Page 28 of A Gathering of Secrets

Both sets of eyes land on me as I cross to the dispatch station. “Nice of you to stay late, Mona,” I say easily.

She smiles a little guiltily. “Sorry, Chief. I was just helping Lois while she translates Skid’s chicken scratch.”

“Uh-huh.” I pluck messages from my slot. “Since you’re here, do you have an hour or so to spend on a special project for me?”

“Are you kidding?” She stands, catches herself, and jumps back into a more professional persona. “I mean, of course. What do you need?”

“I want you to dig up everything you can find on Emma Miller. Seventeen years old. Amish. Lived in Charm with her parents. Now deceased.”

Her face lights up. “I’m all over it.”

I can’t help it; I grin.

* * *

I’ve just sat down at my desk with a dubious-looking cup of something I hope is coffee when my phone erupts. The display tells me it’s Doc Coblentz.

“Hi, Doc,” I begin, hoping for some preliminary information on Daniel Gingerich.

“I’m about to begin the autopsy on Daniel Gingerich. Sheriff Rasmussen is on his way. I thought you might want to be here as well.”

There are two schools of thought when it comes to cops attending autopsies of a victim whose manner of death is likely a homicide. Some cops prefer to rely strictly on the autopsy report. I’ve found those reports as daunting to read as they are to decipher; they contain a virtual encyclopedia of medical and forensic jargon. For me, it’s more helpful to see the body in a medical setting, with proper lighting, and a coroner present to answer questions. This is particularly true when there is foul play involved. The few times I’ve had to rely solely on the autopsy report, I ended up spending an undue amount of time on the phone with the coroner, asking for clarification or opinion or explanation.

Some of the old-timers harbor the unspoken belief that attending the autopsy is also a sort of homage or final respect the cop pays to the victim. That mind-set ventures a little too close to personal for me, though I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit I’m guilty of it, too.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Grabbing my keys, I head toward the door.

I call Tomasetti on my way to Pomerene Hospital. “The coroner is about to begin the autopsy on Daniel Gingerich,” I tell him.

“That was fast.”

“We have less customers down here in Holmes County.”

“They could use him up in Cuyahoga County.”

“Can’t have him, Tomasetti.”

He sighs. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

* * *

Pomerene Hospital is a fifty-five-bed facility north of Millersburg off of Wooster Road. I nab a parking spot outside the Emergency entrance portico, cross the short span of asphalt, and push through the double glass doors.

I’m thinking about Daniel Gingerich as I take the elevator to the basement. From all appearances, and judging from what everyone has told me about him thus far, he’d been a typical young Amish man with a bright future ahead. He’d been loved by his parents. His girlfriend. According to his former best friend, he hadn’t been perfect, but then who is? The death of Emma Miller remains a question. But I’ve learned nothing to indicate Daniel had taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. So why did someone see fit to lock him in that tack room and set the barn on fire, knowing he would suffer a horrific death?

The elevator doors whoosh open and I step into a quiet, tiled hall. I walk past the yellow and black biohazard sign and a plaque that reads: MORGUE AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. I go through a set of swinging doors and, at the end of the hall, enter the reception area. I discern the vaguest hint of odors I’ve grown to detest. The smells of death and chemicals despite a separate state-of-the-art HVAC system.

“Hey, Kate. Any sign of rain out there yet?” Carmen Anderson has been the receptionist at the morgue for several years now. She’s bright, pleasant, and professional, with a quirky sense of humor. It’s probably not a good thing that we’re on a first-name basis.

“Not yet,” I tell her.

“That’s the thing about working in a basement,” she tells me. “I go all day without knowing if it’s sunny or raining. A nuclear bomb could go off and Doc and I wouldn’t notice.”

She’s wearing a floral skirt with a crisp white blouse and a pair of block-heeled sandals that look comfortable despite the height of the heel. I wonder if she has to wash her clothes every day to remove that hint of decay that permeates the air here in the basement.

“Not to rub it in or anything,” I tell her, “but it’s sixty-five degrees and sunny.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m out there to enjoy it.” Rolling her eyes, she motions toward the doors that will send me into the heart of the morgue. “He’s expecting you.”