Pray for Silence kb-2

by Linda Castillo

  Though it’s only six A.M., I quickly shower and dress. Thoughts of the Plank family don’t creep into my mind until I’m driving to the station. Even then, the hard edges are gone this morning. It’s a step in the right direction.

  I arrive at the station to find Mona’s Escort parked in its usual spot. Skid’s cruiser is parked next to it, and I know he’s probably finishing up his reports before he calls it a day. Glock will arrive in an hour or so toting either bagels or doughnuts from the Butterhorn Bakery. Mona will complain about the calories. Lois, T.J. and Pickles will arrive and another typical day will begin. We’ll talk about the murders and deal with the media. I’ll call Auggie and officially close the case. My small department and I will go back to refereeing domestic quarrels, bar fights and corralling wayward livestock. Usually the normalcy, the routine of that would be a comfort to me. This morning, it makes me feel as if I’ve swept something smelly under the rug.

  I walk in to find Mona sitting at her station, tapping her fingers to a Gin Blossoms tune that’s cranked up a little too loud. “Hey, Chief. You’re in early this morning.”

  “Couldn’t sleep.” I cross to the dispatch station, reach over and turn down the radio. “Any messages?”

  “Media mostly. From yesterday afternoon. Wanting to know about the Long thing.” She passes half a dozen pink messages to me. “Sorry about the radio. I didn’t realize it was so late. I mean early.” She grins. “Night shift flew by.”

  Since the messages are media-related, I hand them back to her. “Let them know I’ll have a press release later this morning.”

  “Sure thing.”

  At the coffee station, I pour a cup and carry it to my office. While my computer boots, I go to the record storage box next to the file cabinet and carry it to my desk. T. Long Suicide is written in bold red marker on the side. The box contains only a fraction of what we found at the scene; most of it was sent to the BCI lab for processing. Still, I want to go through everything with a fine-tooth comb before closing the case.

  Inside the box, I find the evidence log Mona put together. The preliminary report from Doc Coblentz. A manila folder contains a photo record of the scene. A plastic bag filled with pornographic photos of Mary Plank. In addition, there are two boxes of disks. All are copies; the originals were sent to the BCI lab. The first box is marked Viewed. These are the ones Glock, John and T.J. went through yesterday. The second box is marked To Be Viewed. These are the ones I need to look at this morning.

  I set the box on my desk. Reviewing them is the last thing I want to do. I know the images that wait for me—rape and depravity—will negate whatever optimism Tomasetti left with me. But even though Long is dead and the case will soon be closed, all the evidence must still be examined.

  Rising, I close my office door and slide the first disk into my computer. The drive whirs. I open Windows and click Play. The video opens to a sparsely furnished, windowless room. Stark white walls. A single bulb hangs down from the ceiling. A twin-size bed with an iron headboard and smaller footboard stands in the center of the room. Mary Plank is on the bed, lying on her side. She wears no makeup, but someone painted her mouth red. Her eyes are glazed. She wears a light blue dress, a white apron, gauzy kapp and ankle boots. I try to take in these details with the unaffected eye of a cop. But my chest tightens at the sight of her.

  A man clad in blue jeans and wearing the jester mask enters stage right. Bastard, I think and I find myself glad Long stuck that gun in his mouth. He crosses to the mattress and kneels beside Mary. Leaning close, he whispers something in her ear. She smiles at him, then looks at the camera. “We’re going to be playing a sexy game today,” she says.

  It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice, and it shocks me. It’s girlish and innocent with the slow inflection of the Amish. Smiling, she reaches for Long. He brushes his knuckles across her check, and I see a connection between them I hadn’t noticed before. The music begins. An old Van Halen song, “Running with the Devil.” As he undresses her, I focus on camera work, realize it’s steady, probably being shot from a tripod.

  I fast-forward through the disk, pausing only when something catches my attention. In terms of an accomplice, my efforts net zero. By the time the disk plays out, I’m shaking with outrage and disgust. I feel dirty and upset and unbearably guilty.

