Beneath the glare of the work lights, Dale Michaels’s face is swollen and purple. His tongue is twice its normal size and protrudes from his mouth like some overripe fruit. The flesh around his eyes is like crepe paper, fluid filled and nearly black in color. The eyeballs within are milky-looking and bloodred with petechiae. Though I’ve backed six feet away, I’m repelled by the odors of urine and feces.

Death is always an ugly sight to behold, whether it’s homicide, suicide, accidental, or from natural causes. But from all indications, Dale Michaels’s demise was particularly brutal. The doc has removed the rope from around the victim’s neck. It left a two-inch-deep trench in the flesh and severely abraded the skin. The yellow nylon rope is about three-eighths of an inch in diameter, and there’s about thirty feet of it. I watch as the technician coils it and then places it in an evidence bag. From where I’m standing, I see blood and abraded flesh embedded in the fibers.

Suicides don’t require the same level of scrutiny from law enforcement as a homicide, but the scene must still be documented. In the state of Ohio, all unattended deaths require that an autopsy be conducted, and this case will be no different. Unless it is determined that foul play was involved, there will be little in terms of actual police investigation.

My mind drifts as the doctor goes about his work. I’m wondering if I can wrap this up in a couple of hours and get home in time to help Tomasetti with that bottle of cabernet when the coroner gives me a sharp look over his shoulder.

“Chief, I’ve got an irregularity here.”

I walk over and kneel beside him. With gloved hands, he opens the jacket to reveal a partially tucked shirt. A hole in the fabric the size of my pinkie is surrounded by a wide bloodstain that spreads downward to soak into the waistband of his trousers and underwear.

“There’s the source of that blood,” he tells me. “I’m pretty sure that’s a gunshot wound.”

“Self-inflicted?” I ask.

“Hard to tell.” He looks at me over his bifocals. “The only thing I can tell you with relative certainty at this point is that he was alive when he was shot. There’s not much blood, but enough so that I feel the heart was beating when he sustained that gunshot wound.”

“So he was shot and then hanged?” I ask.

“Correct,” the doc confirms.

I look at Glock and Maloney. “Anyone find a handgun on scene?”

“Nope,” Glock mutters. “But I’ve only done a cursory search.”

“Might’ve shot himself in the house and then walked out here and finished it,” Maloney offers.

“Doubtful scenario,” the doc tells him. “Judging by the location of the wound, I would venture to say it was debilitating.”

“Have a look around,” I tell Glock and Maloney. “Check for casings, too.”

The men are already on their feet, their eyes seeking.

I stare at the blood, the pattern of the spread. “Looks like he was upright when he was shot.”

“That’s my thought, too,” the doc says. “Blood traveled down with gravity.”

I risk a look at the dead man’s face and try not to shudder. That’s when I notice something in his mouth. “Doc, is there something in his mouth?”

The coroner leans closer. “Tongue is pretty swollen, but it looks like there may be a foreign object in the back of his throat.” He glances at the technician. “Hand me the large needle-nose pliers.”

The tech removes a stainless steel instrument that looks like a combination pliers and tweezers. The doc sets his hand against the victim’s face, turning the head slightly so that the mouth opens wider. After inserting the tip of the pliers, he gently tugs out an oblong object about three and a half inches in length.

I set the beam of my flashlight on it. “What is it?”

“Looks like some kind of … figurine,” the doc murmurs.

Recognition sparks when he turns it over. “It’s an Amish peg doll,” I say.

The doc gives me a questioning look over the tops of his bifocals. “Come again?”

“A wooden doll.” I move my flashlight closer for better illumination. “It’s faceless, which tells me it’s Amish.”

With a turn of his wrist, he flips it upside down. I can just make out the faded and bloodied letters on the underside of the base: HOCHSTETLER.

“I know that name,” I say.

The doc looks at me over his bifocals. “Used to be a business here in town. Amish family made furniture. Place closed when they were murdered back in the late 1970s.”

I was only a year old at the time, but now that he’s mentioned it, I remember the stories from when I was a kid, most of which were of the ghostly variety. “Interesting that this would show up at a murder scene thirty-five years later,” I say.

The doc nods. “I’ll say.”

I look down at the bloody peg doll clamped within the pincers of the pliers, and I wonder why someone saw fit to shove it down Dale Michaels’s throat. I start to reach for an evidence bag, but realize I’m not in uniform and look around for Glock. “Do you have an evidence bag?”

“Right here, Chief.” He crosses back to us, working a bag from a compartment on his belt. He opens it, holds it out, and the doc drops the figurine inside.

“We’re going to need to courier that to the BCI lab ASAP,” I tell him.

“Sure thing.”

The technician and coroner roll the victim slightly, and the doc checks the trouser pockets. “I’ve got a wallet here.” He hands the beat-up leather wallet to Glock, who checks the driver’s license and slides it into a second evidence bag. “Jacket is torn. No weapon on him.”

I rise quickly, look around, aware that I’m seeing the scene in a completely different light. I address Maloney, who’s standing a few yards away. “Frank, can you get everyone out?”

He’s already motioning the two paramedics through the door.

“I want all vehicles except the coroner’s van parked away from the house and barn, too.” But I know the rain has more than likely eradicated any tire tread or footwear imprints.

I hit my lapel mike. “Jodie?”

“Go ahead, Chief.”

“Call T.J. and get him out here.”

“Ten four.”

“And run Dale Michaels through LEADS.” I spell the name. “And while you’re at it, pull everything you can find on the Hochstetler case from 1979, will you?”

“Got it.”

Watching the scene apprehensively, Belinda Harrington approaches me. “What’s going on? Did someone shoot my dad?”

I give her a hard look, noticing the boat-size purse at her side, the bulky jacket, and I realize she has plenty of places in which to secrete a weapon. I don’t think she shot her father or wrapped a rope around his neck and strung him up. But I learned a long time ago that taking things at face value is never a good idea when there’s a dead body involved.

“We believe your father may have sustained a gunshot wound shortly before his death,” I tell her.

“What? But … oh my God. He was hanging. Who would do such a thing?”

“Mrs. Harrington, does your father own a handgun?”

“I think so.”

“Do you know what kind?”

“It’s big and black.” She shrugs. “I don’t know anything about guns.”

“Do you own a firearm, ma’am?”

“My husband does.” Her eyes narrow. “Why are you asking me that?”

I step closer. “Do you mind if I take a quick look in your purse?”

“What? Why?” But she makes no move to stop me when I reach out and ease the purse from her shoulder.

“Just routine,” I tell her, “since you were first on the scene.” She starts to protest, but I keep her busy with questions while I open the bag and quickly determine there’s no weapon inside and hand it back to her. “Did your father have any recent arguments with anyone, Mrs. Harrington? Did he have any enemies?”

“I don’t know. I mean, not that he mentioned. Most everyone liked my dad.” But her brows go together. “Wait. I think he had some kind of problem with his neighbor. The couple that lives south of here. Their dogs were always loose and getting in my dad’s trash.”