Page 3 of Fallen

I turn my attention to the man. “You the manager?”

“Doug Henry.” He taps the MANAGER badge clipped to his shirt. “I’m the one called 911.”

“Any idea what happened?” I ask. “Did you see anything?”

“Well, checkout is at eleven. Maid isn’t here today, so I gotta clean. I called the room around ten thirty. No one picked up, so I waited until eleven and knocked on the door. When she didn’t answer, I used my key.” He blows out a long breath. “I ain’t never seen anything like that in my life and I used to work down to the slaughterhouse. There’s blood everywhere. Stuff knocked over. I got the hell out of there and called you guys.”

“Who is the room registered to?” I ask.

“Last name is Schwartz,” he tells me.

It’s a common name in this part of Ohio, both Amish and English. If memory serves me, we have at least two families here in Painters Mill with that last name. “First name?”

“I can go look it up for you,” he offers.

“I’d appreciate it.” I turn my attention to Mona. “You clear the room?”

Grimacing, she shakes her head. “Once I saw her, I figured this was more than I could handle and got out.”

“Anyone else been in the room?”

“Just me.”

“Coroner and ambulance en route?”

She nods. “Sheriff’s Office, too.”

I start toward room 9. “Let’s clear the room,” I tell her. “Make sure there’s no one else inside. Quick in and out.”

I go through the door first. “Stay cognizant of evidence. Don’t touch anything.”

“Roger that.”

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. I smell the blood before I see it. The dark, unpleasant smell of metal and sulfur. A few feet away, a red-black pool the size of a dinner plate is soaked into the carpet. A smear on the bedspread. Spatter on the headboard and wall. A finer spray on the ceiling. On the other side of the bed, I see the victim’s hands.

“Clear the bathroom,” I tell Mona. “Eyes open.”

I feel the familiar quiver in my gut as I move to the bed—that primal aversion to violent death. No matter how many times I see it, I always get that shaky feeling in the pit of my stomach, that shortness of breath. I round the foot of the bed and get my first look at the body. The victim is female. Lying on her stomach. Legs splayed. One arm beneath her. The other arm is outstretched, clawlike hand clutching carpet, as if she’d been trying to drag herself to the door. She’s wearing a pink T-shirt and panties. Socks.

I wish for better light as I approach. I pull my mini Maglite from my utility belt, flick it on. The beam tells a horrific tale. A lamp lies on the floor, shade crushed, the cord ripped from the wall. Whatever happened to this woman, she fought back, didn’t make it easy for the son of a bitch to do this to her.

Good girl, a little voice whispers in the back of my brain.

“Bathroom is clear,” comes Mona’s voice.

“Blood?”

“No.”

I glance over my shoulder, see her silhouetted against the light slanting in from the door. My mind has jumped ahead to the preservation of evidence; I’m keenly aware that I’m in the process of contaminating that evidence. No way around it.

“Go outside and get the scene taped off,” I tell her, hearing the stress in my voice. “No one comes in. No vehicles except the coroner.”

“Ten-four.”

I’m no stranger to violence or the unspeakable things human beings are capable of doing to each other. Even so, for an instant I can’t catch my breath.

The woman’s head is turned away from me, her chin tilted at an unnatural angle. I see strawberry-blond hair matted with blood, the scalp laid open, a small red mouth at the back of her head. Green-blue fingernail polish. Gold bracelet. Pretty hands. And I’m reminded that just hours ago, this woman cared about such mundane things as a manicure and jewelry.