Kate Burkholder 2 - Pray for Silence

by Linda Castillo

  “Did you see or hear anything strange last night?” I ask.

  Both heads shake, but it is William who speaks. “The Plank house is over a mile away. Sometimes we do not see them for days at a time.”

  “When did you last see them?” Glock asks.

  William shifts his attention to Glock, his brows knitting. “I saw Amos yesterday morning. I was repairing the fence, near the road. He was in the buggy and stopped to say hello.”

  “How did he seem?” I ask.

  “Fine. We talked about the corn harvest. He wanted me to butcher a hog for him. I told him I would pick out a fat one for them.”

  “How did he seem to you? Normal? Nervous or upset?”

  He shrugs. “He seemed the same as always.”

  Alma wrings her hands. “Who did this terrible thing?”

  “We don’t know.” I turn my attention to her. “Were either of you close to the Planks?”

  William answers. “We see them at worship.”

  “I quilted with Bonnie, Mary and Annie just last week,” Alma puts in.

  As a teenager, I spent many an evening cutting, pinning and sewing fabric. Quilting is the perfect activity for female bonding—and an even better forum for gossip. “Did Bonnie or either of the girls mention any problems? Family problems? Money problems?”

  “They mentioned no such thing,” Alma responds.

  I look at William. He’s standing so close I can see the crumbs from his breakfast toast in his beard. He smells of pig shit and hot lard. “Do you know if they had any enemies?” I ask. “Anyone who might have been unhappy or angry with them?”

  “They were good neighbors.” William shakes his head as if still reeling from news of their deaths. “A happy, generous family. I do not understand how this could happen.”

  “Has anyone made any threats against them?” Glock asks.

  Alma looks upset. I can’t tell if it’s from the news of her neighbors’ deaths or something else. “Everyone loved the Planks. They were very kind.”

  “What about the kids?” I press. “Did any of them ever get into trouble?”

  Alma shakes her head. “The children were well behaved. Even Mary, who was going through her rumspringa.”

  Rumspringa is the “running around” period Amish teens go through when they turn sixteen or so. It’s their time to experience the world without the social constraints of the Plain life. Usually, that entails some drinking and generally harmless misbehaving; nothing excessive. It’s the period in which teens decide whether or not they want to be baptized. Most ultimately choose to join the church. I’m one of a small percentage who did not. But I had my reasons.

  Footsteps on the stairs snag my attention. I look over to see two young boys wrestle down the steps. They notice Glock and me, and freeze, giving us dual deer-in-headlights looks.

  “No roughhousing inside,” William scolds.

  His wife gives me a weak smile. “Our boys, Billy and Isaac.”

  “Do you mind if I ask them a couple of questions?” I know sometimes kids see things, know things parents do not.

  For an instant, Alma looks alarmed, and I realize my being formerly Amish only goes so far when it comes to bridging gaps.

  William calls the boys over and addresses them. “Billy. Isaac. Chief Burkholder would like to ask you a few questions.”

  I almost smile when both boys’ eyes widen. “Just a couple of easy ones,” I say in an attempt to put them at ease.

  Both boys have thick blond hair blunt cut above their brows. Isaac is younger and looks at me as if I’m about to drag him off to prison for the rest of his life. Billy appears to be about fourteen or fifteen. But there’s a childlike innocence in his expression that belies his age.

  I offer my friendliest smile. “How old are you guys?”

  “I’m eleven,” Isaac says, his chest puffing out a little.

  “That’s pretty old.” I smile, but my attempt at juvenile humor falls flat. I turn my attention to Billy. “How about you?”

  “He’s fifteen.” Isaac answers for his brother.

  “Did either of you happen to see anything strange over at the Plank farm the last few days?”

  “What do you mean by strange?” Isaac asks.

  I shrug, noticing the younger boy is much more articulate than his older brother. “Any English cars? Or maybe a buggy you didn’t recognize? Strangers visiting? Anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear anything?” Glock asks. “Unusual sounds? Shouting? Crying?”

