Linda Castillo: Sworn to Silence

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.

I lead him into the bar ditch. It’s a short walk to the body, but his breathing is labored by the time we climb the fence. “How the hell did a body get all the way out here?” he mutters.

“Someone dumped her or she dragged herself before she died.”

He gives me a look, but I don’t elaborate. I don’t want him walking into this with preconceived notions. First impressions are important in police work.

We duck under the crime scene tape Glock has strung through the trees like toilet paper at Halloween. T.J. has clipped an AC work light to a branch above the body. It doesn’t cast much light, but it’s better than flashlights and will free up our hands. I wish for a generator.

“Scene is secure.” Glock approaches holding two cups of coffee and shoves one at me. “You look like you could use this.”

Taking the Styrofoam cup, I peel back the tab and sip. “God, that’s good.”

He glances at the body. “You figure someone dumped her?”

“Looks that way.”

T.J. joins us, his gaze flicking to the dead woman. “Jeez, Chief, I hate to see her laid out like that.”

I hate it, too. From where we stand I can see her breasts and pubic hair. The woman inside me cringes at that. But there’s nothing I can do about it; we can’t move her or cover her until we process the scene. “Do either of you recognize her?” I ask.

Both men shake their heads.

Sipping my coffee, I study the scene, trying to piece together what might have happened. “Glock, do you still have that old Polaroid?”

“In my trunk.”

“Take some photos of the body and the scene.” I think of the trampled snow and mentally kick myself for disturbing the area. A boot tread might have been helpful. “I want shots of the drag marks, too.” I speak to both men now. “Set up a grid inside the crime scene tape and walk it, starting at the trees. Bag everything you find, even if you think it’s not important. Be sure to photograph everything before you touch it. See if you can find a boot tread. Keep your eyes open for clothing or a wallet.”

“Will do, Chief.” Glock and T.J. start toward the trees.

I turn to Doc Coblentz, who is standing next to the body. “Any idea who she is?” I ask.

“I don’t recognize her.” The doc removes his mittens, slides his chubby fingers into latex gloves. He grunts as he kneels.

“Any idea how long she’s been dead?”

“Hard to tell because of the cold.” He lifts her arm. Red grooves mark her wrist. The surrounding flesh is bruised and smeared with blood. “Her hands were bound,” he says.

I look at the scored flesh. She’d struggled violently to get free. “With wire?”

“That would be my guess.”

Her painted fingernails tell me she’s not Amish. I notice two nails on her right hand are broken to the quick. She’d fought back. I make a mental note to get nail scrapings.

“Rigor has set in,” the doc says. “She’s been dead at least eight hours. Judging from the ice crystals on the mucous membranes, probably closer to ten. Once I get her to the hospital, I’ll get a core body temp. Body temp drops a degree to a degree and a half per hour, so a core will narrow down TOD.” He releases her hand.

His finger hovers above the purple flesh of her cheek. “Lividity in the face here.” He looks up at me. His glasses are fogged. His eyes appear huge behind the thick lenses. “Did someone move her?” he asks.

I nod, but I don’t mention who. “What about cause of death?”

Removing a penlight from his inside pocket, the doctor peels back an eyelid and shines it into her eye. “No petechial hemorrhages.”