“I wish I could.”

“Good God.” A heavy sigh hisses through the line. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I stand in the bedroom of the old house with Doc Coblentz and Glock, and we try not to stare at what’s left of the woman hanging from the rafter. Doc digs into his field kit, pulls out a foil packet of mentholated petroleum jelly and hands it to me. “This’ll help.”

I tear open the packet and dab it below my nostrils. I offer it to Glock, but he shakes his head. “My mom gave me that stuff when I was a kid. Can’t stand the smell.”

Under different circumstances I might have laughed. This morning, I merely fold down the top of the packet and put it in my coat pocket.

We’ve donned shoe covers and plastic gowns, not only to preserve the scene but to protect us from biohazard. “Judging from the amount of blood,” the doc begins, “I’d say he killed her here.”

“Why change his MO?” I wonder aloud.

Glock jumps in with a theory. “Maximum effect.”

The doc and I both look at him. I’m no expert on serial killers; my experience is limited to a handful of murders I worked in Columbus. But I agree with Glock’s hypothesis. Whoever did this wanted to terrify. He wanted to show us the carnage he’s capable of. I’ve read that many serial murderers want to be caught. Not because they want to go to jail, but so they can claim ownership of their handiwork.

“He knew he wouldn’t be disturbed here,” I say.

“The closest neighbor is a mile away,” Glock adds.

I don’t want to look at the victim, but my eyes are drawn to her. Putrefaction has set in. Gases have built up inside the body, bloating it to nearly beyond recognition. The skin is mostly black with small patches tinted green. It’s the face that bothers me most. The eyes are gone completely. The wetlooking, black tongue sticks out between broken teeth.

I address Glock. “We need photos before we move her.”

“I’ll grab the Polaroid.” He leaves with a little too much enthusiasm.

Ten minutes ago, the parents of the teenagers arrived to pick up their children. Ronnie Stedt’s father tried to force his way into the house. Luckily, Glock was there to stop him. I explained to him that the area was a crime scene and the most helpful thing he could do was take his son to the police station where T.J. was waiting to take statements and fingerprints. On the outside chance we find latents here at the scene, we’ll be able to rule them out.

Frightened parents and traumatized teenagers are the least of my worries. Fifteen minutes ago, I called the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office and officially asked for assistance. I’m sure the suit from Columbus will be arriving soon. Already, I feel control of the case careening from my grasp.

Skid and Pickles are outside, setting up a perimeter. Once the crime scene tape is in place, they’ll conduct a search of the barns and outbuildings. They’ll also look for footprints and tire tracks. But with the snow coming down in earnest now, chances are slim that they’ll find anything useful.