  “No.” Isaac looks toward his parents for direction. “Did something happen to the Planks?”

  “I saw Mary’s underwear!” Billy blurts the words, then slaps his hand over his mouth, his cheeks reddening.

  The odd comment garners everyone’s attention. Only then do I realize that while Billy is older than Isaac, his mentality is that of a much younger boy. I discern a slight speech impediment. He rounds his Rs and skipped pronunciation of the D altogether. The incidence of mental retardation is slightly higher among the Amish in comparison to the general population. There are several theories on the cause, the most prevalent being the small size of the gene pool. The majority of Amish do not marry outsiders; very few non-Amish join the Plain life. The gene pool has been closed for about twelve generations.

  “When did you see her, Billy?” I ask.

  “I dunno.” When he looks up at me, I notice he suffers with strabismus, or crossed eyes. “One day. It was sunny. She was pretty.”

  “Did you see any strangers?” I ask.

  “No strangers.”

  “What about cars or buggies? Did you hear any noises?”

  “No.” Biting his lower lip, he looks at his father. “Is Mary okay, Datt?”

  I glance at William.

  The Amish man grimaces, then sets his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Mary is in a good place, Billy. The whole family is.”

  CHAPTER 6

  John Tomasetti arrived at BCI Headquarters at the Rhoades State Office Tower in downtown Columbus at just before nine A.M. He should have been thinking about his agenda for the day: the presentation he was supposed to give to a group of sheriffs that afternoon at the Marriott in Worthington, an interview at the Franklin County Correction Center down on Front Street with a suspect involved in the shooting death of a kindergarten teacher.

  But Tomasetti’s thoughts weren’t on the day ahead of him as he stepped off the elevator on the fourteenth floor and headed toward his office. He’d been thinking about Chief of Police Kate Burkholder since her earlier call and a case that would take him back to Painters Mill. They’d kept in touch, but he hadn’t seen her for almost two months. Things had been good between them—the friendship, the sex—but as was usually the case, distance had intervened. Or maybe things had been progressing a little too fast and with a little too much intensity. Kate was cautious, after all. That was one of many things he liked about her.

  Tomasetti, on the other hand, had been dealing with other issues. Working through them. Trying to get his shit together. Or so he’d hoped. Regardless, he wanted to see her. He’d been looking for an excuse to drive down. They worked well together, and it sounded like she could use the help.

  It bothered him that she’d hesitated to ask. Tomasetti knew what she was thinking. That he couldn’t handle it. That walking into a case where a family with kids had been murdered would hit too close to home. Maybe she was right. Maybe this case would be like walking into his worst nightmare. Or maybe this was just one more hurdle on top of a hundred others he still needed to scale.

  He was ruminating his options when he found Special Agent Supervisor Denny McNinch waiting outside his office door, pretending to look at the sleekly framed circa 1947 photograph of downtown Columbus perched on the wall like an old piece of siding.

  “Morning.” Denny shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and tried to look innocuous. “You got a minute?”

  Tomasetti had been around lon
g enough to know there was nothing even remotely harmless any time Denny showed up at your office before nine A.M. “Sure. Come in. Have a seat.”

  “In the conference room, John.”

  Uh-oh, he thought. The conference room was reserved for the big stuff. Hirings. Firings. Corporate-style powwows that entailed lots of forms in legalese, personnel files brimming with bureaucratic paper and, of course, the covering of managerial asses. It wasn’t the first time he’d been summoned there.

  Tomasetti made eye contact and smiled. “Do I need my lawyer?”

  McNinch chuckled at the quip, but it was a humorless sound that conjured a deep sense of foreboding in Tomasetti’s gut. “Not even your lawyer can help you this time, partner.”

  “Well, that’s good to know.”

  They walked side by side down the hall, past cubicles where pretty administrative assistants stared at computer monitors and French-manicured nails pounded keyboards. He could feel their eyes on him, their collective curiosities pricking him like knives. Good fodder for lunchtime gossip.

