Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

T.J., Glock, one of Detrick’s deputies and I spent three hours in the woods in subzero temperatures, searching for clues. The perp was long gone, but we found fresh snowmobile tracks. Glock was able to lift a few footwear impressions and one decent imprint from the snowmobile skis. If we’re lucky, BCI will match it and give us the make and model of the snowmobile.

Exhaustion tugs at me as I stare down at the hastily typed incident report I threw together. My head pounds from the blows I sustained. My wrist is swollen where he hit me with the club. I can move it, but I’m worried because I’m not ambidextrous when it comes to handling my weapon.

“Chief?”

Tomasetti addressed me, but I have no earthly idea what he said. “You want to bring us up to speed on what you’ve got going?” he asks.

It’s barely seven A.M. on Wednesday morning, but the gang’s all here. Glock sits next to me, his fingers pecking at his laptop. Sheriff Detrick leans back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. Pickles stares at me as if he wants to help me speak. T.J. and Skid seem fascinated by their coffee mugs.

Quickly, I relay the details of the ambush. “We believe the perp was on a snowmobile. Glock took footwear and track impressions. They look promising.”

“Lots of snowmobiles this time of year,” Detrick points out.

“I thought it was worth a shot.” I shrug. “We couriered everything to the lab and should hear back in a few days.”

“I’ll see if I can expedite that,” Tomasetti offers.

“It’s nearly full light,” I say. “We need to get back out there and look around.”

Detrick clears his throat. “I’ll put together a party and get out there as soon as we finish up.”

Tomasetti looks up from his notebook. “If this guy was reliving the kill or fantasizing about it, there’s a possibility he left behind DNA.”

“Semen?” I ask.

“It’s all about sexual gratification for him.”

“Kinda cold for that,” Skid puts in. “Talk about shrinkage.”

A few chuckles erupt, but end quickly.

“Speaking of, did we comb the Hoffman place for that kind of DNA?” I ask.

“I can get a CSU out there with a light,” Tomasetti offers.

I nod and glance at Skid. “Did you hear back from DRC?”

“I got one interesting hit.” He opens a manila folder. “Local guy by the name of Dwayne Starkey. Did fourteen years for sexual assault. Went in a few months after the last murder in 1993. Released nine months ago.”

Interest flares inside me. “You got an address on him?”

“Rents a farmhouse off the highway.” He recites the address.

“I went to school with Starkey,” Glock puts in.

I look at him. “What do you think?”

“Could be. Got a streak of mean in him. He’s a bully, a bigot and all-around fuckhead.”

“You got details on the sexual assault?” Tomasetti asks.

Skid refers to the report. “Twelve-year-old girl. He was eighteen. Pled not guilty. Got twenty years. Early release for good behavior.”

“Where?”

“Mansfield Correctional Institution.” Skid lets out a laugh. “Get this: he works at the slaughterhouse.”

“Bingo,” Tomasetti says.

I rise so quickly, everyone looks at me. “I’m going to pay him a visit.” I address Detrick. “You have enough men to search the woods around the crime scene?”

He nods, but doesn’t look happy about being relegated to an old crime scene while I talk to our newest person of interest. “We’ll canvass the surrounding farms, too.”

I grab my coat off the back of my chair and nearly run into Tomasetti. “I’ll go with you,” he says.

He’s the one person I don’t want tagging along. I need some time with Glock to see if he was able to unearth anything on Daniel Lapp. “I’ve got it covered.”

He stares at me, his expression inscrutable. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“Like has nothing to do with anything.”

“Then it must be your aversion to accepting help from outside police agencies.”

The urge to jump down his throat is strong, but there are too many people around. “Glock knows Starkey. I’m taking Glock.”

“I profiled him. I know what we’re looking for. If you’re serious about stopping him, I suggest you start using me as a resource.”

There’s enough tension in the air to strangle a snake. I don’t need to look around to know all eyes are on us. Personality conflicts during high-stress cases are expected, particularly when more than one agency is involved. But I don’t want to be perceived as a cop who would jeopardize a case because of territoriality issues. I learned a long time ago the value of choosing my battles. This is a battle I’m probably better off not fighting.

“You drive,” I say, and start toward the door.

Dwayne Starkey lives on a small farm surrounded by rolling hills and tall, winter-dead trees. At one time the house had been nice, but as Tomasetti drives down the lane I notice the peeling siding and sagging roof. An old blue pickup is parked behind the house.

“Looks like he’s home,” Tomasetti says. “Keep an eye on the doors.”

He parks the Tahoe a few yards behind the pickup, blocking the driveway should Starkey try to make a quick exit.

“Do you think we should get a warrant first?” I ask.

“Don’t need a warrant to talk to someone.”

“If I like him as a suspect, I’ll want to search the place.” I look past the house where a dilapidated barn lists like a ship trapped in arctic ice. “I don’t want to screw this up. If he’s our guy, he could be doing the murders here.”

“If we like him, we’ll get the warrant.”

I glance at the back door in time to see the curtains part, then quickly fall back into place. “He spotted us.”

