Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

“Cops make mistakes, Kate. We’re human. It happens.”

“It wasn’t a mistake.”

My response puzzles him. For the span of several minutes, neither of us speaks. My phone rings again, but I don’t answer. I’m a vacuum inside, as dark and cold as space. I have nothing left.

“I’m the last person who has the right to lecture anyone on right or wrong,” he says.

“Is that some kind of confession?”

“Look, if you know something about this case that you haven’t told me, this would be a good time for you to open up.”

The temptation to let everything pour out is strong, but I can’t do it. I don’t trust him. I don’t even trust myself.

After a moment, he sighs and rises. “Why don’t you let me drive you home so you can get some sleep?”

I try to remember the last time I slept, realize I can’t. I don’t even know what day it is. The clock on the wall says it’s nearly six P.M. and I wonder where the day went. The need to work eats at me even as exhaustion fogs my brain. I’m fast approaching a state in which I’ll become completely in effective. But how can I rest knowing there’s a killer out there, stalking my town?

I rise. “I have my own vehicle.”

“You’re in no condition to drive.”

“Yes, I am.” Only then do I realize I’m not going home.

CHAPTER 24

The setting sun peaks out from behind a wall of granite clouds as I head for the Explorer. The wind is calm, but I checked the weather report online. We’re in for some serious snow tonight. I snatch up my cell phone as I slide behind the wheel. Glock picks up on the first ring. I’m inordinately relieved to hear his voice. “Please tell me you got at least one good impression,” I begin.

“Footwear impressions stink. But we got a decent one from the snowmobile.”

Hope flutters in my chest, but I bank it because it makes me realize how desperate I am. “Did the lab give you a time frame?”

“Tomorrow. Late.”

“Did anyone get a look at him?”

“One of Detrick’s deputies thinks he saw a blue Yamaha. Perp wore a silver or gray helmet.”

There are hundreds of snowmobiles in the area. “Tell Skid I want a list of all Yamaha snowmobiles registered in Holmes and Coshocton Counties. Narrow it down by color. Blue. Silver. Gray. I want background checks and alibis on the owners.”

Glock clears his throat. “Ah, Detrick already put two of his deputies on that, Chief.”

Uneasy surprise quivers inside me. “All right. I’ll follow up with Detrick.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the media showed up after you left. Steve Ressler. Crew from Columbus. A couple of radio stations. That fuckin’ Detrick prettied up for the cameras and held a press conference right there at the pond.”

“How did it go?”

“He didn’t say shit, but he looked good doing it.”

I sense there’s more coming.

“One of the reporters asked about you,” he adds. “Detrick made like he didn’t know where you were. Like he was covering for you or some shit.”

“I was with Johnston. I notified next of kin.” I hate it that I feel the need to defend myself.

“You don’t have to explain. Watch that fuckin’ Detrick, though. He’s a glory-grabbing son of a bitch.”

This development worries me. I feel the case spiraling out of my control. Detrick raising questions about my credibility. Tomasetti edging closer to the truth. My life hanging in the balance.

“How’s the Johnston family?” Glock asks.

I tell him about the scene at the station.

“Norm’s got a big mouth. You think he’s going to make trouble for you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was just the grief talking.” Ahead, pink-rimmed storm clouds roil on the western horizon. “Thanks for the heads up on Detrick. I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

I hit End. I want to call Norm, but I know his wounds are still too fresh. I wonder if he’s spoken to Detrick and filed a complaint against me, and I hit the speed dial for the sheriff’s number. I get voice mail. A good sign that he’s avoiding me. I know Detrick won’t hesitate to use me as a fall guy if this case doesn’t come together soon. I should be thinking about damage control. About my career and covering my ass. But I’ve never done my job based on the perceptions of others. I don’t intend to start now.

I hit Doc Coblentz’s number. “Do you have a prelim yet?”

“I just got her onto the table. My God, Kate. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”

“Anything carved onto her abdomen?”

“With the evisceration, I haven’t been able to tell yet. There’s a lot of damage.”

“Throat cut?”

“Like the others.” He blows out a breath. “I’m not sure that’s what killed her.”

“He changed his MO?”

I’m surprised when the doctor’s voice quivers. “I believe the evisceration may have been antemortem.”

All the blood seems to rush from my head. I’ve never fainted, but I’m so shaken by the news I have to pull over. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then I ask, “Do you think he might have medical training?”

“I doubt it. The incisions are crude. He just butchered her.”

“Was she raped?”

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

“Anything else?” I ask.

“A crime scene tech from BCI was here earlier. He took nail scrapings and swabs. We measured the incised wounds and he took some photos. He mentioned he might try to identify the type of chain used from the bruise pattern on her ankles.”

A thought occurs to me. “Did anyone find her clothes?”

“Not a shred.”

“I think he’s keeping the clothes.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He’s keeping them as trophies.”

“That’s your area of expertise, not mine.”

“When will you do the autopsy?”

“First thing in the morning.”