  Tomasetti didn’t like the idea of walking into something unprepared. Since the Slaughterhouse Murders case ten months ago, he’d worked hard to clean up his act. He’d stopped taking the drugs his doctors had prescribed. He’d cut down on the drinking. He’d stopped thinking about putting his gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. His work on the Slaughterhouse case had earned him a commendation and gone a long way toward restoring a reputation of which he’d once been proud.

  But it had been more than just the case that had saved him from self-annihilation. He may not have survived if it hadn’t been for Kate. Somehow, she’d managed to cut through the bullshit when no one else had been able to reach him. She made him want to be a cop again. Made him want to live. Made him want to be a man.

  They reached the austere mahogany doors of conference room one. It was then that he knew this was no impromptu morning chat. He’d always known it was only a matter of time before his transgressions of the past caught up with him. When Denny shoved open the door, Tomasetti knew his day of reckoning had arrived.

  Deputy Superintendent Jason Rummel stood at the glossy conference table, looking down at a smattering of papers spread out before him. He smiled when he saw Tomasetti. “Morning, John.”

  Too friendly, Tomasetti thought, and figured the meeting was going to be worse than he’d anticipated. “Morning.”

  Crossing to him, Rummel extended his hand and they shook. He was a short, wiry man with a pale complexion and a mustache that looked as if it had been fashioned by Adolf Hitler’s barber. “We’re glad you’re here.”

  Tomasetti was vaguely aware of the vista of downtown Columbus through the window. The podium affixed with the seal of the great state of Ohio shoved into a corner. The flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. On the opposite side of the table, Human Resources Director Ruth Bogart had already set up shop. He recognized his thick and battered personnel file on the glossy surface in front of her. Next to his file were two pens, a legal pad, several ominous-looking forms and a Starbucks coffee mug smeared with lipstick.

  Bogart wore a burgundy power suit with a hint of white lace at the neckline. She looked at him over the bifocals perched on her nose and smiled in a way that reminded him of a coral snake, right before it sank its fangs into you.

  Rummel took a seat at the head of the table, reminding everyone he was the man in charge. Behind him, Denny closed the conference room door with an audible click, shutting them in. Tomasetti wondered if they were psyching him out. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, he might have laughed at the absurdity of it. Back when he’d worked vice with the Cleveland Division of Police, he’d spent many an hour in interview rooms, psyching out perps. He didn’t much like being on the receiving end.

  Tomasetti sat across from Bogart. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”

  She ignored him. Rummel cleared his throat. “You’re a good agent, John. One of the best we have. I know we’ve had our differences over the last year or so, but I want you to know I have the utmost respect for you as a professional.”

  All Tomasetti could think was that the axe was about to fall. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling in anticipation of the blade. That’s how Jason Rummel operated. Butter them up, then sink the knife in good and deep.

  Knowing the value of playing the game, Tomasetti focused his gaze on the photo of the attorney general framed in gold leaf above Rummel’s head. “I appreciate that,” he said.

  “I know that last case took a toll, John. Professionally. Personally.” Rummel grimaced. “I know the timing on the whole thing was bad.”

  The words were a euphemism for the untimely murders of Tomasetti’s wife and two young daughters two and a half years earlier. People used euphemisms when they didn’t want to say the real thing. This time, because the reality of what happened was too terrible to say aloud. Tomasetti had no use for euphemisms, so he remained silent.

  “I want you to know we take care of our agents here at BCI,” Bogart added.

  Tomasetti turned his attention to Denny McNinch and gave him a what-the-fuck-is-she-talking-about look. “You going to tell me what’s going on here, or are you going to make me guess?”

  Denny wiped his hands on his slacks. “It’s that drug test thing a few months back, John. We tried to make it go away, but the suits want it dealt with. You know, policy.”

