Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

realize that even though he is a veteran witness to this kind of violence, he is as outraged and repulsed as I am.
    After a moment, he scrapes a hand over his jaw and pushes away from the tree. “I’m going to get a CSU down here before the rain destroys what little evidence is left.” Turning on the flashlight, he runs the beam along the steep, tangled bank of the creek. “They might be able to pick up some footwear imprints.”
    But he doesn’t pull out his phone. He stands motionless between the path and the creek bank, the beam focused on the ground. His back is to me and his shoulders are rigid. I can’t see his face, but I sense he doesn’t want questions.
    I give him a minute before asking, “Do you want me to make the call?”
    Slowly, he turns. I can just make out his features in the peripheral light from the beam. The shadows reveal lines in his face I never noticed before, something in his eyes I understand because I know he’s seen the same thing in mine.
    “I’ll do it.” He looks away. “I’m fine.”
    “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look fine.”
    His eyes meet mine. “Five years ago, a scene like this would have pissed me off, and that would have been the extent of my emotional response. I would have felt nothing for that dead girl or her family. All I cared about was catching the fucker responsible. It was an added bonus if I got to take his head off in the process.”
    “Don’t beat yourself up for being human,” I tell him.
    “That’s the problem, Kate. I wasn’t human. I didn’t feel shock or sadness or remorse because a girl was dead. Sometimes I didn’t even feel outrage. It was a game. All I felt was this driving need to catch the son of a bitch who’d done it. Not because of some noble desire for justice, but because I knew I was better than him and I wanted to prove it.”
    “That’s a protective mechanism built into all of us.”
    “Now I know what’s it’s like to hear someone tell you everyone you’ve ever loved is dead.”
    I cross to him. Before I realize I’m going to touch him, I set my palm against his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
    Setting his hand over mine, he brushes his mouth across my palm, then pulls it away from his face. “Let’s go catch this motherfucker,” he says, and we start down the path.
    An hour later, the township road swarms with sheriff’s deputies, state Highway Patrol officers, and paramedics. The red and blue lights of half a dozen emergency vehicles flicker off the treetops. The area has been cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The state Highway Patrol has set up roadblocks, barring all through traffic from the bridge. Two ambulances from Trumbull Memorial Hospital are parked outside the secure area, their diesel engines rumbling in the predawn light.
    Rain slashes down from a low sky as three technicians from the Trumbull County coroner’s office struggle to carry the body up the incline of the bar ditch. Tomasetti snagged us a couple of county-issue slickers from one of the Goddard’s deputies, but we were already wet, and though the temperature hovers in the sixties, I feel the cold all the way to my bones.
    I’m standing at the rear of the ambulance when the gurney is brought up. I can see the outline of the body within the black zippered bag.
    “Any idea who she is?” Tomasetti asks.
    “No ID,” replies one of the technicians. He’s about thirty years old, with a goatee and wire-rimmed glasses. “We preserved as much of the scene as possible, but the bank got pretty trampled.”
    “Cause of death?” Tomasetti asks.
    “No visible injuries.” The technician grimaces. “Tough to tell with the water, though. We won’t know until the autopsy.”
    “How long will that be?” Tomasetti asks.
    “Well, we’re not backlogged. Maybe tomorrow morning.”
    Tomasetti passes him his card. “Keep us in the loop, will you?”
    “You got it,” he says, and they load the body into the rear of the ambulance.
    A fist of outrage unfurls in my gut as I watch the vehicle pull away. “I was hoping this would have a better end.”
    Tomasetti sighs. “The case isn’t exactly coming together, is it?”
    “Chief Burkholder. Agent Tomasetti.”
    We turn as Sheriff Goddard approaches. He’s wearing a yellow slicker and holding two McDonald’s to-go cups of coffee. I’m unduly thankful when he shoves one at me.
    “Is it Annie King?” I ask.
    “No one recognized her.” The sheriff shakes his head.