I don’t want to wait that long, but it’s my desperation talking. People need to eat and sleep and go home to their families. “Will you give me a call? I’d like to be there.”

“Kate, I don’t know why you do that to yourself.”

I wonder if maybe it’s one of many ways I choose to punish myself. For what I did. For what I didn’t do. “See you in the morning.”

I end the call. Around me, dusk hovers low and gray. To my right, a group of plain children wearing traditional Amish garb—black coats and flat-brimmed hats for the boys, headscarves for the girls—play an impromptu game of ice hockey on a pond next to the road. For an instant, the scene sweeps me back to my own childhood. A time when I was never alone and had no concept of loneliness. My life was filled with family, worship, chores—and playtime every chance I got. Before the day Daniel Lapp introduced me to violence, I was a happy and well-adjusted Amish girl. My life was carefree and full of promise. Those simple days seem like a thousand lifetimes ago.

As I drive by the children, a deep ache of loneliness assails me. A longing for what is lost. My parents. My siblings. A part of myself I cannot reclaim. I wave to the kids. Their smiles bolster me. I glance in my rearview mirror as they resume their game, and a powerful need to protect them rises up inside me.

My sister Sarah and her husband live in the last house on a dead-end road. William has cleared the lane of snow, probably with his horse-drawn plow. He’s considered a conservative amongst the Amish community. While my brother Jacob uses a tractor, William adheres to traditional horsepower. More than once it has been a point of contention between the two men.

A neat row of blue spruce trees, their boughs laden with snow, runs alongside the lane. The massive barn stands two stories high. Built on a slope, it sits on an angled stone foundation. Half a dozen windows dot the façade. Four cupolas jut from the apex of the tin roof. No one knows for certain, but it’s rumored the house and barn date back two hundred years. A time when barns were the center of rural life and architectural works of art. My parents brought Sarah and Jacob and me here many times when we were kids. I chased chickens, played hide-and-seek and bottle-fed newborn calves. Once, on a dare, I jumped from a hay chute and sprained my ankle.

I park behind a sleigh, my headlights reflecting off the slow moving vehicle sign mounted at the rear. Beyond, the windows of the house glow yellow with lantern light. It’s a cozy and inviting scene. But as with my brother’s home, my welcome will not be warm.

I take the sidewalk to the front door and knock. I barely have time to gather my thoughts when the door swings open. I find myself looking at my older sister. “Katie.” She whispers my name as if it’s a bad word. Her gaze flicks sideways and I know William is inside. “Come in out of the cold.”

The aromas of cooked cabbage and baking yeast bread titillate my appetite as I enter. But I won’t be asked for dinner. A kerosene lamp illuminates the living room. I see a large homemade table and bench. On the opposite wall, a framed needlepoint sampler that had belonged to Mamm hangs front and center. The initials of our great-grandparents are sewn into the fabric next to locks of their hair. I remember running my fingers over those locks and wondering about the people they came from.

“Come into the kitchen,” Sarah says.

I follow her to the kitchen to find her husband at the table, hunched over a bowl of steaming soup.

“Hello, William,” I say.

He stands when I enter and bows his head slightly. “Good evening, Katie.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner.”

“You are welcome to hot soup.”

The invitation surprises me, since I’m under the bann, but I shake my head. “I’ve only got a few minutes.” I look at my sister and force a smile. “I wanted to check on you. See how you’re feeling.”

She places a hand over her distended abdomen, but her gaze slides from mine. “I feel good,” she says. “Better than last time.”

“You look great.”

William smiles. “She eats like a horse.”

“She ate us out of house and home when we were kids.” I smile, hoping it looks real. “It’s good for the baby.”

“Bad for my bulging middle!” she exclaims with a little too much enthusiasm.

An uncomfortable silence ensues. I touch her shoulder and make eye contact. “Are you still working on the baby quilt?”

“I’m almost finished.”

“Could I see it?”

My request surprises her, but her eyes light up. “Of course.” Touching my shoulder, she starts toward the living room. “Come.”

The stairs creak beneath our feet as we climb to the second level. I follow her to the bedroom she and William share. It’s a large room with two tall windows and an angled ceiling. The furniture is heavy and plain. A dresser that had once belonged to our parents. A chest with steel pulls. And a sleigh bed covered with one of Sarah’s quilts.

She crosses to the dresser and lights a glass lamp. Golden light casts shadows on the ceiling and walls. “You look tired, Katie.”

“I’ve been working a lot.”

Nodding, she pulls out a partially completed quilt. Curved patches of seafoam green and lavender form a complex pattern. I see the required seven stitches per inch and as always, I’m awed. Quilting is extremely labor intensive; a good quilt will contain over fifty thousand stitches. Most Amish women learn to sew early in life. Most can make a decent quilt. But very few ever become good enough to design a piece of art like this.

Thinking of the baby my sister carries, I touch the soft fabric. I think of the babies she’s lost in the past; I think of my own losses and for a moment I have to blink back tears. “It’s beautiful.”