim four. Jessie Watkins was victim number five. In 1990, he landed a job with the Holmes County Sheriff’s office as a deputy and moved to Millersburg, which is when the Slaughterhouse Murders began. He killed four women during that time, victims six through nine. He sold his house in 1994 and moved to Columbus where he made detective and stayed until 2005. No similar murders that I know of occurred during that time frame, but then I haven’t researched it thoroughly. He returned to Painters Mill in 2006, ran for sheriff and won by a landslide. The most recent murders began with victim number twenty-two. I’m missing ten victims during the time he lived and worked in Columbus. Other than that discrepancy, the timeline fits like O.J.’s glove.
I jump when the phone rings. “Hello?”
“Chief.” Mona whispers my name with urgency. “You better get down here.”
It’s nearly midnight. Judging from her tone, I know the news isn’t good. “What happened?”
“Jonas Hershberger just tried to hang himself.”
CHAPTER 32
The worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched.
Or so says the Bible with regard to hell.
Had I not had those conservative moral values branded into my brain at a young age, I might have believed Jonas Hershberger tried to commit suicide. But I don’t. The Amish believe in living their lives the way Jesus lived His life. Forgiveness and humility are part of that undertaking. Suicide happens, but it is rare. And it is the one sin for which no forgiveness is granted.
My wipers wage a losing war with the snow as I park next to Mona’s Escort. I spot Pickles’s old Chrysler along with a city car. Glock’s vehicle is glaringly absent. I hit the ground running and enter the reception area with a swirl of snow. Mona stands near the switchboard with her headset on. “What happened?” I ask.
“Jonas tried to hang himself. Detrick and Pickles are in the basement with him now.”
“He okay?”
“I think so. He’s conscious.”
“Call an ambulance.” I rush to the rear hall, and take the steps two at a time to the basement. The jail is outdated and small with two six-by-six cells and a tiny jailer area. I emerge from the staircase to see both Detrick and Pickles standing over Jonas, who is sitting on the bench.