Breaking Silence

by Linda Castillo

  “You got an address on Willie Steele?” he asks.

  “I know where he lives. But he’s probably at work right now. The oil-filter factory down in Millersburg.”

  “Let’s go pick him up.”

  We reach his Tahoe and climb inside. He doesn’t look at me as he starts the engine and pulls out of the parking space. The wheels spew gravel when he turns onto the street. Neither of us speaks as he heads toward town, cranking the speedometer well over the speed limit.

  I’m usually pretty good at reading people—their moods, their frame of mind. Tomasetti is one of only a few people I can’t. I’ve tried on multiple occasions. Just when I think I’ve got him nailed, all those quirks figured out, he lets fly some stunner that has me rethinking everything I know about him.

  I look out the window and give both of us a chance to settle. Not an easy task when it comes to Tomasetti. He looks relaxed, but he’s driving too fast. He didn’t like seeing me with Rasmussen. But I know Tomasetti has too much pride to succumb to petty male jealousy. Still, he’s a man, and some things are programmed so deeply, not even intellect or character can totally eradicate them.

  I consider waiting him out, but his stony silence is beginning to make me uncomfortable. “How did you know where to find me?”

  He glances at me and frowns. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Nodding, I look out the window, then sigh. “Are we okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  He’s going to make me spell it out. May as well put it on the table, I think. “I wasn’t expecting Rasmussen to show up. He just did.”

  “That’s fine. You’re a grown woman, Kate. You’re free to do whatever you want with whomever you want, whenever you want and as often as you like.”

  “I’m really glad you pointed that out.” I glance at his profile, notice for the first time the tight set of his jaw. “So why are you pissed?”

  “I’m not pissed.”

  “Maybe we should talk about it.”

  He takes his time responding. “You two looked pretty cozy. I didn’t like it. I’ll get over it. End of story.”

  “It was just a friendly game of pool.”

  “Did he hit on you?”

  I shrug. “He was thinking about it.”

  Tomasetti sends me a dark look.

  I meet his gaze head-on. “You’re not one of those guys with trust issues, are you?”

  “I just don’t like smart-assed cops crossing that line.”

  “We haven’t really told anyone we’re … together.”

  “Is that what we are?” he asks. “Together?”

  “We haven’t talked about exclusivity.” I stammer the words, trying not to screw this up. I sense it’s an important moment. But I’m not much better at talking about my feelings than he is.

  “We’re talking about it now.” He makes a turn, and I realize we’re pulling into the parking lot of the Farnam oil-filter factory. “For future reference, I don’t share.”

  I nod, trying to appear calm, but inside my heart is pounding. This is as close to a relationship talk as we’ve ever had. “Just don’t go all caveman on me, okay?”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “So does this mean we’re, like, going steady?”

  He parks illegally at the building’s entrance, puts the Tahoe in park, shuts down the engine, and turns to me. “That means the next time Rasmussen puts his hands on you, you should tell him to fuck off.”

  “Since he’s sheriff of this county, I’ll probably try to be a little bit more diplomatic.”

  “As long as he gets the message.”

  We leave the Tahoe and enter through a door below a sign marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. The factory is huge, has bright lights, and smells like a combination of rubber and paint. A security guard sitting in a booth eyes us through a window as we approach. Leaving the booth, he swaggers toward us. His badge says his name is Tony. He raises his hand like a traffic cop. “You’re going to have to get visitor passes from the office before you can come in here.”

  Tomasetti tugs out his ID. “We already have our passes.”

  The security guard stares at the badge, and for an instant I think I see longing in his eyes. “That’ll work.” He hikes up his pants. “What can I do for you?”

  “We need to see Willie Steele,” I tell him. “He works here.”

  “Willie? Sure. I saw him come in earlier.” He motions toward the booth. “I think he’s on line 7-W. Let me call, make sure he’s there.”

  We wait while he makes the call. Beyond, huge machines rumble and grind and hiss. The second shift is in full swing. I see a young woman in blue jeans and an Ohio State sweatshirt feeding accordion paper into a massive cutting machine. At the end of the line, another person sends the cut papers down a conveyer belt.

  The security guard emerges from his booth. “Okay, I just talked to the supervisor. Steele’s working tonight.” Tugging up his pants, he points. “I can’t leave my post. Just follow this walkway to where it tees, then go left. Line seven-W is midway down to the Paint Room there at the end. Lines are clearly marked. Willie’s on the glue wheel tonight. Supervisor’s name is Bob Shields. He’s expecting you.” Tony looks at me, and I see the burn of curiosity in his eyes. “What’d Willie do?”

  “We just want to ask him some questions,” I reply.

