Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

“Not that I know of.” She picks up a ratty-looking stuffed bear and smells it. Hugging the bear, she bursts into tears. “I want her back.”

I look around, hoping to spot something—anything—that will tell me more about Amanda Horner. Being as unobtrusive as possible, I look through the night table. Finding nothing, I move to the dresser and quickly rifle through T-shirts and jeans, socks and underwear.

The sound of a car door slamming outside alerts me that Harold Horner has arrived home. Without speaking, Belinda rushes from the room. “Harold! Harold! ”

I look at Glock. “Jesus.”

He shakes his head. “Yeah.”

I enter the living room as the front door bursts open.

“I got here as fast as I could.” Harold Horner is a large man. Wearing a red flannel shirt and denim jacket, he looks like a lumberjack. He is bald with the rough hands of a workingman. I notice his eyes are the same color as his daughter’s. He scans the faces in the room. “Where’s Amanda?”

Showing him my badge, I identify myself. “I’m afraid we have some bad news about your daughter, sir.”

“Aw, Jesus. Aw, God. What happened? What’s going on?”

“She’s dead,” Belinda Horner blurts. “Our baby is dead. Oh Harold, dear God.” He goes to her and she collapses in his arms. “Our sweet little girl is gone, and she’s never coming back.”

I drop Glock at the station with instructions to head over to the Brass Rail. I’d rather do that myself; I’ve never been good at delegating. But I need to speak with Doc Coblentz. Revisiting the dead is one responsibility I won’t put on my officers.

Earlier, Glock completed the tedious task of lifting tire tread and footwear impressions at the crime scene. Mona couriered everything to the Bureau of Criminal Investigation and Identification lab in London, Ohio, which is over a hundred miles away. A courier fee isn’t in the budget, but I can’t spare an officer. I’ll pay for it out of my own pocket if necessary.

The lab will scan each impression and imprint into a computer and run a comparison analysis, matching impressions at the scene against the imprints of the first responders. It’s a long shot, but I’m hoping one impression will stand out and give us our first clue as to the identity of the killer.

It’s almost noon by the time I park adjacent the main entrance of Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg. I pass the information desk and take the elevator to the basement. A yellow and black biohazard sign glares at me as I go through the swinging doors. Doc Coblentz sits at a desk inside a glassed-in office where the miniblinds are open. He spots me and rises. Wearing a white lab coat and baggy tan trousers, he looks like an aging Pillsbury doughboy.

“Chief.” He extends his hand and we shake. “The parents were here a few minutes ago and identified her.” He shakes his head. “Nice family. Sad as hell to see something like this happen.”

“They see the chaplain?”

“Father Zimmerman took them to the chapel.” With a nod, he’s ready to get down to business. “I haven’t done the autopsy yet. All I have for you is a prelim.”

“I’ll take whatever you have.” The thought of seeing Amanda Horner’s body fills me with dread. But my need for hard facts overrides that human frailty. Right now, information is my most powerful tool. I want to catch the son of a bitch who did this. There is a part of me that wants to pull out my sidearm and fire a round into his face so he can’t put anyone else through the hell he’s putting the Horners through.

That need drives me forward when the doctor motions to a small alcove. “Grab a gown and shoe covers on the shelf there,” he says. “I’ll take your coat.”

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.