  Popping out the disk, I mark it as Read, and place it with the other disks that have been viewed. I don’t let myself think or feel as I slide the second disk into the drive. I steel myself against the black dread rising inside me. The voice inside my head telling me I can’t do this. But I don’t stop. I close the drive and click Play.

  My pulse jumps when I recognize the Plank farmhouse. The living room. I see the two tall windows, the same lacy curtains. The lighting is bad, probably from some type of battery-powered light. The camera work is jerky, similar in style to The Blair Witch Project, telling me someone is manning the camera. I wonder if this video was shot the night of the murders. Or had Long been at the farmhouse before? And where are the Planks?

  The screen goes black for an instant, blinks white, and then the kitchen looms into view. The camera work smoothes out, and I realize he must have set up a tripod. I can see the edge of the table from this angle. The back door. The cabinets and sink. It looks like unedited video. Long appears, adjusting the camera or maybe testing the lighting. He looks into the lens as if he doesn’t realize the camera’s turned on. He’s got a serious look on his face. Is he angry? I wonder. Scared? Intent on killing? Is he about to fly into a rage?

  The screen fades to black. The words Death in an Amish Farmhouse appear in red, Gothic-style lettering that reminds me of some high school horror film project. The screen goes scratchy. An instant later the image of Amos Plank lying on the floor flashes in stark black and white. I see a pool of shiny black blood. An open mouth and staring eyes . . . The image lasts for only an instant, but it’s enough to make me queasy.

  The camera pans back to the Plank kitchen. No movement. No people. That’s when I realize I’m probably looking at unedited clips that were cut or not used. I think of the title and wonder if I’m seeing snippets of a snuff film. . . .

  Staving off a rolling wave of revulsion, I stare at the screen, looking for clues. Doc Coblentz estimated the Planks had died between ten P.M. and midnight. It would have been dark. My eyes go to the back door, but the lighting inside reflects off the darkened window. I hit a couple of keys and zoom in. One hundred and ten percent. One hundred and twenty-five. I squint at the screen. The window is dark. It’s nighttime.

  That’s when I notice the pale oval on the other side of the glass. At first I think it’s a reflection. The person behind the camera. I hit the zoom again, taking it up to one hundred and fifty percent. The resolution goes grainy. But I’m almost certain someone is standing outside the back door, looking in. I can see the dark shadows of eyes. The line of a mouth.

  “Who are you?” I whisper.

  I hit Speaker and speed dial Tomasetti’s cell. He answers on the first ring with his usual growl.

  “Do you know someone at BCI who can magnify and improve video?” I ask without preamble.

  “I’m still on the road. What’s up?”

  I tell him about the face in the window. “When I zoom, I lose resolution, so I’m not getting a clear image.”

  He sighs. “I’m about twenty minutes from the lab.” He rattles off an e-mail address. “One of the technicians is a friend of mine. Send the file as an attachment. I’ll swing by and we’ll take a look at it.”

  An awkward pause ensues and I realize both of us are thinking about last night. We didn’t get much sleep. Tomasetti breaks the moment and we fall back onto common ground. “You still think there was an accomplice?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That would change a lot of things.”

  “It would mean there’s a killer running loose in my town.”

  The line between us hisses. “I’ll get back to you as soon as
we have something.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  They are two of the longest hours of my life. I’m nearly finished reviewing the disks when my phone jangles. I look at the display, but it’s Lois, not Tomasetti. Snarling beneath my breath, I hit Speaker.

  “Chief, Aaron Plank is here to see you.”

  Shock ripples through me. He’s the last person I expected to see. “Send him in.”

  A moment later, Aaron walks into my office. He wears a corduroy blazer over khaki slacks and a nice pair of shoes. When he looks at me, his expression is sage and sad. “I heard about Todd Long,” he says.

