Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

Ronnie didn’t care. He didn’t care that his mom didn’t like her or that his dad thought she was a loose woman. He didn’t care about Jess’s reputation. He didn’t even care that he would miss a chemistry test today. He was in love with her, and being with her was all that mattered.

Instead of catching the bus to school, Ronnie had arranged to borrow his brother’s truck so he could pick up Jess at her house. From there they would drive out to the old Huffman place on Thigpen Road. They were going to make love, then go to the mall in Millersburg to hang out and catch the matinee.

Ronnie rushed through his morning chores. Feeding the horses and cows and slopping the hogs. He showered, being generous with his father’s Polo aftershave, and put on his best shirt and jeans. He picked up Jess at eight-fifteen. She was wearing the jeans he liked. The ones that rode low on her hips. He knew if he raised her sweater the gold hoop in her belly button would wink at him.

She climbed into the truck, the familiar smells of Obsession and cigarettes tantalizing him. “Hey.”

“God, you smell good,” he said.

She grinned. “Have any problems getting away?”

“Piece of cake.” Leaning close, he kissed her, using his tongue. “What about you?”

“Nope.” She extricated her mouth from his. “You bring beer?”

“A joint, too.” He dug the pot from his pocket, checked the rearview mirror and pulled away from the curb.

“This is going to be great,” she said, and produced a lighter.

They were midway through the joint when he turned the pickup into the driveway of the Huffman farm. The house had been vacant since the old man died a year ago. There was no electricity. No running water. No one around for miles. The perfect place for a Tuesday morning tryst.

Parking at the back of the house, Ronnie gathered the blanket and heater and climbed out. Jess grabbed the beer and radio, and slid from the seat. “You sure no one will bother us?”

“Are you kidding?” He took her hand. “Look at this place.”

They took the concrete steps to the back door and let themselves inside. The kitchen offered dingy white walls, chipped tile counters and a peeling linoleum floor. A rusty hot water heater squatted in the corner.

“No wonder nobody comes here,” Jess said. “This place is spooky.” Flipping on the radio, she popped the tab on a beer and walked into the living room. Tall windows dressed in dirty lace looked out over a bleak and snowy landscape. “What’s that smell ?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

Ronnie came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “Not me, babe. I showered.” He nibbled her earlobe. “C’mere.”

Turning, Jess raised her mouth to his. Ronnie kissed her deeply. Fever rose in his body. Working his hand beneath her coat, he squeezed her breast. All he could think was that there were too many layers of clothing separating them.

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” he whispered.

They crossed the living room to the hall. Ronnie wondered if he should tell her he loved her before or afterward. He wondered if she’d think he was an idiot, or if she’d say the same words . . .

Four doors with old-fashioned knobs lined the narrow hall. The stench was worse here. “Smells like a dead rat,” Ronnie said.

“Or a dead skunk.” Jess chugged her beer.

He was keenly aware of her hand in his. The marijuana buzz mellow in his head. His erection pressing against his fly. Squeezing her hand, he shoved open the door.

Jess’s scream rattled his brain. She scrambled back. “Ohmigod!” Her beer clattered to the floor, spewing foam. Turning, she clawed past him like a cat fighting its way out of a bag.

Ronnie looked in. Something vaguely human hung suspended from the ceiling. He saw greenish-brown skin. A horribly bloated abdomen. Blonde hair hanging down. An ocean of black blood. In the back of his mind he remembered his dad talking about a murder. Ronnie hadn’t paid attention. Now, he wished he had.

“Oh God!” Jess gripped his arm, her fingers digging into his skin right through his coat. “Let’s get out of here!”

Ronnie stumbled back. The beer he’d drunk rushed into his mouth and he vomited. Wiping his mouth, he tugged his cell phone from its case.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Jess whimpered.

“Calling the cops,” he said. “Something really bad happened here.”

The Painters Mill City Building is located on South Street just off the traffic circle. The two-story brick structure was built in 1901 and has been renovated a dozen times since. It housed the post office back in the 1950s. The elementary school in the 1960s. The town council moved in after the fire in 1985. You can get city permits here, attend council meetings and pay for traffic tickets. One-stop shopping.

I’m hopelessly disheveled from my tussle with Scott Brower, and ten minutes late because of the paperwork involved with his arrest. I brush at the bloodstains on my uniform as I go through the double doors. The bridge of my nose aches as I take the elevator to the second level and make my way to the town council meeting room. Taking a deep breath, I push open the door.

Seven people sit at a cherry wood conference table. All eyes sweep to me when I enter. The elder councilman, Norm Johnston, sits at the head of the table like a king feeding biscuits to his group of lapdogs. Beside him, Mayor Auggie Brock loads cream cheese onto a bagel. The other faces are familiar, too. Dick Blankenship farms soybeans and corn. Bruce Jackson owns a tree nursery on the edge of town. Ron Zelinski is a retired factory worker. Neil Stubblefield teaches high school algebra and coaches the football team. Janine Fourman is the only woman, but from my perspective she’s more dangerous to me than all the men combined. The owner of several tourist shops, she’s persuasive, pushy, and has a mouth as big as her hair. In Janine’s world, it’s all about Janine and everyone else be damned.

