Page 12 of Rage

I take a step closer and squat. I can see the jawline now. Mouth partially open. A tongue the color of a plum sticking out and caked with dirt.

Dear God …

“Haircut looks Amish.” Tomasetti comes up behind me.

“No beard,” I say, the significance of that not lost on either of us. An unmarried Amish man is clean-shaven; Samuel Yutzy was not married.

When the head is free of dirt, a dozen photos are taken from different angles. The FP unfolds a sterile sheet, smooths it over the trampled grass. Next to the sheet, he lays out a bag, which is unzipped. Gently, he reaches into the hole, sets his hands just below the ears, and lifts.

“Here we go,” he says quietly.

The jaw shifts as the head is placed on the bag faceup. I’m reminded that just a short time ago, this individual was alive and breathing and talking to loved ones. Not much of the neck is attached. I can just make out a flap of loose flesh. A pink nub of what looks like bone. A finger-size tail of tissue that’s wet and caked with dirt.

“Jesus Christ,” Tomasetti mutters.

Spit pools in my mouth. Nowhere to spit because we’re in a crime scene. I swallow hard, force it down, hope my stomach settles.

The FP uses yet another brush to remove the dirt and specks of debris— grass and leaves and tiny roots—from the severed neck.

The image burning into my brain doesn’t look real; the skin is waxy and gray-white. One of the eyes is closed; the other eyelid is halfway up, revealing an eyeball that’s coated with dirt. Despite all of it, recognition kicks me square in the chest.

“It’s Samuel Yutzy,” I hear myself say.

“It’s him,” Tomasetti says roughly.

I look at the pathologist. “Any idea how long this victim has been dead?”

The young man grimaces. “Ballpark?”

“We’ll take whatever you can give us,” Tomasetti says.

The FP looks down at the head and squints. “Thirty-six to forty-eight hours is my best estimate.” Reaching out, he shifts the head slightly, so that the severed neck comes into view.

The urge to look away is strong, but I don’t and my brain can barely process the horror of what I’m seeing.

The FP continues. “Thyroid cartilage is visible and has been incised.” He indicates a purple-red length of what looks like a garden hose. “Trachea is visible. Cleanly incised.”

“Any idea what kind of cutting tool was used?” Tomasetti asks.

He looks up, squinting. “You know anything I tell you at this point is a guess and subject to change once the autopsy is performed, right?”

Tomasetti frowns at him. “Yeah, we get that.”

The FP shrugs. “I’d say this was done by some type of blade. Sharp and heavy enough to cut through bone.” He indicates the flesh at the base of the neck. “Initially, however, it looks as if the killer may have done some hacking. You can see the stylohyoid ligament there. Incised. Cervical spine is visible to C3.”

“Any gunshot wounds?” I ask.

Using a gloved hand, the pathologist checks the scalp, rolling the skull as necessary, taking his time, using his fingers to separate the hair in multiple areas. “Difficult to say at this point, Chief Burkholder. There’s too much dirt and blood and debris. But, just taking a cursory look at this victim’s scalp, I don’t see any kind of penetrating wound. Doc Coblentz will want to verify with a CT scan or X-ray.”

The urge to push for more information is strong, but it’s never wise to pressure someone for answers when they’ve already made it clear they don’t have them.

I mutter a thank-you as I stand. Without looking at Tomasetti or the technician, I turn and get the hell out of there.

If there was ever a moment when I wanted to smoke a cigarette—lung cancer be damned—this is it. I’m shaking when I duck beneath the crime scene tape. For the first time since I laid eyes on that severed head, I feel like I can breathe. The world around me snaps back into focus as I peel off my gloves and unzip the Tyvek suit and booties. The back of my shirt is soaked with sweat and sticks to my skin. I’m wondering if I could throw up without anyone noticing when I see Tomasetti approaching.

I can tell by his expression that he’s cognizant of my frame of mind. He stops a few feet away. Giving me a moment to collect myself, he removes his own protective clothing, adds it to mine, and wads all of it into a ball.

“Do you know the family?” he asks as he shoves it into a biohazard bag.