Page 12 of Fallen

“Blunt object more than likely.”

I force myself to look at the body, grapple to put what I see into words. “What about the … wounds?” I ask. “Is it possible she was also stabbed or slashed?”

“Force of impact,” he tells me. “Which basically means she was struck with such force that it broke the skin, laid it open. As far as I can see, there are no incised wounds. Or gunshot wounds for that matter. As I’m sure you’re aware, my assessment could change once I get her on the table.”

I nod, shuddering inwardly. “Any idea of the time of death?”

“Well, she’s in full rigor, which sets in at about two hours after death and completes at about eight hours. Depending on several factors, in this case the ambient temp and rate of decomp, full rigor ends after eighteen to twenty hours.”

I calculate the equation, recall the manager telling me she checked in at about eight P.M. last night. “So, it’s safe to say this probably happened sometime during the night.”

The coroner shrugs. “Or very early this morning.”

I look around, take in the obvious signs of a struggle. I think about the cash, the possibility that this was drug related, and I ask, “Can you tell if she was moved? After she was killed?”

Doc Coblentz nods at the technician, who has come over to stand next to us. In tandem, both men kneel and ease their gloved hands beneath the victim’s shoulder and hip and lift her several inches. Beneath her, the carpet is wet with urine. I squat for a better look. My eyes are drawn immediately to the purple-black flesh that had been pressed against the carpeted floor.

“As you can see,” the doc says, “she’s almost into full lividity. Once the heart stops beating, gravity sets in and the blood settles to the lowest part of the body and pools. That happens at approximately twelve hours.” The men ease the body back to the floor. “I would venture to say she died shortly before or after she fell or was pushed or placed here on the floor.”

“Any chance you can narrow down the time of death, Doc?”

He makes a sound that’s part growl, part sigh. “Tough to do at this point, Kate. Once I get her to the morgue, I’ll get a core body temp. That said, and taking all of the usual caveats into consideration, judging by the extent of rigor and livor, I’m guessing she died somewhere between eleven P.M. and five A.M.”

A hundred more questions fly at my brain, but I set them aside for later because I know he won’t be able to give me definitive answers. I straighten, and start toward the door. For the first time I’m aware that my face is hot, the back of my neck damp with sweat. The room feels small and claustrophobic. The air is thick and stinking of bodily fluids.

Outside, I swallow the spit that’s pooled at the back of my throat and take a deep breath of fresh air.

I don’t speak to anyone as I make my way toward the Explorer. I can’t get the picture of Rachael Schwartz’s brutalized body out of my head. Her skin laid open. Her face destroyed. Eye bulging from its socket. Her body broken beyond words.

I reach the Explorer, yank open the door, and slide behind the wheel, take a moment to compose myself. With a murder investigation spooling and the clock ticking, I need to be focused on my job. On finding the person responsible and bringing him to justice. Instead, my thoughts are scattered. I’m outraged and saddened and furious at once. That a woman I knew as a child is dead. That it happened in the town whose residents I swore to serve and protect.

“Not on my watch,” I whisper.

Putting the vehicle in gear, I pull out of the gravel lot and head toward town.

CHAPTER 6

I met Rachael Schwartz for the first time when she was a newborn. The birth of a baby is a momentous occasion for all families, but it’s an especially big event when you’re Amish. After the new mom has had a few days to rest, the Amish women in the community come calling to see the new addition. Most bring a covered dish or two, help out with any chores that need to be done, and share a cup of siess kaffi or sweet coffee.

At the age of seven, I wasn’t particularly interested in babies, but I recall my mamm dragging me over to the Schwartz farm, where I spent an hour watching her coddle and coo over a crying, red-faced infant that smelled of sour milk and stomach gas. Rachael didn’t make a good first impression.

In a peripheral sort of way, I watched her grow up. Because of our age difference, we didn’t play together or spend time. But all Amish children attend worship and mingle afterward—and squeeze in some playtime if possible. As her personality developed, I took notice, because for once someone else was getting into trouble instead of me.

The Amish generally have no use for babysitters. Most of the time and regardless of the occasion they take the baby with them, whether it’s to worship, a wedding, or a funeral. When I was thirteen, Rhoda and Dan Schwartz had to travel to Pennsylvania. My mamm offered up my babysitting services, perhaps in the hope of reinforcing my own understanding of responsibility and Amish gender roles. Babysitting a herd of kids was not my idea of time well spent. But I hadn’t yet discovered the power of argument, and so, by well-meaning parents hoping the experience might somehow help me find my missing maternal instinct, I was thrown to the wolves. It should have been pure misery for a girl like me—a tomboy who didn’t quite conform or know how to fit in. How unlikely that another girl who was every bit as fallible as me would turn an unbearably mundane babysitting assignment into something unexpected.

Generally speaking, Amish kids are pretty well behaved, with a good work ethic and an early-to-bed-early-to-rise routine that make them easy to manage. Rachael was a rule-breaker with a penchant for trouble and a talent for fun.

She was the girl whose dress was perpetually stained, her kapp never quite straight, her gap-toothed smile beaming mischief. She was perpetual motion meets chaos. The kid who talked too much and had a temper when she didn’t get her way—and might even mete out some revenge if you crossed her. But she was also a curious child who asked too many questions, especially about topics she didn’t necessarily need to know, and she was rarely satisfied with the answers she got. The one who preferred baseball to dolls, and whose favorite food was strawberry ice cream. She was a prankster. Sometimes those pranks weren’t very nice. I was a victim myself a time or two, but I quickly realized: You could get mad, but you couldn’t stay that way, because Rachael always found a way to make you laugh, even when you didn’t want to.

Rhoda and Dan were going to be gone for three days, which meant this hell-world I’d stepped into was going to last a while. It was on that second day I learned just how alike Rachael and I really were.

I was in the kitchen, making bologna sandwiches, when eight-year-old Danny burst in, breathless and sweating, his voice infused with panic. “Rachael got her head cut off!” he cried. “I think she’s drowning!”

That got my attention. I dropped the spatula, ran to him, knelt in front of him. “What happened?” I asked. “Where is she?”

“She rolled down the hill!” the boy cried. “The barrel hit a tree and it bounced over the bob-wire and went in the crick!”

My babysitting skills may have been lacking, but I was responsible enough to experience a moment of terror. I grabbed his hand. “Show me!”