Page 8 of Rage

“May I?” the doc asks.

“This is your scene.”

Eyes sharp, watching his step, he brushes past me. Upon reaching the dismembered hand, he sets the medical bag on the ground, goes to one knee, and rummages in the bag. I watch as he removes a sterile sheet, snaps it open, and spreads it over the leaves and weeds. He then grasps the member with gloved hands and lifts, studies it for a moment, and sets it atop the sheet.

“I can confirm the scavenger activity,” he says. “Teeth marks on that small jut of bone there. Canine, probably.”

Rising, eyes watchful for anything unexpected on the ground, he walks to where the leg lies among the leaves and dirt and he kneels. He spreads out a second sterile sheet and smooths it over the ground. He digs into the medical case and removes a lighted magnifier. The appendage is heavier, so he gently lifts one end—the thigh end—from which an ivory and red-black-colored length of bone protrudes. Setting his eye to the magnifier lens, he leans close to the bone and doesn’t move for the span of a full minute.

“Depending on how much we find here, I’m going to need a forensic pathologist,” he says. “Though there’s still tissue present, we might have a forensic anthropologist on standby.”

“The pathologist is en route,” I tell him. “I’ll get with Tomasetti about the anthropologist.”

He continues to study the limb, concentrating on the protrusion of bone. “Scavenger activity here, too, Kate.”

“Will that interfere with forensics?”

“It could.” He shrugs. “For example, if there was some type of cutting instrument used, damage from a scavenger could make it more difficult to match tooling marks.”

Being careful not to disturb anything on the ground, I close the distance between us. “Doc, I know you don’t have much to work with here, but if there’s anything you can tell me that might help us ID this victim, I’d like to hear it.”

He places the leg on the sheet. “I think we both know I’m not going to be able to tell you much until after the autopsy.” Tugging a sterile container from his bag, he places the magnifier inside and snaps the lid closed. “That said, I can share a few observations.”

“I’ll take it.”

“I believe this victim is an adult white male. Likely not elderly. There are no visible tattoos. No jewelry.” He looks at me over his shoulder. “I can tell you with a reasonable level of confidence that your observation about the decedent being dismembered is correct. The appendages were not chewed off by some scavenger.” He indicates the protruding bone. “The bone was severed with some type of instrument or tool. The cut line is precise.”

“Any idea what kind of tool?”

“If I were to guess, I’d say some type of saw.”

“Handsaw?” I say. “Chain saw?”

“Handsaw more than likely. Perhaps a serrated knife. There’s no crushing or breaking of the bone. I’ll know more once I get these remains to the morgue and on the table.”

I don’t want to look too closely at the pieces of what was once a human being. I don’t want to think about what it took to get the job done. But for the first time since I arrived, I’m studying the remains with the eye of a cop and in terms of what they can tell me.

“Can you give me a ballpark time of death?” I ask.

“Taking into consideration the heat and humidity, both of which are factors in the rate of decomp, and the possibility that these remains were buried at some point…” He shrugs. “Forty-eight hours. Don’t quote me.”

“What about cause of death?” I ask. “Manner of death?” I know even as I ask the questions, he’s not going to give me an answer.

“No and no.” He offers a small smile. “Good try, though.”

I try to return the smile, but my mouth is so dry my lips stick to my teeth.

I’ve just finished taking statements from the Amish children who discovered the remains when I hear a vehicle pull up. I glance toward the road to see Tomasetti’s Tahoe ease onto the gravel shoulder.

As I start toward him, I’m vaguely aware of the Holmes County sheriff’s cruiser stopped on the roadway where Skid set up traffic cones. A uniformed deputy is standing in the shade of an oak tree, talking on his phone. To my left, I see Glock walking the perimeter just outside the crime scene tape, looking for anything we missed first go-round.

I set my sights on Tomasetti as he slides out of the Tahoe. “Any word from your forensic guy?” I ask.

“He’s an hour out. Driving in from Bowling Green.” He strides toward me, his eyes on Doc Coblentz’s Escalade a few yards away. “Doc able to shed any light?”

“Confirmed what we already knew,” I say. “Not enough.”

We meet on the shoulder and, despite the fact that we’re married, we opt for a handshake. Our gazes lock. He holds on to my hand a beat too long. Then he releases me and his eyes shift to the departing buggy.