  He looks disappointed. “Let me know if you need any help with him. I never liked that guy.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  The walkway is delineated with bright yellow tape. We follow it to the T junction, then turn left. Tony gave good directions, because midway to the end, we see a sign that says 7-W. Beyond, a conveyer belt with huge steel bins on either side rumbles like some massive engine. The accordion papers I’d noticed when we walked in have been cut and formed into cylinders. Held together with springs, they’re moving toward a rotating contraption where metal disks are glued onto the top and bottom. The operator then places each cylinder back on the assembly line and they make their way toward a huge oven.

  A man with curly blond hair approaches us. Wearing black slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looks more like a waiter in some upscale restaurant than an assembly-line supervisor. “Can I help you?”

  We show him our badges. “We need to speak to Willie Steele,” I say.

  “He do something wrong?” Shields asks.

  “We just want to talk to him,” Tomasetti responds.

  “Let me pull him off the glue wheel. Gotta get the break operator to replace him or things’ll pile up. Can you hang on a sec?”

  Frowning, Tomasetti looks at his watch.

  I smile inwardly. “We’ll wait.”

  Shields rushes over to his desk, slides to a stop with the verve of a figure skater, picks up the phone. I see him looking at the man working the rotating machine, and I recognize the guy as Willie Steele. “That’s him right there,” I tell Tomasetti.

  “Big guy.”

  I think of the beating Mose took. “Big coward. Let’s see how tough Mr. Steele is when we haul him to the station.”

  I see amusement in Tomasetti’s eyes. “I’ll give you the honors.”

  “Hopefully, he knows I used to be Amish.”

  “This is going to be a lot more fun than I thought.”

  Shields comes back looking harried. “Break operator is on the way. Can you hang for a couple of minutes?”

  Tomasetti sighs, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. I’m about to reply, when I notice Steele looking at us. He’s frozen, his mouth open. The cylinders moving down the conveyer belt begin to pile up in front of him, and I realize he’s thinking about running.

  The woman working next to him notices and stands up. “Hey!”

  “We just got made,” I hiss.

  Steele bolts.

  “Shit,” I hear Tomasetti mutter, and then I’m running toward Steele.

  “Halt! Police!” I shout. “Willie Steele! Stop!”

  At the

assembly line, a dozen faces turn to watch me as I sprint past them. Twenty feet ahead, Steele knocks over a stool, tosses a trayful of cylinders at me. “Fuck!” he shouts.

  For such a big guy, he’s fast and agile. I’m running full out, but he’s still pulling away. Tomasetti is slightly ahead of me now. Wishing I hadn’t done those shots earlier, I hit my lapel mike, call for backup. If Steele gets out of the building and to his vehicle, he could get away.

  Tomasetti and I are at an added disadvantage because Steele knows the layout of the building and we don’t. As long as we keep him in sight, we should be okay. Not an easy task when the guy runs like a freaking rhinoceros on speed.

  He takes us toward a huge overhead door marked PAINT ROOM at the end of the walkway. He makes like he’s going to go right. I veer in the same direction, my arms pumping, my feet pounding the concrete. At the last minute, he goes left, and I lose another yard.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see employees coming off the lines to watch. The conveyer belts don’t wait, and oil-filter cylinders pile up and fall to the floor.

  We’re running down another walkway now. A forklift backs into Steele’s path. Cursing the driver, Steele slams his fist into it, but he keeps moving and veers left. Tomasetti darts around the other way. I follow Steele, but I’m losing ground. Then we’re back on the walkway. Steele looks over his shoulder, spots Tomasetti.

  “Fuckin’ cop,” he snarls, and darts right. Remembering what he did last time, I take a chance and veer left. At the end of the walkway, he darts left, too. I gain ten feet, almost close enough to tackle him. I’m focused, running as hard as I can, ready to take him down.

  He cranks his head around. I’m so close, I can see his eyes widen when he spots me. I’m aware of Tomasetti off to my right, a few feet behind me. The forklift comes out of nowhere. Steele doesn’t have a snowball’s chance of avoiding it. At the last instant, he puts his hands out. The momentum of his body collapses his arms. His forehead clangs hollowly against the steel cage that protects the driver. Steele reels backward two steps, then goes down like a big rodeo bull. He slides along the concrete on his back, coming to rest against a support beam.

  I reach him just as he raises his head. “Stay down!” I snap, tugging the cuffs from my belt. “On your belly! Now!”

  “Wha…”

  Grabbing his arm, I flip him over and kneel. “Shut up and give me your wrists.” Shoving my knee into his back, I reach for his hands. “Don’t move.”

  “My fuckin’ head…”

  “Serves you right.” His wrists are slick with sweat as I pull his hands behind his back and snap the cuffs into place.

