Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

“I’m working on a profile now,” he responds. “I should have something by the end of the day.”

I glance down at my notes. Throats are cleared and boots shuffle restlessly against the floor as I describe the instrument of torture Doc Coblentz found inside the second victim.

“There’s a photo of it in the file. It looked homemade. Like maybe this guy made it in his garage or shop. He may have some electrical knowledge.”

Detrick leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me intently. “We gotta get this sick son of a bitch, people. I think everyone in this room knows he ain’t going to stop now that he’s got a taste for it.”

I look at Detrick. “We could use extra patrols in the area.”

“You got it.”

I turn my attention back to the group. “I’ve called a press conference for this evening,” I say. “Six o’clock at the school auditorium. You should be there.”

I scan the faces. “One more thing I want to impress upon everyone in this room. We are not releasing the fact that this killer carved Roman numerals onto the abdomens of both victims. Do not discuss anything we’ve talked about today. Not with your wife or girlfriend or boyfriend or your dog. Is everyone clear on that?”

I see vigorous nods from all in the room. Satisfied I got my point across, I step away from the podium. “Let’s go to work.”

CHAPTER 17

I arrive at the high school with two minutes to spare. I’d hoped to avoid the media, but I’m too late. Several news vehicles are camped out in the rear lot near the bus-loading zone. Even in the dim light of the sodium vapor street-lamp, I recognize the ProNews 16 van.

I park in a faculty space and head toward a lesser-used side door. To my relief, it’s unlocked. The hallway is warm and smells of paper dust and some industrial-strength cleaner that’s supposed to smell like pine but doesn’t. The auditorium lies straight ahead. I hear the crowd before I see it. Trepidation presses into me when I spot the television crew from Columbus dragging in reflective lights and camera gear.

I duck into a secondary hall that will take me to the rear of the auditorium. I see Detrick standing outside the stage doors, staring down at a small spiral notebook. An actor memorizing his lines minutes before curtain on opening night.

He spots me and lowers the notebook. “You like cutting it close, don’t you?”

“This is not my cup of tea.” It’s an understatement; I’d rather shoot off my little toe than deal with the media.

“Lots of cameras,” he comments. “Couple of radio stations, too.”

All I can think is, Shit . Detrick, on the other hand, looks like some daytime superstar about to accept an Emmy. I see a sparkle of face powder on his bald head and pin lights of anticipation in his eyes, and I remind myself he is a politician first, a lawman second.

He gives me a sage look. “I’ve been a cop for a long time, and I’m good at it. But I’m a good politician, too, and I’ve never met a camera that didn’t like me.” He smiles in a self-deprecating way. “If you want me to handle the media side of this for you, I’m up to the job. I know you’ve got your hands full, and you can’t be in two places at once.”

It crosses my mind that this is his first step in hijacking my case. I know that sounds paranoid. But in the public eye, perceptions are everything. When it comes to television cameras, Detrick will outshine me like the sun outshining the moon. But he’s right. I need to work the case, not make nice with some twenty-something journalist looking for his big break.

Those thoughts go by the wayside when I see Norm Johnston and Auggie Brock approach. Detrick sticks out his hand and the men shake. Auggie glances in my direction, but his eyes skitter quickly away. Norm doesn’t acknowledge me. Taking off my coat, I drape it over a folding chair and try to settle my nerves.

“We’re on,” Norm says.

We enter the stage as a single, cohesive unit. I blink against the camera flashes and lights, and I wonder how long this fragile sense of accord will last. This is the kind of case that can tear even the most solid of relationships apart. My relationship with the mayor and town council is far from solid.

We stop at a table set up behind the podium. The lights raining down are bright and hot, a stark contrast to the cold outside. Auggie crosses to the podium and taps the mike. “Can everyone hear me?”

Nods and shouts of “yes” emit from the crowd.

Turning slightly, he introduces me. “Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”

I step up to the podium and look out over the sea of faces. I feel a sense of responsibility to the people I’ve sworn to protect and serve. I hope I can honor my oath of office without dishonoring my family or destroying my own life in the process.

Quickly, I recap the basic information about the case, barring the carvings on the victims’ abdomens. “I want to assure all of you that the Holmes County Sheriff’s office, the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation and the Painters Mill PD are working around the clock to catch the person responsible. In the interim, I’m calling on every citizen for help. I want you to keep your doors locked. Keep your security alarms turned on. Report any unusual or suspicious activity to the police, no matter how trivial. I also ask you to form neighborhood watch groups. Keep a watchful eye on your neighbors. Your family members. Your friends. If you are female, be vigilant with regard to your personal safety. Don’t go out alone.”

A barrage of questions erupt when I pause.

“Is it the Slaughterhouse Killer?”

“Do you have a suspect?”

“How were the women killed?”

The pushiness of the crowd annoys me. “One at a time,” I snap.

