Death Notice

The killer had most likely entered the barn not long after faxing the death notice to Henry Goll. His presence there had irritated the animals, which in turn roused George.

Kat put herself in the place of George Winnick, standing in front of the open barn door in about the same spot where he would have entered. She saw what he would have seen—a barn full of shadows.

She took a few steps forward. Cautious ones. Like what George might have taken.

Because there were no signs of a struggle in the barn, her assumption was that the farmer didn’t notice his stalker until it was too late. Perhaps he didn’t see him at all. The killer could have snuck up on George, creeping up quietly behind him.

Looking around for hiding places, Kat saw the possibilities were endless. Behind the barn door, for one, or in the shadow of the tractor. Near the sleeping cat was a small alcove, no larger than a broom closet. The killer easily could have hidden there, eyes adjusting to the darkness as he waited for his victim.

Kat crossed the barn and peeked inside the alcove. She saw a modest nook consisting of a clean concrete floor and plank walls. Her view from the threshold gave her no reason to enter the alcove outright. Besides, if George’s killer hid there the night before, then a tech team needed to do a thorough scan of it. Maybe it would turn up something. A footprint. A stray fiber. Perhaps a hair. Anything would help because at this point they had nothing but a corpse, two pennies, and a wooden box.

Leaving the alcove, she gazed at the cat lying a few feet away. It hadn’t moved the entire time she was there. Not once. She watched for the tiniest of movements—an ear wiggle, the idle sway of a tail—but saw nothing.

Approaching the animal, Kat nudged it with the toe of her boot. It was as still as a brick and just as heavy.

The cat was dead.

Kat bent down to examine the animal further, noticing a small pile of sawdust around its hind legs. When she nudged it again, more sawdust trickled from a gash in the animal’s stomach.

The cat had been cut open, a long incision across its stomach showing where the knife had sliced. In place of its organs, someone had filled it with sawdust, which explained the heaviness. An unruly pattern of fur-obscured thread crisscrossed the incision. Stitches, used to sew the cat back up.

Kat inched away from the dead animal. What it meant to the case, she didn’t know. But staring at the poor creature sprawled on the ground, she clearly understood that despite her theories and best guesses, she didn’t have a handle on the situation at all.

Tony Vasquez was the first member of Nick Donnelly’s team to reach the barn. With him were a half dozen other state troopers. Tony stretched police tape across the gaping barn door. He then ordered two troopers to go on the other side of it and stand guard while the rest went to work.

Not wanting to get in the way—and not wanting to destroy any evidence in the process—Kat retreated to an empty corner of the barn and parked herself on a bale of hay. From her itchy perch, she watched as Rudy Taylor arrived, armed with enough evidence bags to seal up every strand of hay she sat upon.

Nick Donnelly and Cassie Lieberfarb showed up five minutes later. While Cassie joined her coworkers, Nick made a beeline to the bale of hay.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

“That’s good,” Kat replied, “because I have to talk to you.”

Nick plopped down on the bale next to her. “You first.”

Kat took a deep breath and began. She told Nick about the death notice faxed to the Gazette newsroom before George Winnick died. She then moved on to what Alma Winnick had said about George investigating noises coming from the barn. That led to the search of the barn itself, where she found the dead cat stuffed with sawdust.

“That confirms my theory,” Nick said, once she had finished.

“And what’s that?”

“That it might not be the Betsy Ross Killer we’re dealing with.”

It wasn’t what Kat wanted to hear. Strange as it seemed, she had been hoping that all of this was the work of Betsy Ross. It’s easier to face the devil you know than the devil you don’t. And whoever killed George Winnick was one sick devil.

“All of this—the fax, the dead animal—sounds far different from what Betsy Ross does,” Nick said. “Serial killers like him do sometimes change their MO, but not as extreme as this. And George’s wounds were different from the ones on the Betsy Ross victims.”

“How did he die?”

“He bled to death.”

“From the cut on his neck? That was barely three inches long.”

“Three and one-fifth inches long,” Nick clarified. “Wallace Noble measured it. And it was more than just the cut that caused him to bleed out.”

“I don’t understand.”

Nick leaned forward. “Do you know what the carotid artery is?”

“Sure. It’s where the nurse checks your neck for a pulse. What does this have to do with George Winnick?”

“His right carotid was sliced open,” Nick said. “It’s difficult but doable. Whoever did this most likely reached through the cut in his neck and pulled the artery out of the body. One careful incision later and you have a blood geyser on your hands.”

Kat felt a stress headache coming on, signaling her brain was getting overloaded. The slight pain began just behind her eyes, ready to spread to her temples. Considering the circumstances, she was surprised the headache had taken so long to arrive.

“It’s a horrible way to die,” Nick said.

Kat couldn’t agree more. Perry Hollow had experienced its share of tragic deaths. Accidents. Brutal falls. But what Nick described seemed so cruel and hateful that she couldn’t quite believe it. Making someone bleed to death implied premeditation and planning. You needed to be prepared to do it.

“It gets worse,” Nick warned. “Do you want me to go on?”

Kat didn’t, but it was her job to say yes.

“The killer did more to George after he was dead.”

“The lips,” Kat said. “They were sewn shut.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you cut open a corpse, there’s very little bleeding because circulation has stopped and most of the blood has settled. There’s some leakage, but it’s minor. Wallace said there was an unusually large amount of blood on George Winnick’s lips.”

“There was,” Kat replied. If she closed her eyes, she could easily picture the reddish ice crystals that had coated his lips. It was the first time she had ever seen frozen blood, and she hoped to God she’d never see it again.

“That means,” Nick said, “that George was still alive when his lips were sewn shut.”

Kat’s mind whirled, imagining what such an act sounded like to the victim. Was it silent? Or could George hear the thread slipping through his skin, his flesh pulling together as it did so? If Kat concentrated, she could hear it, something not unlike the sound of a shoelace passing through the eyelet of a sneaker.

Trying to force the sound from her head, she asked, “Then what was the time of death?”

“That’s the problem. Wallace couldn’t tell for certain. It was definitely within twelve hours before you found him, but he couldn’t pinpoint it more than that.”

“Why not?”

“After George bled out,” Nick said, “the killer pumped liquid into his body.”

“Jesus,” Kat muttered. “What kind?”