  Of course, he’d known. The big, bad failed drug test. Back when he’d been self-medicating, alternating between prescription drugs and booze. “That was ten months ago,” he heard himself say.

  “These things take time,” Denny said. “There’s a lot of bureaucracy involved and everyone seems to have a different opinion on how things should be handled.”

  Tomasetti smiled. Ten months ago, that same failed drug test hadn’t kept them from sending him into the field in the hopes that he would screw up so they could fire him. “I think the official term is politics.”

  “No one’s playing politics,” Bogart said quickly.

  “In light of your achievements, no one was in a hurry to rush to judgment,” Rummel added. “We’re not here to crucify you.”

  “That’s a relief,” Tomasetti said.

  If any of them caught the sarcasm in his voice, they didn’t show it.

  Rummel looked at the human resources director and nodded.

  Ruth Bogart looked down at the file in front of her. “We received a call from the superintendent, John. He wants the drug situation addressed. By the book. You know, to protect the interests of the agency. To protect you.”

  “You mean in case I go postal or something?”

  Bogart shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Against any sort of liability that might crop up,” Denny added.

  “There were some meetings,” she continued. “Jason went to bat for you, John. He put his own career on the line. They weren’t listening.”

  I bet, Tomasetti thought. Rummel didn’t put anything on the line for anyone, unless he had something to gain.

  “Jason put in a good word,” she continued. “Made some recommendations. He reminded them of the commendation, your years of service, both with BCI and the Cleveland Division of Police.” She grimaced appropriately. “He reminded them about the ordeal you went through in Cleveland.”

  “I appreciate that.” But he felt as if he were being tag-teamed by a pack of dogs. “So what’s the verdict?”

  Rummel looked appropriately grave. “The final resolution we arrived at is to place you on administrative leave.”

  “Temporarily, of course,” Denny clarified. “You have a lot of friends here at BCI.”

  Tomasetti leaned back in the chair. “I guess it pays to have friends in high places.” This time the sarcasm came through loud and clear.

  Denny looked like his tie was too tight. “We figured you could use some time off. Get yourself back on track. Hell, get some things done around the house. Go fishi
ng, for chrissake.”

  “We play it this way and you can come back with a clean slate. Pick up where you left off. Everyone wins.” Rummel laughed. “Hell, I wish I could take some time off.”

  A laugh hovered in Tomasetti’s throat, but he withheld it because he knew it would sound as bitter as it tasted. As far as he was concerned, BCI didn’t give a good damn about him. They just wanted to sweep this dirty little incident under the rug where no one would trip over it.

  “I guess that commendation only goes so far when it comes to politics,” he said.

  “This has nothing to do with politics,” Rummel said.

  Tomasetti let out a sigh. “How long?”

  Bogart and Rummel exchanged glances. “As part of your leave package, you will be required to attend regular weekly sessions with a licensed psychiatrist contracted by this agency,” she clarified. “And a drug test. Every week.”

  “You gotta pass it,” McNinch added.

  Tomasetti couldn’t help it; he laughed. An inappropriate sound that echoed in the room like the growl of some wounded beast. “Oh, for chrissake.”

  “It’s a condition of your continued employment,” Rummel clarified.

  That was the point when Tomasetti knew he was sunk. There would be no negotiation. No defending what he’d done. No undoing the past. No lying his way out of a reality he himself had created.

  Of course, he tried anyway. “Those drugs were prescribed by the same doctors you’re telling me to see now.”

  “Those drugs were prescribed by different doctors at different times,” Bogart pointed out. “You abused that.”

  “Look, I don’t think we need to get into ancient history.” This from Rummel, the advocate, looking out for the well-being of one of his top agents. “That’s not the purpose of this meeting. I mean it, John. This is an opportunity. Try to look at it that way. Make the best of a bad situation and move on from there.”

  All Tomasetti could think was that he’d been making progress. As far as he was concerned, work was the best therapy. Putting him on leave now was like yanking the rug out from under him just when he’d found his balance.