Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

I’m not totally inexperienced when it comes to intimacy. When I lived in Columbus I had a couple of tepid relationships and one serious, ill-fated affair. But it’s been a while and I’m more than a little rusty. He doesn’t seem to notice.

He slides his hands to the sides of my face. I open my eyes to find him staring at me. His expression is a mix of surprise and perplexity. His calloused palms cradle my cheeks. We’re breathing hard, as if we’ve both just finished a marathon.

He runs his knuckles down my cheek, a touch so feather-soft that I shiver. “That was unexpected,” he says.

“But nice.”

“Better than nice.”

Reaching up, I take his hands from my face, but I can’t stop looking at him. My mouth still tingles from his kiss. “The timing could be better.”

“I’ll have to work on that.”

A knock on the door interrupts the moment. Tomasetti steps quickly back. “Expecting company?”

“No.”

Leaving the kitchen, I cross to the front door and check the peephole. Surprise ripples through me when I see Glock on the porch, his hat pulled low against the wind. My first thought is that they’ve discovered another body. I open the door. “What happened?” I ask, motioning him inside.

“Chief.” Glock’s eyes widen when he spots Tomasetti. “Detrick just made an arrest.”

“What?” I say. “Who?”

“Jonas Hershberger.”

Disbelief rears inside me. I know Jonas. I went to school with him. Up until the eighth grade, anyway, when the Amish stop going to school. He lives in a ramshackle pig farm a few miles from where Amanda Horner’s body was found.

“He’s one of the most gentle people I’ve ever known,” I say.

“We’ve got evidence, Chief.”

“What evidence?” Tomasetti chimes in.

“Blood. At Hershberger’s farm.”

“How did the arrest come about?” I ask.

“We were canvassing the area. Detrick saw a suspicious stain. He did a field test for blood, got a positive. He asked for permission to search and Jonas agreed.” Glock shrugs. “One of Detrick’s deputies found a piece of clothing that might have belonged to one of the vics. Detrick has the whole place cordoned off and they’re looking for more. There’s a BCI crime scene tech out there right now. Detrick and the SAC have Hershberger in the interrogation room. It looks like he’s our guy.”

John looks at me. “I’ve got to get down there.”

I desperately want to go with him. That need is an agony that goes beyond physical. I begin to pace, every nerve in my body jumping. I’m aware of Tomasetti pulling on his coat. “Goddamnit,” I mutter.

He crosses to me and sets his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

I’m too upset to speak, so I nod.

Glock is already out the door. Giving me a final look over his shoulder, Tomasetti follows. I trail them as far as the front porch. I barely feel the cold as I watch both men climb into their vehicles and pull away.

“Damnit,” I whisper.

And I wonder if, after all these years, God has finally seen fit to punish me for what I did. And for what I did not.

CHAPTER 29

Some nights are darker and colder and longer than others. This is one of those nights. It’s only eight P.M., but it feels like midnight. I’m hungover and so unsettled I can’t stand being in my own skin. After Tomasetti and Glock left earlier, I had another drink. Not to mention a good old-fashioned cry. But crying and drinking myself into a stupor aren’t my style. I’m more proactive than that. Yet here I am, pacing the house, bawling like some high school girl, doing the one thing I swore I wouldn’t: feeling sorry for myself.

I should be relieved a suspect has been arrested. I should be elated knowing no more women will die. My career might be in the toilet, but there are worse fates. So why the hell do I feel like someone has just ripped out my guts?

It’s not until I’m in my Mustang and heading toward the Hershberger farm that I identify the core of my disquiet: Jonas is not a viable suspect.

I’ve always made a conscious effort to keep my prejudices and preconceived notions removed from my job. I know, perhaps better than anyone, that the Amish are not perfect. They’re human. They make mistakes. They break rules and traditions. Sometimes they even break the law. Some have strayed from basic Amish values, going so far as to drive cars and use electricity. But not Jonas. I know for a fact he doesn’t drive. Not a vehicle. He doesn’t even use a motorized tractor for his farm. There’s no way in hell he drove that snowmobile.

That’s not to mention the fact that he doesn’t even come close to matching the profile of this killer. I’ve known Jonas most of my life; he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. When I was a kid, Mamm and Datt bought pork from the Hershberger family. Once, while Datt and Jonas’s father were talking, Jonas took me to the barn to see their new kittens. The mama cat, a pretty little calico, had already birthed four kittens. Jonas was so wrapped up in the new babies, he didn’t notice that the cat was in distress. Lying on her side, she was panting, her pink tongue hanging out. I could see her little body straining to expel another kitten. We didn’t know how to help her, so Jonas ran to his father and begged him to take the cat to the English veterinarian in town. I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Jonas cried like a baby. I’d been embarrassed for him and upset that the cat was suffering and would probably die right along with her kittens. I learned later that after the mama cat passed, Jonas bottle-fed the four babies, and they survived.

