I sense there’s more coming.

“One of the reporters asked about you,” he adds. “Detrick made like he didn’t know where you were. Like he was covering for you or some shit.”

“I was with Johnston. I notified next of kin.” I hate it that I feel the need to defend myself.

“You don’t have to explain. Watch that fuckin’ Detrick, though. He’s a glory-grabbing son of a bitch.”

This development worries me. I feel the case spiraling out of my control. Detrick raising questions about my credibility. Tomasetti edging closer to the truth. My life hanging in the balance.

“How’s the Johnston family?” Glock asks.

I tell him about the scene at the station.

“Norm’s got a big mouth. You think he’s going to make trouble for you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was just the grief talking.” Ahead, pink-rimmed storm clouds roil on the western horizon. “Thanks for the heads up on Detrick. I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

I hit End. I want to call Norm, but I know his wounds are still too fresh. I wonder if he’s spoken to Detrick and filed a complaint against me, and I hit the speed dial for the sheriff’s number. I get voice mail. A good sign that he’s avoiding me. I know Detrick won’t hesitate to use me as a fall guy if this case doesn’t come together soon. I should be thinking about damage control. About my career and covering my ass. But I’ve never done my job based on the perceptions of others. I don’t intend to start now.

I hit Doc Coblentz’s number. “Do you have a prelim yet?”

“I just got her onto the table. My God, Kate. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”

“Anything carved onto her abdomen?”

“With the evisceration, I haven’t been able to tell yet. There’s a lot of damage.”

“Throat cut?”

“Like the others.” He blows out a breath. “I’m not sure that’s what killed her.”

“He changed his MO?”

I’m surprised when the doctor’s voice quivers. “I believe the evisceration may have been antemortem.”

All the blood seems to rush from my head. I’ve never fainted, but I’m so shaken by the news I have to pull over. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then I ask, “Do you think he might have medical training?”

“I doubt it. The incisions are crude. He just butchered her.”

“Was she raped?”

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

“Anything else?” I ask.

“A crime scene tech from BCI was here earlier. He took nail scrapings and swabs. We measured the incised wounds and he took some photos. He mentioned he might try to identify the type of chain used from the bruise pattern on her ankles.”

A thought occurs to me. “Did anyone find her clothes?”

“Not a shred.”

“I think he’s keeping the clothes.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He’s keeping them as trophies.”

“That’s your area of expertise, not mine.”

“When will you do the autopsy?”