  Tomasetti slides to a stop next to me, kneels, and rams his knee against Steele’s back. “I’ll bet no one ever accuses you of being smart, do they?” he says to Steele.

  The downed man groans. “What’d I hit?”

  I rise and look around. A dozen factory workers have formed a circle around us, their eyes alight in anticipation of some late-night entertainment. Across from me, Tomasetti brushes dust from his trench coat. He’s breathing hard. I can tell by the look in his eye that he enjoyed the chase.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “I’m good. How about you?”

  “Most fun I’ve had all day.”

  I’m smiling when I bend and grasp Steele’s arm. “Come on. Up and at ’em.” He outweighs me by a hundred pounds, but he feels as wobbly and frail as an old man when I pull him to his feet.

  “I’m dizzy. I think I need a doctor.” Steele shakes his head, makes a show of blinking. He’s got a bump the size of a hen’s egg in the center of his forehead.

  I look at Tomasetti. He rolls his eyes, then addresses Steele. “You ever hear the Chinese proverb about the steel dragon?” he asks.

  “No, man.”

  “Didn’t think so.” Taking Steele’s arm, he guides him toward the exit on the opposite side of the building.

  I address the group of line workers. “Sorry for the disturbance, folks. Show’s over, so you may as well go back to work.”

  A collective groan of disappointment emanates from the crowd.

  I catch up with Tomasetti just as Steele asks, “So what’s the proverb say?”

  “Translated, it says don’t ram your head into forklifts.”

  Steele gives him an incredulous look. “That’s the stupidest fuckin’ proverb I ever heard.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Rasmussen, Tomasetti, and I sit at the conference room table with a downcast Willie Steele. At first, he was belligerent, so we let him stew in a cell for an hour or so in the hope that when we started questioning him, he would be ready to talk. It worked. The earlier belligerence has given way to reticence. Or maybe he’s being coy. That’s all right, I think. It’s still early in the game.

  The bump on his forehead now resembles a baby eggplant. I’m starting to wonder if we should have him transported to the hospital to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion. Not because I’m unduly concerned about Steele’s physical well-being, but I’ve learned that if a suspect’s health is in the hands of the police, they’d damn well better make sure he emerges in the same condition as when he came in.

  A few minutes earlier, the warrant came through from Judge Siebenthaler. I dispatched Skid and Glock to pick it up, then head over to Steele’s apartment for a search. Hopefully, they’ll come back with some shoes or boots we can match to the footwear impressions from the scene.

  When everyone’s ready, I hit the RECORD button on the digital machine and take a moment to identify all present and recite the date and time. Then I read Steele his Miranda rights. “Do you understand these rights?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  Everyone holds their collective breath, anticipating that Steele may exercise his right to an attorney, which would bring this to a grinding halt. Five seconds pass, then Tomasetti dives in with a harsh summary of Steele’s predicament, using the “We have a bunch of evidence against you, so you may as well start talking” approach. “We have a Skoal can with your fingerprints on it that places you at the scene of a murder.”

  “What? Murder?”

  “We’ve got footprints that are going to match those boots we took off you.”

  Steele gives him a red-eyed glare. “I didn’t kill anyone! What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “The barn you torched? We found a dead guy inside.”

  “What? We didn’t—”

  “We’ve got you dead to rights,” Tomasetti points out. “We could charge you with first-degree murder right now. If the prosecutor wants to be a hard ass about it, he might even go for the death penalty.”

  “Fuck you! I didn’t kill no one!”

  “You’re going down, my man. You’ll be lucky to get life in prison. It’s a done deal. End of story. You getting all that?”

  “I didn’t do no murder!” he cries.

  “So if you’re feeling lucky today, go ahead and keep your big fat mouth shut.”

  Steele jumps to his feet, slams his fists against the tabletop, jangling the cuff. “This is bullshit! I didn’t kill anyone!”

  In an instant, Tomasetti is on his feet. Clamping his hand around the back of Steele’s neck, he shoves him back into the chair. “Sit the hell down, you piece of shit.”

  Steele sits there, breathing hard, glaring up at Tomasetti. “You guys are railroading me.”

  “Shut up.” Tomasetti says the words through clenched teeth. I know him well, probably better than anyone, but even I can’t tell if it’s an act. Either he’s a better actor than I’d imagined, or he’s genuinely pissed off.

  Tomasetti bends, gets in Steele’s face. “I’m going to give you one chance to save yourself,” he says in an ominous tone. “Are you ready to listen?”

  Steele struggles to get himself under control. After a moment, he says, “I’m listening.”

  “We know you were working with someone. Give us the name or names, and we’ll cut you a deal.”