  Curious as to why he’s here, I motion toward the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. “Have a seat.”

  He takes the chair, wipes his palms on his slacks. “I’m heading back to Philly today. I wanted to talk to you before I left. To apologize, I guess.”

  “You don’t sound too enthusiastic about that.” But I give him a small smile.

  “This has been tough.”

  “It was a tough case for all of us.”

  He fidgets, looking everywhere but at me, and wipes his hands again. Finally, he meets my gaze. “I just wanted you to know . . . I loved them. Despite what they thought of me, I loved my family. All of them. But Mary . . . she was special.”

  A lump rises in my throat, but I swallow, force it down. I don’t know what to say. I barely know how to feel.

  Aaron rises. Despite his youth, he looks like an old man this morning. Something in his eyes, in the way he moves. I realize this trip to Painters Mill has aged him in ways that have nothing to do with the passage of years.

  He walks to the door, sets his hand on the knob, then turns to face me. “I’d like her journal when the police are finished with it.”

  I manage to give him a nod.

  At that, he turns and walks out of my office.

  I stare after him, trying not to acknowledge the ache burgeoning in my chest. I find myself wishing I’d thanked him for coming in. Wishing I’d said something to let him know I understood. Some things are just too damn hard.

  My phone rings. I look down and see the BCI number on the display. Mentally, I shift gears, slam the door on all those old emotions, and snatch up the phone. “What do you have?”

  “The technician magnified the still.” Tomasetti’s voice is terse, tense. “He filled in the loss of resolution as best he could. I just e-mailed you the results.”

  Without setting down the phone, I open my e-mail software, hit Send-Receive. An e-mail from BCI with an attachment appears in my inbox. I open it and click on the attachment.

  The tech did a good job of maintaining the integrity of the photo. While something with this level of touch-up would probably not be admissible in court, it’s enough for me to recognize the face in the window.

  “Oh my God,” I hear myself say.

  Shock sends me to my feet. I hang up without saying thank you. And then I’m running toward the door.

  CHAPTER 23

  I grab Glock on my way out. “We may have a witness,” I say as I slide behind the wheel of the Explorer.

  “You’re kidding?” Incredulity laces his voice as he gets in beside me. “Why the hell didn’t they come forward?”

  “Because it’s a kid.”

  “A kid? Damn. Who?”

  “Billy Zook.”

  I see him running the name through his brain. “The Amish kid from the pig farm?”

  “The Amish kid with a speech impediment and mental problems.”

  Glock chews on that a moment. “What was he doing at the Plank farm that time of night?”

  “I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.”

  A few minutes later, I turn into the gravel lane of the Zook farm. A cloud of white dust chases me all the way to the house. I park next to a black buggy and swing open my door. Behind me, Glock mutters beneath his breath about the stench of pig shit. I’m so intent on my goal of speaking to Billy, I barely notice.

  I knock hard on the front door and wait. The door opens halfway and Alma Zook appears. She’s wearing a blue dress and black apron. I see food stains on the apron, bubbles of sweat on her forehead and upper lip. The smell of cooking tomatoes tells me she’s canning.

  Because I want her cooperation, I greet her in Pennsylvania Dutch. Her eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. She knows I’m not here for chitchat and doesn’t invite us in. The wariness in her gaze makes me wonder if she knows why I’m here.

  “I need to talk to you about your son,” I begin.

  William Zook appears beside his wife. He’s wearing muck boots, tracking shit on the floor, and I realize he must have rushed into the house through the back door when he saw us pull up. All I can think is: They know why we’re here.

  “We have already told you everything,” William says.

  “Then why didn’t you tell me Billy was at the Plank farm the night of the murders?”

  Alma gasps, sets her hand against her breast.

  William opens his mouth, closes it without speaking. When he finally does, his lips tremble. “Why do you say these things about Billy?”

  The Amish are generally honest to the extreme. But as with any group of individuals, they are not immune to human frailties. That is particularly true if they are protecting someone they love, especially a child.

