Page 9 of The Burning

“Let’s see what this poor soul has to tell us.” Giving a decisive nod to the technician, the doctor kneels, his knees cracking in protest. “I think it’s safe to say this individual was likely male. We have extensive thermal injuries with charring, particularly on the lower extremities and torso.” He looks at me over the tops of his glasses. “Where did you find the victim exactly?”

I’d seen him looking at the post; I can tell by his expression he already knows. “He was wired to the post.”

He swivels his gaze to the post, the thick pile of ash around it, the pieces of kindling and branches at the periphery that hadn’t yet burned.

“Just so all of us are on the same page here,” he says. “Are you telling me this victim was tied to that post and burned?”

“I don’t think anyone can say that with certainty,” I say, “but that’s what it looks like.”

“Good God,” he mutters.

He turns his attention back to the dead man and tugs the sheet to mid-thigh. I force myself to look at the victim, this time my cop’s brain looking for useful information. I see a scrap of what looks like denim sticking out from beneath the victim’s hip. The brass glint of a belt buckle seemingly cooked into a blackened and peeling torso. Flakes of material that’s indeterminate in nature.

Removing a swab from his case, Coblentz indicates a small flap sticking out from beneath the victim’s hip. “This is what’s left of a belt,” he says.

“Can we check to see if there’s a wallet?” I ask.

“Most males keep their wallet in a rear pocket.” The doc’s brows knit. “Was this victim’s back to the post?”

I nod.

“That might work to our advantage,” he says. “At least in terms of identifying him.”

“The post may have protected the back side of his body.”

“Exactly.”

It’s the first suggestion of good news I’ve had since my arrival. “Hopefully, his wallet is intact.”

“Fortunately, leather doesn’t burn as readily as one might believe.” He nods at the technician. “Let’s roll him onto his right side,” he says. “Away from us. Watch for slippage.”

The technician kneels, back straight, and sets his hands on the victim’s shoulder and hip.

I get to my feet and step back, watching as the two men logroll the body onto its side. The blackened surface gives way to singed denim and small patches of blue that’s left on the buttocks and the backs of the victim’s thighs.

“Extraction forceps,” the doc says.

The technician swivels to the bag and hands him what looks like a medical pliers.

The doc presses the tip to a place where the denim hasn’t quite burned away, then inserts the head between two layers of fabric, opens the small jaws, and pulls out a partially burned wallet.

“Here we go,” he says.

The wallet is a bifold, much like the one Tomasetti carries. “It doesn’t look too bad,” I say.

He tosses me a ye-of-little-faith look.

With a gloved hand, I take the wallet. The technician is ready with a large sterile pad and sets it atop the tarp. Muttering a thanks, I set the wallet on the pad and use my index finger to open it. A quarter inch of a driver’s license peeks out at me. The corners are blackened and melted, but the license is intact.

“Bingo.” Carefully, I pinch the corner and ease the plastic from its nest.

A quiver of recognition kicks as I read the name. “Milan Swanz,” I say. “He was Amish.”

The doc looks at me a little closer. “You knew him?”

“I went to school with him. Arrested him. Twice.” My eyes skim down to an address I’m familiar with. “Shit.”

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cell phone and photograph the front and back of the ID. I go back to the wallet. There are no credit cards, which isn’t unusual for the Amish. A five-dollar bill. A single. “Whoever killed him didn’t take his cash,” I murmur, and make a mental note to check to see if he had any credit or debit cards.