Reluctantly, I relinquish my parka. He hangs it on a hook outside the door. Quickly, I don a sterile gown, slip the disposable shoe covers over my boots and leave the alcove.
Doc Coblentz motions toward the adjoining room labeled with a larger biohazard sign. “It’s not pretty,” he says.
“Murder never is.”
We go through another set of swinging doors and enter the autopsy room. Though it’s equipped with a separate ventilation system from the rest of the building, I discern the smell of formalin and an array of other, darker odors I don’t want to identify. Four stainless steel gurneys are parked against the far wall. A huge scale used for weighing bodies stands in the center. A smaller scale used for weighing individual organs squats on the stainless steel counter along with an assortment of trays, bottles and instruments.
The doc snags a clipboard from a shelf and takes me to the fifth gurney, the only one in use. He pulls down the sheet and Amanda Horner’s face comes into view. Her skin is gray now. Someone closed her eyes, but the left lid has come back up. A sticky-looking film coats the eyeball.
Sighing, Doc Coblentz shakes his head. “This poor child endured a horrible death, Kate.”
“Torture?”
“Yes.”
I steel myself against a slow rise of outrage. “Do you know the cause of death?”
“Exsanguination more than likely.”
“Any idea what kind of knife he used?”
“Something damn sharp. No serration. Probably short-bladed.” Using a long wooden swab with a cotton tip, he indicates the cut on her neck. “This is the fatal wound. Sharp force injury is clearly visible. You can see that the wound path is relatively short.” He glances at the clipboard. “Eight point one centimeters.”
“Is that significant?”
“It tells me he knew where to cut to hit the artery.”
“Medical training?”
“Or maybe he’s done it before.”
Because I don’t want to address that, I go to my next question. “How did he initially subdue her? Drugs? What?”
“I’ll run a tox screen.” He looks at me over the tops of his glasses. “But I think he may have used a stun gun.”
“How can you tell?”
Slipping his chubby hands into disposable gloves, he tugs the sheet down to her abdomen.
I’ve been a cop for almost ten years. I’ve seen shootings. Bloody domestic disputes. Horrific traffic accidents. It still disturbs me to see the dead up close and personal. Fear of death is a primal response built into all of us to varying degrees. No matter how much I’ve seen, I’ll never get used to it.
“See these red marks?” he asks.
My eyes follow the swab. Sure enough, two small round abrasion-like dots mar the skin at her left shoulder. Two more appear on her chest, above her right breast. Another stands out on her left bicep. If I wasn’t looking at the body of a murder victim, I could almost convince myself I was looking at a cluster of chicken pox, or some other benign blemish. But as a cop I know these marks are much more sinister.
“Abrasions?” I look closer. “Burns?”
“Burns.”
“Most stun guns don’t leave marks.”
“You’re right,” he concedes. “That’s particularly true if it’s applied through clothing.”
“So he hit her with it when she was nude?”
He lifts his shoulders. “Probably. But these marks are not consistent with what I’ve seen in the past.”
“What are you getting at?”
“These burns are more substantial. I think the voltage or amperage of the stun gun was tampered with.”
I look at the marks and try not to shudder. Ten years ago I attended the police academy in Columbus. As part of our training, any cadet brave enough to volunteer was hit with a stun gun. Because I was curious, I volunteered. Even though the amperage was set low, it knocked me on my ass. It incapacitated me for a full minute. And it hurt like hell. I couldn’t imagine being at the mercy of some psychopath with a souped-up stunner.
“You think the stun gun is some kind of homemade job?” I ask.
“Or modified.” He nods. “Whatever the case, she was hit with it multiple times.”
I look at the scored flesh on her wrists. A quiver runs through my stomach when I see the white of bone. “What the hell did he bind her with?”
“Some type of wire. For quite some time, evidently.” He shakes his head so vigorously his jowls jiggle. “She struggled.”
Painters Mill is located in the heart of farm country. Many farmers grow and cut hay, so there’s plenty of baling wire around. Even if we identified the type, it would be impossible to trace.
The doctor lifts the sheet. “He used some type of chain on her ankles. Large links with some rust present. Judging from these bruises, he strung her up when she was still alive.”