I’m wakened by the chirp of my cell phone. For several seconds I’m disoriented and unsure where I’m at. I reach for Tomasetti, only to remember the argument we had earlier. I curse him as I grapple for the phone. “Burkholder.”
“Chief, sorry to wake you, but I thought you should know about a call I just took.”
“Hey, Mona.” I push myself to a sitting position. A glance at the alarm clock tells me it’s just past 5 A.M. “What is it?”
“Kid tossing newspapers says Julia Rutledge’s front door is standing open. He got a little freaked out and called his dad. Dad called us a few minutes ago. T.J.’s working an injury accident out on Delisle Road and said you were just out there tonight and I should let you know.”
Wide awake now, recalling my recent meeting with Rutledge, I set my feet on the floor and snatch my uniform trousers off the back of a chair. “I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 13
Ten minutes later, I pull into Rutledge’s driveway to find the house dark and quiet. No movement inside. No cars in the driveway or on the street. I hit my lapel mike. “Ten twenty-three.”
“Ten four.”
I grab my Maglite from the seat pocket and get out. Sure enough, from where I’m standing, I can see that the front door is open a couple of feet. A newspaper still in its clear plastic sleeve lies on the threshold. “Shit.” I walk toward the house and take the steps to the porch. Pushing open the door the rest of the way, I peer inside. “Hello? Ms. Rutledge? It’s Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill PD. Is everything all right?”
Before I’m even fully through the door, I sweep the beam around the living room. Nothing appears out of place. I flip the switch on the wall, but it doesn’t produce any light. I stand there a moment, listening, but the house is so quiet, I can hear the heat rushing through the vents.
“Ms. Rutledge?” I call out her name and identify myself a second time. The last thing any cop wants to happen when entering a premises is to be mistaken for a robber and get shot.
I go to the lamp on the end table and turn the switch. Again, no light. I’m midway across the living room when my beam illuminates a muddy shoe print on the hardwood floor. I can’t tell if it’s male or female, but someone has recently come in from outside.
I reach the far end of the living room. “Ms. Rutledge? Are you there?”
The lack of a response makes the nerves at the back of my neck crawl. I know it’s possible she’s sleeping and didn’t hear me. Some people are sound sleepers; they take sleeping pills or wear earplugs. But ever present in my mind is that she was one of the last people to speak with Dale Michaels before his death and the situation has a high probability of going downhill quick.
I point my beam down the hallway, where I presume the bedrooms are located. I get the impression of a narrow space with hardwood floors and three doors, all of which stand partially open. Framed photographs on the walls. Ahead, a picture frame lies on the floor, the glass broken. I shine the beam on the wall and see a smear of something dark against the light paint. I can’t be sure, but it looks like blood.
“Shit,” I whisper. I transfer the Maglite to my left hand and draw my service revolver. “Mrs. Rutledge?”
The first door I come to is on my right. The hinges squeak as I push it open. Quickly, I sweep the beam around the room. It’s a small, tidy bedroom with a queen-size bed covered with an Amish quilt. Curtains drawn. A small desk and chair. Guest room, I think. The closet door stands open. I see summer clothes hung on plastic hangers—shirts and jeans and an Ohio State hoodie lying on the floor next to a pair of sneakers. There’s no one in the closet, so I continue down the hall.
A narrow door to my left opens to a good-size bathroom. At the end of the hall is the master bedroom. I see the outline of a window. Sheer curtains. A bed with a frilly skirt and a comforter that’s turned down. Night table with a lamp and e-reader. It looks as if someone had been sleeping in the bed, but threw the covers aside and rose. I step into the room and try the light switch, but it doesn’t work. The closet door is closed, so I stride to it and pull it open. The beam of my flashlight reveals blouses and jeans and a couple of dresses, all neatly hung. Boots and low-heeled pumps lined up on the floor. But there’s no one there.
I back out of the room, shift my light to the bathroom. The sink and medicine cabinet are to my right. Tub to the left. Window ahead. “Julia Rutledge,” I call out. “Police.”
The bathroom is small. No closet. No place for anyone to hide. I step inside. My beam reveals blood. On the floor. On the sink. The wall ahead. I’m reaching for my mike when a sound spins me around. The burn of adrenaline in my gut. Then I notice movement in the bathtub. Stumbling back, I thrust my light toward it. The shower curtain has been torn from the rod. I see the shocking red of blood. Blond hair against porcelain. Staring eyes within the pale oval of a face.
“Ms. Rutledge!” I hit my lapel mike. “Ten seven eight!” I hear fear in my voice, make an effort to crank it down. “Ten thirty-one C.”