Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

I pad to the back door and open it. The tabby darts in with a burst of cold and looks at me as if to ask “what took you so long?”

“Don’t get used to it,” I mutter.

The cat purrs at the sound of my voice, and I wonder how he can still trust human beings when he’s evidently spent the brunt of his life being neglected and abused by them.

Bending, I pick him up. The animal makes a halfhearted attempt to bite me. I manage to avoid his teeth. Slowly, his body relaxes. He’s little more than skin and bone wrapped in a ratty coat. Making eye contact with me, he meows loudly.

“You’re going to have to settle for milk, pal.”

His ears are jagged from old fight wounds. A scar bisects his mottled nose. The whiskers are missing on one side of his face. A survivor who keeps going despite life’s tribulations. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

I pour milk into a bowl and refill my tumbler with Absolut. Setting the cat on the floor, I raise my glass. “Here’s to getting through the night.”

CHAPTER 12

Birds chatter like children outside the kitchen window. I’m lost in the chore of baking bread. Above the sink, yellow curtains billow in the breeze. Beyond, the leaves of the maple tree tremble and hiss, revealing their underside, and I know it will storm later. The smells of fresh-cut hay, kerosene from the stove, and warm yeast fill the air. I want to go outside, but as always there’s work to be done .

I push my hands into warm dough. Bored with bread making, I wish for a radio, but Datt has expressly forbidden it. Instead, I hum a tune I heard in the Carriage Shop in town. A song about New York, and I wonder what the world is like beyond the cornfields and pastures of Painters Mill. They are dreams I shouldn’t have, but they are mine and they are secret .

I sense someone behind me. When I turn, I see Daniel Lapp at the door. He wears dark trousers with suspenders and a gray work shirt. A flat-brimmed straw hat covers his head. He looks at me the way a man looks at a woman. I know I shouldn’t, but I smile .

“God will not forgive you,” he says .

That’s when I notice the burgeoning red stain on his shirt. Blood, I realize. I want to run, but my feet are frozen. When I look down, I’m standing in a lake of blood. I see flecks of red on the curtains. Handprints on the counter. Smears on my dress .

Outside the window, a crow caws and takes flight. I feel Daniel’s breath against my ear. I hear vile words I do not understand .

“Murderer,” he whispers. “Murderer .”

I wake in a cold sweat. For an instant, I’m fourteen years old, helpless, terrified and ashamed. Throwing off the covers, I sit up and put my feet on the floor. My breaths echo in the silence of my bedroom. Nausea climbs up my throat, but I swallow it and slowly the dream recedes.

Sitting on the side of the bed, I put my face in my hands. I hate the nightmare. I hate even more that it still wields the power to reduce me to a frightened adolescent. I breathe deeply and remind myself who I am. A grown woman. A police officer.

As the sweat cools on my body and I rise to dress, I swear to the God I have forsaken—the God who has forsaken me—I will never be helpless or ashamed again.

Farmers begin their day early in Painters Mill. At seven o’clock sharp I stand outside the double glass doors of Quality Implement and Farm Supply and think about the conversation I’m about to have with Donny Beck. The sign on the door tells me the store opens for business at seven A.M. Monday through Saturday. Someone is running late this morning. Peering through the glass, I tap with my keys.

A short woman wearing a red smock and a nametag that reads “Dora” smiles at me through the glass. The keys in her hand jingle as she twists the lock. “Morning,” she says. “You’re the first customer of the day.”

I flash my badge. “I need to talk to Donny Beck. Is he here?”

Her smile falters. “He’s in the break room getting coffee.”

“Where?”

“It’s at the back of the store.” She points. “Want me to take you?”

“I’ll find it.” I start toward the rear of the store. I shop here every so often. It’s a nice place to pick up yard stuff like flowers, pots, hand tools. The police department buys tires for city vehicles here. But Quality Implement mostly sells farm supplies. Plowshares. Tractor tires. Fencing. Augers.

The rubber smell of new tires fills my nostrils as I approach the back of the store. I make a left, walking between massive, floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with tires of every shape and size. Ahead, I hear laughter. A door stands open at the end of the aisle. I purposefully arrived at the start of the business day to catch Beck off guard. I want him unprepared so I can gauge his unrehearsed reactions when I ask him about Amanda Horner.

I find Donny in the break room wolfing down a breakfast sandwich from the diner. A petite blonde wearing a Quality Implement smock sits across from him, slurping Coke through a straw. Both young people look up when I enter. The sandwich stops midway to Beck’s mouth. He knows why I’m here.

I give the girl a pointed look. “Can you excuse us?”

“ ’Kay.” She grabs her Coke and leaves the room.

Closing the door behind her, I face Donny Beck.

He swallows hard. “I guess you want to talk to me about Amanda.”

I nod. “I’m Kate Burkholder, Chief of Police.”

“I know who you are. You gave my dad a speeding ticket once.” Rising, he leans over the table and extends his hand. “I’m Donny Beck. You already know that, though.”

