---

Chapter 38

Tigg sat quietly in the back seat as the cruiser hurtled down the highway, the heavy photo album resting on her lap. She had eased it out of the Sheriff’s grasp as they walked towards the car and he hadn’t even noticed. When they reached the car, Mathies had refused Pendergast’s offer to drive and Tigg wondered if they would even make it to the site, considering the condition he was in. After several miles had passed without incident, Tigg relaxed and turned her attention to the album. She placed her hand on the front cover, steeling herself for the memories that would return, and opened it. The first picture was from Chris and Becca’s wedding, taken about a year before she had met them. The joy in their expressions was obvious, and Tigg felt a twisting sensation in the pit of her stomach.

So much happiness...all gone.

She quickly flipped through the first few pages, stopping to stare at a photo she recognized. She had taken it. It showed Chris and Becca, seated on the steps of the theater building, doing their impression of the comedy/tragedy masks. Tigg remembered how much they had laughed at that photo. She turned the page to the next picture and felt a chill. It was a group portrait of their theater club, the “non-serious” pose, and she recognized herself among the group of laughing students. She was sitting next to Becca, their arms flung carelessly around each other’s shoulders. Tigg quickly turned to the next page. More pictures from their college days. More memories. Blinking quickly to ease the sudden stinging in her eyes, Tigg turned to the last page of the album. The pictures had apparently been taken at Christmas, probably this past year. She recognized Chris, standing in front of a heavily decorated tree, his hands on the shoulders of two children, a teenaged boy and a girl of about eight. Tigg stared at the boy, barely able to believe that this was the baby she had watched for Becca so many times. Suddenly she couldn’t take it any more and slammed the album shut, earning her a brief glance from Pendergast. Mathies seemed not to have noticed.



Rick Mathies tried desperately to keep his attention on the road and nothing else, but his thoughts kept drifting, memories surfacing in his mind that brought waves of pain. Memories of his daughter as a little girl: happy, loving, innocent. The laughs they had shared through her childhood, the jokes, the little harmless mistakes and greater triumphs. How proud he had been at her graduations from high school, then college and grad school. How much he missed her when she had moved away. And now...

Suddenly Mathies felt a surge of anger so great he could barely keep from screaming.

You son-of-a-bitch! You mother-fucking bastard! Why? Why my Bonnie? Why didn’t you just come after me, goddamn it?! I’m going to find you. I’ll blow your fucking brains out. To Hell with due process, to Hell with everything. It will be a righteous killing. How could it not be? Ten innocent people! How many other lives have you ruined, you sick bastard? No one else should ever have to deal with this, all because of you...



After almost an hour, and several miles of twisting back roads, they arrived at the sight of the old Fulcrum Furnace. The furnace itself, a stone chimney over thirty feet high, was located on a bluff overlooking the Ohio River. It had been declared a historic site five years ago, but due to its’ isolation was less popular with the tourists and used far more by trysting couples looking for some degree of privacy, or amateur ghost hunters looking to confirm its’ reputation as one of Ohio’s “most haunted sites”.

Mathies pulled into the gravel parking lot, already occupied by several state police cars and a white ME van. He turned to his passengers.

“Stay here. I’ll be back...as soon as I take care of this.” He climbed out of the car and headed down a well worn path, stopping briefly to speak to one of the uniformed officers before disappearing from view.

“This case is killing him,” said Tigg quietly.

“Indeed. The killer is weakening the greatest threat to his ultimate goal. An outright murder of the Sheriff would bring in more powerful authorities, but a slow poisoning of his spirit has the desired effect without such extreme adverse consequences.”

“You say ‘his goal’. You don’t really believe that this Sonja person has anything to do with it?”

“She may be involved, either as a willing or unwilling accomplice. The killer excels at control and is a master of manipulation. Something tells me Ms. Rossman does not quite fit that profile.”

“Why not?”

“I believe the killer would be in a position with greater power. He would be loathe to take orders from or to report to someone else. Unless, of course, it offers an opportunity for stretches of unobserved activity or to secretly observe those in power. I do not see that Ms. Rossman’s position fits these criteria.”

“So who does fit? Do you have any suspects at all?”

“I have asked an associate to compile a list and provide background information. He has assured me that I will receive this information by tonight.”

“And in the mean time?”

“In the mean time, we will continue our interviews.”

“A lot of good that has done so far.”

“On the contrary. We have learned a great deal.”

“Like what?”

“We will discuss it later,” said Pendergast, nodding slightly towards the trail Mathies had taken. Tigg looked up and saw that the uniformed officer closest to them was staring at them intently. She sighed, took out her book and sat back to wait.



Mathies made his way along the rough and muddy trail, slipping several times and almost falling once. He barely noticed, pressing onward, dreading what he would see when he reached the site and yet anxious to get there. Finally he reached the end of the trail and was stopped by another uniformed officer.

“I’m sorry, but this is crime scene. The state highway patrol is handling it,” he said, noting Mathies slightly rumpled uniform jacket.

“Patrick Campbell asked me to be here. He says there’s something I need to see.” At that moment, he spotted Campbell and slowly raised a hand in greeting. Campbell walked over to him, the expression in his dark eyes reflecting the emotions Mathies himself had felt.

“Rick. I’m sorry to call you out here, but...well, I wasn’t sure.”

“It’s OK, Pat.”

“Are you ready?”

No, but I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Let’s go.”

Together they walked to the base of the furnace, where two medical examiner assistants were moving a large black zippered bag onto a stretcher, supervised by the M.E. himself. This was one of the very few counties in the state that did not rely on an elected coroner and instead hired a trained professional. That piece of information gave Mathies little comfort.

The M.E. looked up from his clipboard and stared at Mathies before directing his question to Campbell.

“He’s here to make an ID?”

“Yes,” replied Mathies, his eyes on the black bag.

“Fine. Here’s what we have so far: female, Caucasian, early to mid thirties, approximately 5’5” tall, brown hair. Does that sound like what you’re looking for?”

Mathies nodded. The M.E. reached over and unzipped the top of the bag, releasing an unpleasant whiff of decay. Mathies took a deep breath and peered into the bag.

A wave of relief hit Mathies, followed by a sinking feeling of horror. He stared at the still, slightly blue-green tinged face for a minute before anyone spoke.

“Rick?” asked Campbell, his voiced strained.

Pulling himself together after his initial shock, Mathies turned to the M.E. “How long has she been dead?”

The M.E. gave him a pained expression and began to speak in a slightly haughty tone.

“Well, core temp is slightly higher than ambient, but that’s likely due to heat generated by bacterial activity. Livor mortis has set, rigor mortis has passed, there’s skin slippage in the extremities and some slight abdominal bloating and marbling, all consistent with at least one degree day. However, the local temperatures have only been between 30 and 50 degrees Fahrenheit, which has slowed the process and reduced insect activity. Consequently—”

“He doesn’t need a fucking lecture, Gafferty. Answer the question,” growled Campbell. The M.E. blushed and responded angrily.

“As I was trying to say, because of the environmental conditions slowing the normal processes, determination of the post mortem interval will be a little more difficult. It’s not an exact science. I’ll need to check the potassium levels and...”

“Answer the question!”

“I would say at least two days, possibly as many as four.”

“That’s impossible,” said Mathies in a low voice. “Someone spoke to her yesterday.”

“Is it Bonnie?” asked Campbell, the concern in his voice returned.

“No, it’s not Bonnie. It’s Sonja Rossman.”

---