Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

I sit up. “Yes, I’m Kate Burkholder.”

“This is Teresa Cardona. I’m a crime analyst with BCI. John Tomasetti asked me to forward the VICAP summary report to you.”

I sense John’s absence. The house has that empty feel I’m so accustomed to. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I reach for my robe. “Yes, I’m anxious to see it.”

“I don’t have your e-mail address.”

I rattle off the address. “How quickly can you send it?”

“How about right now?”

“That would be great. Thanks.” I hang up feeling both excited and deflated. The good news is I’ll finally have the crime-matching information I need. I don’t want to examine too closely the cause of the latter. It would be easier, simpler, to believe the pang in my chest is from the loss of my job and the probable end of my law enforcement career. But I’m honest enough with myself to admit it has more to do with John’s departure without so much as a good-bye. I resolve not to dwell. I’ve got enough on my plate this morning without adding a heap of morning-after jitters.

Ten minutes later, armed with a cup of coffee, I’m at my desk in the spare bedroom, opening my e-mail program. Sure enough, I find an e-mail from T. Cardona. I click on the attachment and download a pdf file named: paintm-lOH_inquiry53367vsumrpt.pdf. One hundred and thirty-five pages of detail fills my screen. An endless stream of Victim Information, Types of Trauma Inflicted on Victim, Offender’s Sexual Interaction, Weapon Information, and dozens of other criteria. It’s going to take a lot of coffee to get me through all that information.

I start with Types of Trauma Inflicted on Victim . By noon, I’m wired on coffee, information overload, and a growing case of cabin fever. I try to stay focused on the case, but my thoughts stray repeatedly to John. Last night was an anomaly for me. Maybe it’s a remnant of my Amish upbringing, but sleeping with a man is a big deal to me. I can’t stop thinking about him. About everything we shared. And everything that was said.

Most people would condemn him for doling out vigilante justice. Though I’ve walked that fine line myself, I believe it’s wrong to take a life. But I know some anguish is too horrendous for the human heart to bear. Some crimes are too unspeakable for the mind to accept. For John’s sake, I hope he can find some semblance of peace.

At two-thirty a knock at the door yanks me from my work. I’m inordinately happy to find Glock on my back porch. “You know things are bad when visitors come to your back door,” I say.

“Don’t want to get those tongues wagging.” He steps inside, brushing snow from his coat. “Nasty out there.”

“Weather guy is calling for six to eight inches by morning.”

“Fuckin’ winter.” But his eyes are on my laptop humming on the kitchen table and the reams of paper surrounding it. “You look like you could use a break.”

I close the door behind him. “Anything new on the case?”

“We’re still at Hershberger’s farm, looking for evidence.”

“What do you think?

“Hershberger is fucked.”

At the counter I pour two cups of coffee. “You think he did it?”

“Evidence is overwhelming. The shoe we found belongs to Amanda Horner. Her mom identified it this morning. We’ve got underwear with DNA. We’re waiting to hear back from the lab.”

“Don’t you think all of that is kind of convenient?”

“There’s no way he could have possession of the shoe or underwear unless he had contact with the victim.”

“You guys check CODIS?” CODIS stands for combined DNA database system. Administered by the FBI, it’s a searchable database of authorized DNA files.

“Still waiting.”

I hand him a cup. “How are Pickles and Skid holding up?”

“Detrick has them out in the cold, digging around in pig shit.”

No pun, but I hate the idea of Detrick assigning the shit jobs to my officers, especially Pickles, who’s getting up in years. “Detrick pushing his weight around?”

“Strutting around like he just arrested Jack the fuckin’ Ripper. Says he’s going to take all of us on some big hunting excursion if we tie this thing up nice and tight.”

“Nice incentive if you like plugging deer.”

“Most of his guys are into it. I guess Detrick used to be some big shot hunting guide in Alaska.”

“Detrick, the great white hunter.”

Glock doesn’t look impressed. “How are you holding up, Chief?”

Thoughts of Tomasetti flash in my mind, but I quickly ban them. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I’m absolutely certain Jonas Hershberger is innocent.”

Glock blinks at me, clearly surprised. “He’s a strange bird.”

“So is Terry Bradshaw, but that doesn’t make him a psychopath.”

“We’ve got a shitload of evidence.”

“I know Jonas, Glock. He doesn’t drive. Doesn’t have access to a snowmobile. There’s no way he did those murders.” I think about that a moment. “Did you check to see if he relocated during that sixteen-year period?”

“He’s been in the same house since he was a kid. Inherited it when his parents were killed in a buggy accident eight years ago.” He pauses. “We did find a couple of fifty-gallon drums he used to burn trash. We sent ash samples to the lab to see if he burned the clothes.”

“Did you find any porn or S&M videos? Sex toys? Instruments of torture? Anything like that?”

“No, but he slaughters pigs on site. He’s got knives. Knows how to use them.”

“A lot of the Amish do their own slaughtering for meat. My dad butchered cattle.”

“So how do you explain the evidence?”

“I can’t. I know it’s damning. It just . . . doesn’t feel right. For example, the sixteen-year gap and then three murders within a month. What was the trigger?” I pause. “Have you talked to Jonas?”