I shake his hand. His grip is firm, but his palm is slick with sweat. He seems like a decent young man. A farm boy. Probably uses the money he earns here to fix up his muscle car and raise hell on Saturday night. “When’s the last time you saw Amanda?” I begin.

“The night we broke up. About six weeks ago.”

“How long had you two been seeing each other?”

“Seven months.”

“Was it serious?”

“I thought so.”

“Who broke up with whom?”

“She broke up with me.”

“Why’d she do that?”

“She was going back to college. She didn’t want to be tied down.” He grimaces. “She said she didn’t love me.”

“You get pissed off when she dumped you?”

“No. I mean, I was upset, but I didn’t get mad.”

“Really? Why not?”

He chokes out a sound of denial. “I’m not like that.”

“Did you love her?”

Emotion flashes in his eyes, and he looks down at his half-eaten breakfast sandwich. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“Were you sleeping with her?”

To my surprise, his face reddens. He gives me a nod.

“She sleep around with anyone else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you two fight?”

“No.” As if catching himself, his gaze snaps to mine. “I mean we did. Sometimes. But not often. She was pretty easygoing.” He shrugs. “I was crazy about her.”

“Did she have any enemies?”

He shakes his head. “Everyone liked Amanda. She was sweet. Fun to be with.”

“Where were you Saturday night?”

“I went to Columbus with my dad and little brother.”

“What were you doing in Columbus?”

“We went to a basketball game. Special Olympics. My brother’s handicapped.”

“You spend the night?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you stay?”

“Holiday Inn off of Interstate 23.”

“You know I’m going to check.” I jot everything down.

“It’s okay. We were there.”

“When Amanda told you she didn’t want to be tied down, did you get jealous?”

“No. I mean, a little. Like, when I imagined her going out with other guys. But not like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d never hurt Amanda. Jesus Christ, not like that.” A quiver runs through the last word.

“Like what?”

“I heard . . . what he did to her.”

“Who’d you hear it from?”

“Waitress at the diner said he . . . you know.” Sweat beads on his forehead and upper lip. Wrapping the sandwich in a napkin, he tosses it into the trash. “Makes me sick.”

“I need you to think hard about this, Donny. Is it possible Amanda was seeing someone else?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. She wasn’t guy crazy or anything. Amanda had a level head.”

“So you think she was being straight with you?”

“She said she wanted to stay friends.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “I figured that was a lot better than never seeing her again.” His eyes mist. “Doesn’t matter now. I’m never going to see her again, anyway, am I?”

I shove my notepad into my coat pocket. “Don’t leave town, okay?”

His gaze meets mine. In his eyes I see the kind of pain a twenty-two-year-old farm kid probably can’t fake, and I feel an uncharacteristic need to reassure him.

“You guys think I did it?” he asks.

“I just want you to be available in case I have more questions.”

Leaning back in the chair, he swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I don’t have any plans to go anywhere, anyway.”

I offer my card. “If you think of anything else, call me.”

He looks at the card. “I hope you guys catch the lowlife who did that to her. Amanda didn’t deserve to die.”

“No, she didn’t.” As I make my exit, I mentally cross Donny Beck off my list of suspects.

It’s not yet eight A.M. when I arrive at the station. Glock’s cruiser is parked in its usual spot. Next to it, Mona’s Ford Escort is covered with a thin coating of snow. I wonder what new catastrophe waits for me inside.

Mona looks up from her phone when I enter. “Hey, Chief. You’ve got messages.”

“Now there’s a surprise.” I take a dozen slips from her.

Her hair is piled on top of her head with little ringlets spiraling down. Her lipstick is almost as black as her nail polish. Maroon eyeliner makes her look like she’s got a bad case of pinkeye. “Norm Johnston is getting pissed about having to leave messages, Chief. He’s like, you know, taking it out on me.”

“Did he say what he wants?”

“Your head on a platter, probably.”

I give her a look.

“Just a wild guess.”

I laugh. “Where’s Glock?”

She glances down at the switchboard where a single red light stands out.

“On the phone.”

“When he gets off, tell him to call me.” I walk to the coffee station and fill the biggest mug I can find. In my office I turn on my computer, then drape my coat over the back of my chair. I’m anxious to see if OHLEG came back with a hit on Daniel Lapp.

My hopes are dashed when I log in. If he’s alive, he’s being careful. Probably using an alias. Maybe even a stolen identity or false social security number. Under normal circumstances, I’d start flashing his photo around town. But I can’t risk raising questions. People will want to know why I’m asking about a man who hasn’t been seen for sixteen years. They’ll put two and two together, and Daniel Lapp will rise out of obscurity like some Amish version of Jack the Ripper.

I dial Norm Johnston’s number. Miller’s pond would do the job. It’s a good size body of water with a muddy bottom.

Johnston answers on the first ring. “I’ve been trying to reach you for almost two days, Chief Burkholder.”

“I’m tied up with this murder, Norm. What can I do for you?”

“The town council and mayor want to meet with you. Today.”

“Norm, look, I need to work—”