“He found a body. Sounds pretty shaken up.”
Judging from the tone of her voice, T.J. isn’t the only one. I throw my legs over the side of the bed and reach for my robe. A glance at the alarm tells me it’s almost two-thirty A.M. “An accident?”
“Just a body. Nude. Female.”
Realizing I need my clothes, not the robe, I turn on the lamp. The light hurts my eyes, but I’m fully awake now. I’m still trying to get my mind around the idea of one of my officers finding a body. I ask for the location, and she tells me.
“Call Doc Coblentz,” I say. Doc Coblentz is one of six doctors in the town of Painters Mill, Ohio, and acting coroner for Holmes County.
I cross to the closet and reach for my bra, socks and long johns. “Tell T.J. not to touch anything or move the body. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The Stutz farm sits on eighty acres bordered on one side by Dog Leg Road, the other by the north fork of Painters Creek. The location Mona gave me is half a mile from the old covered bridge on a deserted stretch of road that dead ends at the county line.
I crave coffee as I pull up behind T.J.’s cruiser. My headlights reveal his silhouette in the driver’s seat. I’m pleased to see he set out flares and left his strobes on. Grabbing my Mag-Lite, I slide out of the Explorer. The cold shocks me, and I huddle deeper into my parka, wishing I’d remembered my hat. T.J. looks shaken as I approach. “What do you have?”
“A body. Female.” He’s doing his best to maintain his cop persona, but his hand shakes as he points toward the field. I know those tremors aren’t from the temperature. “Thirty feet in by those trees.”
“You sure she’s dead?”
T.J.’s Adam’s apple bobs twice. “She’s cold. No pulse. There’s blood all over the fuckin’ place.”
“Let’s take a look.” We start toward the trees. “Did you touch anything? Disturb the scene?”
He drops his head slightly, and I know he did. “I thought maybe she was . . . alive, so I rolled her over, checked.”
Not good, but I don’t say anything. T.J. Banks has the makings of a good cop. He’s diligent and serious about his work. But this is his first job in law enforcement. Having been my officer for only six months, he’s green. I’d lay odds this is his first dead body.
We crunch through ankle-deep snow. A sense of dread staggers me when I spot the body. I wish for daylight, but it will be hours before my wish is granted. Nights are long this time of year. The victim is naked. Late teens or early twenties. Dark blonde hair. A slick of blood two feet in diameter surrounds her head. She’d once been pretty, but in death her face is macabre. I can tell she’d originally been lying prone; lividity has set in, leaving one side of her face purple. Her eyes are halfway open and glazed. Her tongue bulges from between swollen lips, and I see ice crystals on it.
I squat next to the body. “Looks like she’s been here a few hours.”
“Starting to get freezer burn,” T.J. notes.
Though I was a patrol officer in Columbus, Ohio, for six years, a homicide detective for two, I feel as if I’m out of my league. Columbus isn’t exactly the murder capital of the world, but like every city it has a dark side. I’ve seen my share of death. Still, the blatant brutality of this crime shocks me. I want to think violent murder doesn’t happen in towns like Painters Mill.
But I know it does.
I remind myself this is a crime scene. Rising, I fan my flashlight beam around the perimeter. There are no tracks other than ours. With a sinking sensation, I realize we’ve contaminated possible evidence. “Call Glock and tell him to get out here.”
“He’s on va—”
My look cuts his words short.
The Painters Mill PD consists of myself, three full-time officers, two dispatchers and one auxiliary officer. Rupert “Glock” Maddox is a former Marine and my most experienced. He earned his nickname because of his fondness for his side arm. Vacation or not, I need him.
“Tell him to bring crime scene tape.” I think about what else we’re going to need. “Get an ambulance out here. Alert the hospital in Millersburg. Tell them we’ll be transporting a body to the morgue. Oh, and tell Rupert to bring coffee. Lot’s of it.” I look down at the body. “We’re going to be here a while.”
Dr. Ludwig Coblentz is a rotund man with a big head, a balding pate and a belly the size of a Volkswagen. I meet him on the shoulder as he slides from his Escalade. “I hear one of your officers had a close encounter with a dead body,” he says grimly.
“Not just dead,” I say. “Murdered.”
He wears khaki trousers and a red plaid pajama top beneath his parka. I watch as he pulls a black bag from the passenger seat. Holding it like a lunchbox, he turns to me, his expression telling me he’s ready to get down to business.