Such a small thing in the scope of a lifetime. I know people change. I know life can take a toll, and time has a way of turning innocence to cynicism, sweet to bitter, kindness to cruelty. But I also know that most serial murderers are sociopaths from birth. As children, many begin their dark journey with animals. Few are made later in life.

It’s been years since I spoke to Jonas, and I know he’s changed. I’ve heard the rumors. After his wife’s passing five years ago, he became somewhat of an eccentric. He lives alone and has been known to carry on conversations with people who aren’t there, including his dead wife. His farm is run-down. He doesn’t exercise good manure management and the smell is terrible. He keeps to himself, and no one seems to know much about him anymore. That doesn’t keep them from talking.

I want to speak with Jonas, but I know Detrick won’t let me. I settle for the next best thing and drive to his brother’s farm. James Hershberger’s place is almost as decrepit as Jonas’s. I pray I don’t run into law enforcement as I pull into the driveway. The last thing I need is for someone to figure out I’m not as gone as they’d like me to be. A buggy is parked at the rear of the house. A Percheron gelding stands quietly with its rear leg cocked, its coat covered with snow. I park behind the buggy and take the sidewalk to the porch.

The door opens before I knock. James Hershberger stands just inside, his expression telling me I’m not welcome.

“I just heard what happened to Jonas,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“I do not wish to speak with you, Katie.”

Quickly, I explain that I’ve been fired.

He looks surprised, but doesn’t open the door to let me in. “I do not understand why the English police have arrested my brother for these terrible deeds.”

“Does he have an alibi?” I ask.

The Amish man shakes his head. “Jonas is a solitary man. I try to be a good brother, but I do not see him often. He leads a simple life. For days in a row, he does not leave the farm.”

“Do you know what kind of evidence the police have?”

“The policeman claims to have found blood on the porch.” James fingers his full beard. “Katie, my brother is a butcher. There is often blood. But it does not belong to any of the women.”

“Have you been to see him?”

“The police will not allow it.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “He did not do these things. I stake my life on that.”

“I know he lost his wife a few years ago. How did he handle her death? Did it change him in any way?”

“He was deeply saddened, of course, but neither bitter nor angry. Her death only served to bring him closer to God.”

“Does he drive a vehicle?” I ask.

“Never. He still uses the horses to farm.” He looks at me, his expression beseeching. “Katie, he would not go against God’s will. It is not in his nature.”

Once again I’m reminded of the kittens. Reaching out, I touch James’s arm. “I know,” I say and start toward the Mustang.

I don’t want to go home, but I have nowhere else to go. I consider driving to Jonas’s farm, but if the police are still processing the scene they won’t let me on the property. I wonder what forensic testing on the blood will reveal. Is it possible the shy Amish boy I once knew transformed into a monster in the span of twenty years?

I spot John Tomasetti’s Tahoe parked in front of my house, and a small rise of anticipation runs the length of me. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m looking forward to seeing him. I want to believe it’s because of the case. I don’t let myself analyze it any more closely than that.

We meet on the front porch. “What does Detrick have on Hershberger?” I ask as I open the door.

“I sent the blood to the lab.” He’s got snow in his hair and on his shoulders. He’s staring at me with those intense eyes and I realize I like being the focus of his attention. “It’s human.”

The news puts a chink in my hope for a quick exoneration for Jonas. I hang John’s coat in the closet. “Have they typed it?”

“The blood is O negative. Hershberger is A positive,” he says. “Brenda Johnston was O negative. DNA will tell us if it’s hers.”

“When do you expect results?”

“Five days. Seven max.”

None of this is good news for Jonas. I’m keenly aware of John behind me as I walk toward the kitchen. Flipping on the light, I go to the stove, fill the teakettle with water and set it on the flame. “You think he did it?” I ask.

“If the blood is from one of the vics, it’s a slam dunk.”

I turn to Tomasetti. “I’ve known Jonas since we were kids. He’s not a violent man.”

“People change, Kate.”

“Have you interviewed him?”

John nods.

“What do you think?”

He makes the hand sign for crazy. “I think he’s a fuckin’ loon.”

“Emotional problems don’t make him a killer.”

“Doesn’t vindicate him, either.”

“What about an alibi?”

“He rarely leaves the farm.”

“Tell me about the evidence.”

“In addition to the blood evidence, a BCI tech found a shoe believed to have belonged to one of the victims. A bloody length of baling wire. A knife that fits the specs of the murder weapon.”

The news shocks me. “Don’t you think that’s just a little too neat? Think about it. He hasn’t left a single clue behind and all of a sudden he leaves all this stuff at his own property?”

“Kate.” Surprise ripples through me when he wraps his fingers around my upper arms. “Stop. It’s over. We got him.”

I meet his gaze. “Jonas didn’t do it.”

“Because he’s Amish?”

“For God’s sake, John, he doesn’t drive. He couldn’t have been driving that snowmobile.”

“Or so he says.”

“He doesn’t fit the profile.”

“Profiling isn’t an exact science.”