Page 10 of The Burning

Finding nothing else of interest, I remove an evidence bag from my pocket, drop the wallet into it, and put it in my coat pocket.

I look at Doc. “We’ll still need to cross-identify with DNA,” I say. “To make sure someone didn’t put Swanz’s wallet on the body of someone else.”

“DNA will be easy enough,” the doc tells me. “Dental, too.”

We stare at each other a moment. The doc’s glasses are fogged. The tip of his nose is red and runny. I see disbelief and abhorrence in his expression, right alongside the steely determination I know will get him through. I feel the sum of those emotions roiling inside me.

“Is there any way to tell if this person was alive when he was burned?” I ask.

“Well, the autopsy will tell us if he died from thermal injuries or soot and smoke inhalation. Once we get him to the morgue, I’ll run a test to check the level of carbon monoxide in the blood. Check for soot in the airway. In most arson cases, the cause of death is attributed to smoke inhalation. In the case of immolation, it’s thermal burns.”

We fall silent, as if the thoughts running through our heads are too dark to entertain.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“As you can imagine, this will likely be a complicated and difficult case,” he tells me. “I’ll probably bring in a forensic pathologist to assist.”

I look down at the corpse, the blackened and peeling skin, the patches of burned denim, and I feel sick to my stomach. Milan Swanz was a troubled man who made plenty of mistakes in the thirty-six years he’d been on this earth. But he was a human being with a wife and children and parents who’d loved him despite his flaws.

My most pressing—and difficult—responsibility lies with notifying the family that Milan Swanz is gone. When that is done, I’ll be able to focus on what I do best. Find the son of a bitch who killed him and bring him to justice.

I fish my cell phone from my pocket as I duck beneath the crime scene tape and hit the speed dial for Dispatch. My third-shift dispatcher picks up on the first ring.

“Hey, Chief.”

“I need you to run Milan Swanz through LEADS,” I say, referring to the Law Enforcement Automated Data System. “Run his wife, Bertha, too.”

“You need the address?”

“I know where he lives.” I sigh. “I need the names and contact info for his parents. Get me the names of any known associates you can come up with. Find out if there’s a vehicle registered to him.”

“You got it.” I hear the click of her fingertips flying over the keyboard.

“They’re Amish,” I add. “There may not be much out there on the parents. Call me.”

I disconnect, spot Holmes County sheriff Mike Rasmussen, and head that way.

He spots me and starts toward me. “Just got the call half an hour ago,” he says. “What the holy hell happened?”

I reach him and we shake. He’s wearing an official parka over insulated coveralls. His coat is open at the collar and I’m pretty sure he’s wearing plaid pajamas beneath the coveralls.

I recap what little I know so far.

Mike Rasmussen is a seasoned cop. Like me, he’s been around the block a few times and isn’t easily surprised. When I’m finished speaking, he stares at me blank faced as if waiting for me to break into laughter and admit the whole thing is a sick joke.

“Are you shitting me?” he says. “Burned at the stake? Like some kind of fucking witch?”

“We just IDed him. Milan Swanz. He’s local. Amish.”

His eyes narrow. “Why is that name familiar?”

“Because he’s got a record.”

“What charges?”

I shake my head. “Just in Painters Mill and off the top of my head: Drunk driving. Disturbing the peace. Drunk and disorderly.”

He looks at me a little more closely. “You know him?”