No one pays attention to my request. I spot Steve Ressler in the first row and call him by name. In the back of my mind I hope this makes up for my brusqueness back at the station. The last thing I want to do is alienate the media right off the bat.

“Chief Burkholder, have you contacted the FBI?” he asks.

“No.”

Disapproving murmurs ripple through the crowd.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re already working with the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation out of Columbus.”

A dozen hands shoot up. I point to a thin man wearing glasses with heavy black frames. “Can you tell us how the victims were killed?” he asks.

“Preliminary results from the coroner concludes both victims had their throats cut. Cause of death is exsanguination.”

A hush that is part shock, part fear, falls over the crowd. I point to a man wearing a Cincinnati Reds ball cap. “That’s exactly how the Slaughterhouse Killer from the early nineties murdered his victims,” he begins. “Is it the same guy?”

“We do not know that to be a fact, but we are looking at old case files.” Ignoring the buzz that follows, I call on a woman I’ve seen on the news.

The questions are brutal and pummel me like stones. The answers are hard to come by. I do my best, but after twenty minutes I feel embattled and wrung out. Hands wave madly, but I don’t call upon them. “If you’ll excuse me I’ve got to get back to work.” Stepping back from the podium, I turn to Detrick. “Sheriff Detrick?”

At this point I’m expected to take my place beside Auggie and Norm and listen to Detrick’s spiel. But I’ve never been a fan of political cabaret so I head toward the rear stage door.

Behind me, Detrick’s voice booms from the sound system. Competence and charisma practically ooze from his pores, and I know that in minutes, he’ll have this hostile audience eating out of his hand. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. In the public eye, perceptions are everything, even if those perceptions are skewed.

I mentally kick myself for having not done a better job at the podium. I should have been more patient, more forthright. I should have been a stronger leader. But I’m a cop, not a public speaker. Snagging my parka off the chair, I resolve to go back to the station where I can at least be effective.

Detrick’s voice is the backdrop to my thoughts as I enter a hall lined with lockers. Even from this distance, I discern the confidence in his voice. And I know he is the one who will make the citizens of Painters Mill feel safe tonight, not me.

“Chief!”

I turn to see Glock stride toward me. Next to him, John Tomasetti’s expression is grim. An Amish man with blunt-cut hair, blue eyes and a full red beard follows them. He wears a black wool jacket that doesn’t look nearly warm enough. A plump woman wearing a black coat over a wool jumper and leather ankle boots trails the men.

“This is Ezra and Bonnie Augspurger,” Glock begins.

It’s been fifteen years since I’ve seen or spoken to them, but I know the Augspurgers. As a child, I spent many a Sunday at their home with my parents for worship. I remember playing with their daughter, Ellen, and a brother by the name of Urie, who liked to make a game of pulling my kapp . He didn’t tattle when I pushed him into a pile of horse shit. The youngest Augspurger child, Mark, suffered with Ellis–van Creveld syndrome, a form of dwarfism found all too often in the Amish population. Of course, as a kid, all I knew was that Mark was short. But Ellen had once told me he had an extra toe and a hole in his heart. Looking at Ezra and Bonnie, I wonder if Little Markie is still alive.

I extend my hand first to Ezra. His eyes meet mine, and I see fear in their depths. I feel that same fear hammering on the door of my own psyche. I know why they’re here, and I know how this meeting will end.

“Ellen is missing.” Ezra’s voice shakes as he speaks in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“We heard about the murdered English girl and became worried,” Bonnie adds. “We want you to help us find Ellen.”

I think of the partially decomposed body lying on the gurney at the hospital morgue—the unadorned fingernails and toenails—and I’m filled with a sadness so profound that for a moment I can’t speak. I don’t want that woman to be Ellen, but I know it is. Guilt spreads through me because I didn’t recognize her. Though it’s been fifteen years since I saw her, I feel as if I should have known.

Before I realize it, I’m speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch. “How long has she been missing?”

Ezra looks away, but not before I discern the shame in his expression.

“Two and a half weeks.” Bonnie’s hands twist nervously.

I give Ezra a hard look. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

“This was an Amish matter to be dealt with by us.”

The awful familiarity of the words make the hairs at my nape stand on end.

“We assumed she had run away,” Ezra says. “In the last few months, Ellen had become . . . difficult and rebellious.”

“She had told us she would be taking the bus to Columbus to see her cousin Ruth,” Bonnie says. “When she disappeared, we assumed that was where she had gone. Last night, we heard from Ruth. Ellen never arrived in Columbus.”

I want to take them to the police station where we can speak privately. There are too many people, too many cameras here. I glance down the hall and spy an open classroom door. “Let’s go where it’s quiet.”

Leaving the Augspurgers, I cross to Glock and Tomasetti. “Find a fax machine,” I say quietly. “Ask Mona to fax the best photo she can find of the second vic.”

When I pull back, both men’s eyes are filled with knowledge. They know where this is going. Glock turns and jogs toward the auditorium in search of a school official.