“I’ll take the front,” Tomasetti says.

Cold assaults me when I exit the vehicle. The sidewalk isn’t shoveled and my feet crunch through ankle-deep snow. In my peripheral vision, I see Tomasetti continue around to the front. I thumb the snap off my holster when I reach the back door. The top half of the door is glass. A crack runs through it and someone repaired it with duct tape. Dirty blue curtains gape about an inch. Through the gap I see an old freezer and circa 1970s cabinets.

I rattle the glass with my knuckles. “Dwayne Starkey! This is Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill PD! Open up.”

I wait thirty seconds and knock again, harder. “Come on, Dwayne, I know you’re in there. Open the door!”

The door swings open. I catch a whiff of something vaguely unpleasant and find myself facing a small man with greasy hair, a receding hairline and a mustache the color of spicy mustard.

“Dwayne Starkey?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Kate Burkholder. Painters Mill PD.” Keeping my right hand close to my weapon, I pull out my badge with my left and hold it up. He stares at it long enough to make me wonder if he knows how to read. “I need to ask you some questions.”

“This about those kilt women?”

“What makes you think that?”

A hard laugh rattles from a cigarette-rough throat. “I know how you cops think. Somethin’ bad goes down and you want to hang it on the first con you see.”

“I just want to ask you a few questions.”

He looks undecided. “You got a warrant?”

“I can have one in ten minutes if you want to do it that way. It’d be a lot faster if you just open the door and talk to me.”

“I probably shouldn’t without my lawyer.”

A familiar baritone voice comes from behind Starkey. “If you didn’t do anything wrong, you don’t need a lawyer.”

I look past Starkey and see Tomasetti standing in the mudroom. I want to ask him what the hell he’s doing in Starkey’s house, but Starkey beats me to the punch.

“Who the fuck’re you? What’re you doin’ in my house?”

“I’m the good cop, Dwayne. I suggest you stop being a shithead and cooperate with Chief Burkholder. Believe me, you don’t want to piss her off.”

Starkey looks at me. “How the fuck did he get in my house?”

I’m wondering the same thing, so I don’t even try to answer. “Dwayne,” I begin, “we just need a few minutes of your time.”

Starkey steps back. He wears grungy jeans. A shirt with old sweat stains. He looks like he wants to run. I glance down at his feet and see dirty white socks. If he breaks for the door, he won’t get far.

I push open the door and step into a mudroom that smells the way Starkey looks, an unpleasant fusion of cat shit, body odor and cigarette smoke.

Starkey looks from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “I know my rights so don’t try any shit.”

“You have the right to sit the fuck down.” Taking the man by the scruff, Tomasetti muscles him into the kitchen and shoves him into a chair.

“Hey!” Starkey complains. “You can’t do that.”

“I just want to show you how much we appreciate your cooperation.”

I step into the kitchen. The stench of rotting food and animal feces punches me like a fist. An obese cat watches me from atop a 1970s refrigerator. I watch my step when I cross to Starkey.

“You still work at the slaughterhouse, Dwayne?” I ask.

“I ain’t missed a day since I started.”

“What do you do there?”

“Look, I got a clean record there.” He points at Tomasetti. “I don’t want you cops fuckin’ things up for me.”

Tomasetti slaps his hand away. “Answer the question.”

“I’m the sticker.”

“What’s a sticker?” I ask.

“I stick the steer in the neck after he’s stunned.”

“You cut its throat?”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

“You like doing that?” Tomasetti asks.

“It pays the bills.”

Something crunches beneath Tomasetti’s shoe as he steps into the living room. “You gotta go to school for that?”

Starkey glares at him. “Fuck you.”

“Dwayne,” I snap. “Cut it out.”

He looks at me as if I’m dense. “That guy’s an asshole.”

“I know.” I’m aware of Tomasetti moving around the living room, but I never take my eyes off of Starkey. “Where were you Saturday night?”

“I don’t remember.” His attention is on Tomasetti, and I wonder if Starkey has something to hide.

For the first time anger stirs. Two women are dead and this filthy little man is doing his utmost to make our job as difficult as possible. Leaning over, I smack the side of his head with my open hand, forcing his attention to me.

“You can’t hit me like that,” he says.

“Then pay attention. Where were you were Saturday night?”

“I was here. Rebuilt the transmission on the El Camino.”

“Was anyone with you?”

“No.”

“Were you here all night?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever been to the Brass Rail?”

“Everyone’s been to the Rail, man.”

“When’s the last time you were there?”

“I dunno. A week ago.” His brows knit. “A week ago Sunday.”

“How well did you know Amanda Horner?”

“I don’t know no Amanda Horner.” He’s starting to look nervous, like he’s finally taking this seriously. “You guys can’t pin no murder on me. I didn’t do it.”

“You raped a woman fourteen years ago.”

“The little bitch lied, man.”

A burst of anger goes through me. Before I even realize my intent, my hand shoots out and I slap him open-handed. “Watch your mouth.”

He rubs his cheek. “That chick was a tease. Drunk. Fucked up on coke. She wanted it.”

“She was twelve.”