  I tell them about the video. “It’s him. He was there. I need to speak with Billy. Right now.”

  William stares at me, looking stubborn and afraid, his jaw fixed. “He has the mind of a child.”

  “He might have seen the killer,” I say. “He might be able to identify him.”

  Neither of them denies my accusation, but the door doesn’t open.

  “The evildoer is dead,” William says. “I do not see how your speaking to Billy now will help.”

  “We think the killer had an accomplice.” I look past him. Alma stands to one side, wringing her hands. “I need to speak with Billy. Please.”

  The Amish woman lowers her gaze, deferring to her husband.

  “We have nothing more to say.” William starts to close the door.

  I thrust my foot into the jamb, stopping him. “I need your help.”

  “You are an outsider,” he hisses. “Dem Teufel und allen seinen Engeln ubergeben.” You were cast off from the church and committed to the devil and his angels . . .

  It’s a personal jab I should have expected, but even after all these years, the words make me feel somehow diminished. I remind myself William is only protecting his son. I don’t want to force the issue, but I can’t walk away.

  “I’m not leaving,” I say.

  “He saw nothing,” William says harshly.

  “Have you talked to him about it?” Glock asks.

  William doesn’t answer. His expression turns stoic. I see him shutting down. I know neither parent is going to cooperate. The last thing I want to do is go back into town and get a warrant. While that will gain me access to Billy, it could take days to accomplish and would further strain relations between the Amish and my department.

  I play my ace. “If the killer saw Billy, he could be in danger.”

  William pales all the way down to his beard. Next to him, Alma looks like she’s going to be ill. I see their brains working this bit of information over, and I realize it’s the first time they’ve considered the possibility.

  “Please,” I say. “I’ll do my best not to upset him. I just need to know what he saw.”

  William opens the door and steps back. “Come inside.”

  Glock and I enter the living room. I see the same dirty rug. Plywood floors. Even from twenty feet away, I can feel the heat coming from the kitchen where pots rattle on the stove.

  “Billy is a good boy.” Alma stares at her hands as she wipes them against her apron. “But . . . Er is weenich ad.” He is a little off in the head.

  I nod. “I understand.”

  William and Alma exchange a look that tells me I do not understand,
and I get the feeling things are about to take a strange turn.

  William runs his fingertips over his beard. “Billy is coming of age. In the last year or so, he expressed . . . interest in Mary Plank. He still speaks of her as if she is alive.” His voice falters. “Just yesterday he asked me if he could take her to the singing after worship on Sunday.”

  A “singing” is an Amish social function for young people. Usually held after Sunday worship, teenagers sit around a table and sing and socialize.

  William looks anywhere but at me. “His games are harmless, but they are not proper.”

  “What games?” Glock asks.

  Alma’s cheeks color. “He has become curious in the way that boys get. About the womenfolk, you know. Sometimes in the evening he will go off on his own. Last August, Mrs. Zimmerman down the road told me she caught Billy looking in her window.” Another flush, darker this time. “Last weekend at worship, Bonnie Plank said she caught Billy looking in the window there at the farm. I talked to Billy. I told him the game was unfitting.” She shrugs. “He was embarrassed and upset. I thought he understood. . . .”

  “His games are against your English laws,” William says.

  “I don’t care about the window peeping,” I say. “I just want to talk to him about what he saw.”

  Alma glances at her husband. William jerks his head, turns away from the door. His boots thud dully against the floor as he crosses to the stairs. “Billy! Come down here please.”

  Giving me an uncomfortable smile, Alma sighs. “I asked Billy to confess to Bishop Troyer. The bishop urged us to keep Billy busy with chores. He said the extra work would help with the looking in. William has plenty of work and has done his best to keep him involved. The chicken coop. Feeding the hogs. Repairing the pens.” She shrugs. “Billy prefers to be inside.”