Page 11 of Rage

“We’re here now, trying to locate him.”

A beat of silence. “Oh, no.”

“We haven’t IDed the remains yet, so we don’t know anything at this point,” I tell her. “Don’t use the radio.”

“Roger that.”

I disconnect and look down at the stained ground. “That’s a lot of blood,” I murmur.

Tomasetti motions. “More there.”

“What the hell happened here?”

He shakes his head. “We need to find Yutzy.”

“If we haven’t already.”

CHAPTER 4

The general rule of thumb for a homicide that involves the dismemberment of a human body is that there are probably two crime scenes. The death scene, where the victim was murdered and/or dismembered, and the location where the body parts were disposed of and found.

After Tomasetti and I confirmed the presence of blood at the tree nursery, we marked everything we could find, and with assistance from a Holmes County deputy we secured the scene. The buggy horse was unharnessed and hauled to the barn of a local horse breeder to be cared for until we can figure out exactly what’s going on. I wasn’t surprised when Pickles called with word that there was no one at the Yutzy residence. At that point, Tomasetti and I headed back to the original location where the body parts were discovered.

It’s after three P.M. now and I’m standing outside the crime scene tape, sweating like a sieve beneath my Tyvek suit, and watch as the remains are painstakingly recovered. Twenty feet away, a forensic pathologist from BCI kneels on a blue tarp and uses a hand shovel to unearth what appears to be another piece of human flesh. Next to him, a second forensic scientist has laid out a black zippered bag, upon which he has placed several scraps of fabric. Clothing, I realize. I’ve been watching them for some time as each fragment was meticulously unearthed, photographed, placed on the tarp, and bagged. Each bag was then sealed, marked, and taken to the coroner’s van.

“Chief Burkholder!” The forensic pathologist I was introduced to earlier motions me over. “I think you’re going to want to see this.”

We’ve limited the number of people permitted entry inside the scene. As is always the case with a crime scene, especially a large and complex outdoor scene, the retrieval of evidence—and, in this case, the retrieval of the body itself—works against the preservation of evidence. With numerous body parts, multiple shallow graves, scavenger activity, and the sheer scale of the area, there’s no way around the need for manpower.

I duck under the tape. As I cross to him, I see that he’s excavated a hole that’s about a foot deep, piling the excess dirt onto the mound next to it.

The pathologist looks up as I approach. “We just uncovered a head. It’s intact. Is there anyone around who might be able to ID the victim?”

I’ve only met Samuel Yutzy once or twice. I don’t know him and I’m well aware that violent death can change the appearance of an individual’s facial features. That said, it’s critical to the investigation to ID this victim as quickly as possible.

“I might be able to do it,” I say.

There’s something unbearably grotesque about the dismemberment of a human body. I don’t want that image in my head. But there’s no one else.

“Let’s see if I can get the facial features uncovered for you.” Reaching into the hole, the forensic pathologist uses a hand shovel to carefully remove loose dirt and plant debris.

I look down into the hole. The hair and forehead come into view as he painstakingly scrapes away dirt with the shovel. I brace as some of the details become visible. I mentally catalog the attributes that will help me ID the victim. Caucasian. Medium-brown hair. No gray. The forehead is flecked with dirt that sticks to the flesh. The pathologist runs the shovel close to the skin, pulling away the dirt. Next, using what looks like a paintbrush, he sweeps away the small bits that stick. He uncovers the temple and cheek. An ear becomes visible. No piercing there. A sideburn.

“Victim is male,” I hear myself say.

“I think so,” the FP says, but he’s laser focused on his task, leaning close and brushing at specks of grass and leaves.

“I’ve got another area of disturbed earth over here!”

The sound of Tomasetti’s voice reaches me, and I look over my shoulder to see him standing about thirty feet away. Yet another shallow grave at his feet.

“The head is here,” I tell him.

We hold gazes for the span of several heartbeats. He nods and starts toward us.

I’m standing a few feet away from where the head is being uncovered. Around me, I hear the incessant buzz of flies. The buzz saw chorus of cicadas. Vaguely, I’m aware of the snap and whirr of a camera to my left. Sweat dripping down the center of my back. My stomach reminding me that it isn’t made of steel.

“Let’s see what we’ve got.” Using a smaller brush the size of a makeup applicator, the FP sweeps away the last of the debris.