Sighing, I glance out the frosted window where the bare branches of the sycamore tree shiver in the cold. I find myself wishing I were outside where it’s warmer.

“Chief Burkholder.” Norm Johnston stands.

Everyone in the room is staring at me. Probably more interested in how I got a black eye and bloodstains on my coat than the business at hand.

Auggie Brock pulls out the only empty chair. “Are you all right, Kate?”

“I’m fine.” My eyes find Norm. “I don’t have much time so you might want to get things rolling.”

The senior councilman looks around as if to say, See? I told you she’s not very cooperative . “First of all, we’d like a report on how the murder investigation is progressing.”

I hold his gaze. “All departmental resources are focused on this case. My officers are on mandatory overtime. We’re working around the clock. We’re also utilizing the BCI lab and several law enforcement databases.”

Janine interjects. “Do you have a suspect?”

“No.” I give her my full attention. “We’re only thirty-two hours into the case.”

“I heard you arrested Scott Brower,” Norm says.

Once again I’m amazed at the speed of the grapevine in this town. “He’s a person of interest.”

Norm Johnson rolls his eyes. “Does that mean he’s a suspect?”

With as little fanfare as possible, I relay the details of Brower’s arrest.

Janine Fourman stands. “Chief Burkholder. This town can’t afford to lose its tourists. If people don’t shop here, they’ll go to Lancaster County. Do you realize how long and hard we’ve worked to get Painters Mill on the tourism map?” She looks around for the support of her counterparts, all of whom are nodding like mindless bobbleheads. “Protecting the citizens of Painters Mill also extends to providing them with a stable economy.”

Norm Johnston raises both hands, a symphony conductor quieting his orchestra. “Kate, we know your resources are limited due to budget and manpower constraints. Frankly, we’re not convinced you have the . . . experience to deal with such a difficult case.”

The words vibrate inside me like a tuning fork against a broken bone. I’d known this moment was coming. Still, the punch of shock is powerful enough to tie my stomach into knots.

Janine’s eyes glint like a rat that’s just stolen the cheese without getting crushed. “Don’t take this personally, but we’ve brought in outside help.”

I stand there, my heart pounding, sweat pooling beneath my arms. Dread is a block of ice in my gut. All I can think is that I’ve lost control of the case. “What are you talking about?”

As if on cue I hear the door behind me click open. I turn to see a tall, darkhaired man enter the room. The long, black coat tells me he’s not from around here. I wonder briefly if he’s press, but when I look into his eyes, I know he’s a cop.

For a moment I feel stripped bare, as if every emotion banging around inside me is visible. Vaguely, I wonder which agency he’s with. The conservative suit hints at FBI, but I know he could also be with the state. Neither is good news.

“Kate.” The mayor pushes away from his bagel and rises. “This is Agent John Tomasetti with BCI.”

I make no move to approach him or shake his hand.

Flushing, the mayor turns his attention to the man. “Agent Tomasetti, this is our Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”

His gaze is level as he crosses to me. I notice several things about him at once. His eyes are as dark and hard as black granite, beneath heavy brows. He’s got a poker face; his expression is impossible to read. I guess him to be about forty years old. He’s looking at me as if I’m some stand-up comic whose jokes are falling flat. I don’t want him here and he knows it. But there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, and that lack of control brings a hard rush of anxiety.

“Chief Burkholder.” He extends his hand. “It sounds like you have your hands full.”

I accept the handshake. His palm is warm, dry and slightly rough. His grip is substantial, but not too tight. “It’s been a tough case,” I hear myself say.

He’s got a black carry-on slung over his shoulder, and I realize he’s just arrived in town. At this point, I should thank him for being here and offer to drive him to the station. Once there I would introduce him to the team and brief him on the case. Afterward, in keeping with cop etiquette, I’d probably take him out for dinner, some politically incorrect jokes and war stories, and a few too many drinks. I know it’s petty, unprofessional and self-defeating, but I’m not going to do any of those things.

“I’m here to assist any way I can,” he offers.

“I’m sure the council appreciates that.”

A ghost of a smile whispers across his face.

“I’ve got to get back to work.” Extricating my hand from his, I turn and start toward the door. My heart pounds like a piston as I yank it open. I can’t quiet the little voice telling me I handled that all wrong. I should have been more diplomatic. More professional. I should have kept my cool.

Someone calls out to me, but I don’t stop. I’m too angry to be reasonable. Most of that anger is directed at myself. I shouldn’t have let this happen. The truth of the matter is I should have already requested assistance from another agency.

In the hall, I stride to the elevator and slam my fist down on the button. I don’t wait for the car to arrive. I’m heading toward the stairs when I hear my name. I turn to see Auggie striding toward me. “Kate! Wait!”

I don’t want to talk to him, but I can’t run away from this. I stop and watch him approach.