Page 7 of Rage

“Manageable,” he tells me.

“I think I’m going to need some help on this one.”

“I know a forensic guy over in Bowling Green. I’ve used him several times over the years. He’s good.”

“How fast can he get here?”

“Let me make some calls.” He pauses. “And Kate?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still my favorite.”

At this early point in the investigation, I have no idea if the deceased was murdered and the killer dismembered and buried the body to hide his deed, or if the deceased died from natural causes—a drug overdose or accident—and for whatever reason, someone went to a great deal of difficulty to conceal the body.

A dozen questions play in my head as I watch the Holmes County coroner, Dr. Ludwig Coblentz, climb down from his Escalade and, medical bag in hand, start toward me.

“I understand you’ve got a dead body on your hands,” he says.

“Parts of one, anyway.” I cross to him; our gazes lock as we shake hands. “So far.”

His eyes move to the woods behind me. “Just when you think you’ve used up your quota of bizarre calls, this one comes in.”

“Someone keeps moving the bar.”

The hint of a smile passes over his expression, and then he looks around. “Pretty out-of-the-way location. Any idea what we’re dealing with?”

“The only thing I know for certain at this point is I’ve got a hand, along with part of a leg and a foot. Looks like the body parts were buried initially and unearthed by coyotes.”

The doc stares at me for a moment, as if expecting me to raise my hands and tell him I’m joking. Of course, he knows me better than that.

“Bar moved, indeed,” he says.

I’ve known Doc Coblentz since I became chief; we’ve worked several difficult cases over the years. A pediatrician first and part-time coroner second, he’s a consummate professional and very good at what he does. Despite his close association with the dead, he maintains a prudent emotional distance. Even in the face of unspeakable horror, he sees the dead through the lens of the scientist he is and focuses on the puzzle that must be solved. We’re not close on a personal level, but we work well together. In terms of my position as chief, he’s one of my favorite counterparts.

We start toward the crime scene. Glock and Skid have utilized the abundance of trees to tape off an area that’s roughly sixty feet in diameter. When we reach the tape, Doc sets his medical bag on the ground and digs inside.

“You know the drill.” He passes me wrapped shoe covers, gloves, and a zippered Tyvek coverall.

Neither of us speaks as we suit up. Though the disposable paper coverall is whisper thin, and we forgo the hood and face mask, I start sweating again beneath my uniform.

When we’re fully covered, I duck beneath the tape and raise it for the doc to follow. “Everything we found so far is marked with cones,” I tell him.

He slips beneath the tape. “Have you IDed the deceased?”

I shake my head. “We haven’t found an ID. Or clothing for that matter. We haven’t located the head.”

The doc arches a brow and I see his doctor’s brain begin to grind. “What about decomp? Are we dealing with bones? Something else?”

“I don’t think the remains have been here very long,” I tell him. “A day or two. The heat may have sped up the decomposition process. I don’t know.”

“You mentioned scavenger activity.”

I nod. “Glock says it looked like coyotes.”

“Well, that’s going to make our jobs a little more challenging.”

We stop a few feet from the first cone. Next to it lies the pale length of the human hand. Despite the sweat dripping down my back, I motion toward the leg that Glock discovered. “Leg is there.”