He nods. “Detrick and I questioned him for about an hour this morning. At first he wouldn’t speak English, just Pennsylvania Dutch. When he finally did start talking, he denied everything. Gets all offended when we ask him about the women. Detrick came down on him pretty hard, but he didn’t crack.”

“What do you think?”

“He’s so damn stoic and reticent. Hard to figure him out.”

“He have a lawyer?”

“Hasn’t asked for one.”

I nod, troubled by the thought of Jonas alone and at the mercy of Nathan Detrick.

Glock rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Jesus, Chief, we sure miss having you around. I’d feel a hell of a lot better with you in running the show.”

Tears threaten so I take a swig of coffee.

“I heard Detrick had a closed-door meeting with Janine Fourman and Auggie Brock the night before you got the axe,” Glock says.

“How do you know?”

“Secretary over at the city building called after she heard what happened to you. I’m just reading between the lines, but I’ll bet Detrick wasn’t there to talk about the fuckin’ weather.”

Anger fires inside me when I think of all the things that might have been said and everything I stand to lose because of it. “That son of a bitch.”

“You heard from Tomasetti?”

The heat of a blush climbs up my cheeks. It’s a stupid reaction. Glock doesn’t know Tomasetti and I spent the night together. Still, I can’t meet his gaze. “I think he left early this morning.”

“Really?” He laughs outright, obviously surprised by my reaction. “You and Tomasetti, huh? I’ll be damned.”

“Probably best if we don’t go there.”

He clears his throat and focuses his attention on the mess spread out on the kitchen table.

“I’m following up on a couple of things,” I say.

“I didn’t think you were balancing your checkbook.”

“Tomasetti left me with some crime-matching stats. I’m working on the change of locales angle.”

“Anything?”

“Not yet. But there’s a lot of ground to cover.” I pause. “Any word from the Johnstons?”

“Funeral is tomorrow.”

I nod. “How’s LaShonda?”

“Big as a frickin’ house.” A grin splits his face at the mention of his very pregnant wife. “Gonna be any day now.”

“Give her my best, will you?”

“Will do, Chief. I gotta git.” He starts toward the door, opens it and steps outside. “Gonna get slammed with snow.”

“Yeah.”

“Give me a call if you need anything.”

He disappears around the corner, and I’m suddenly engulfed by an overwhelming sense of loneliness. I feel isolated and cut off, as if I’m the only person left on earth. As the snow swirls down from a cast iron sky, I’m reminded of how much my life here in Painters Mill means to me—and how much I stand to lose if I don’t fight for reinstatement.

I go back to the VICAP report. It makes for grim, monotonous reading. Murder. Rape. Serial crimes with all the disturbing details that go along with them. By six o’clock the words begin to blur. My eyes feel as if they’ve been filled with sand. I’ve been on the phone so much my ear aches. Still, I’ve got nothing. Doubt begins to gnaw at my earlier resolve. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Jonas Hershberger is guilty. Twenty years have passed since I knew him. I know firsthand that time and events can change the course of a person’s life. Look at me.

Stymied, I go to the cabinet above the fridge and pull out the bottle of Absolut. I pour too much into a tumbler and take that first dangerous sip. Back at my laptop, I try to log in to OHLEG to check on my earlier inquiries only to find my account has been disabled.

“Damn it.” My last law enforcement tool is gone. I stare at the screen, frustrated and angry, with no idea where to go from here.

On impulse, I pull up a popular search engine and type “carving,” “abdomen” and “exsanguination” and hit enter. I don’t expect much in the way of useful information. Too much weird crap on the Internet. I get links to excerpts from novels, some bizarre short story, a college thesis on the media and violence. I’m shocked when I see a link to the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner . I click and read.

THIRD BODY WASHES UP ON THE TANANA RIVER

Alaska State Troopers say the body of an unidentified woman was found late Tuesday by a group of hunters. The woman is Caucasian and appears to be in her late twenties. According to Trooper Robert Mays, “her throat was cut” and she had “ritualistic carvings on her abdomen.” This is the third body discovered along the bank of the remote Tanana River in the past six months and valley residents are alarmed. “We’re keeping our doors locked,” says Marty West, a Dot Lake resident. “I don’t go anywhere without my gun.” The body has been sent to Anchorage for an autopsy.

I stare at the screen, my heart pounding. The similarities are too striking to ignore. Nothing had come up on VICAP, but that’s not too unusual; the database wasn’t widely used by local law enforcement until recently. Some of the older data wasn’t entered into the database at all due to lack of manpower.

A glance at the clock above the stove tells me it’s nearly eight P.M. Alaska is in the Alaskan Time Zone, which is four hours earlier. I google the Fairbanks PD for a phone number and dial. After being transferred twice, I’m told Detective George “Gus” Ogusawara retired seven years ago. I ask if he knows where Gus is living. He refuses to give me a number, but tells me to try Portland or Seattle.

I go back to the Internet. Lucky for me, Ogusawara isn’t a common name. I start dialing and get the right man on my second try. “Is this George Ogusawara?” I begin.