Kate Burkholder 2 - Pray for Silence

by Linda Castillo

  “I don’t know what that is,” I say.

  “The wet-mount slide revealed that she had live sperm in her vagina.”

  All I can think is that we now have DNA. “So she was raped and he didn’t use a condom?”

  “I don’t think so. Most of these sperm were immobile. I would guess they were over forty-eight hours old.”

  Surprise lands another hard blow. “I didn’t realize sperm could live that long.”

  “They can survive up to about seventy-two hours.”

  I blink at him, confused. “So she had sex or was raped well before the murders?”

  “Correct.”

  I look from man to man. “Was she raped?”

  Doc Coblentz shrugs. “There was no vaginal tearing or bruising of the pubis. Of course, that’s not definitive proof it wasn’t forcible rape. But there were no visible signs.”

  My gaze darts to Rohrbacher. “At least now we have DNA.” I can’t keep the optimism from my voice. This development could break the case wide open. “I’ll have BCI check CODIS.” CODIS is the acronym for the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System. Beginning in 1994, DNA samples of offenders were taken and entered into a database. If the semen retrieved from Mary Plank’s body is from an identified past offender, the FBI analyst may be able to match it with a name.

  “How long will it take?” the doc asks.

  “I’m not sure. A few days maybe. But if this guy’s in the system, we’ll have a name.”

  The possibility bolsters me. But I know if the DNA is not in the system we’ll be back at square one. I look again at the girl’s body. So young and with so many secrets. I wish I didn’t know what that was like, but I do. And I feel a hell of a lot more than I should. I know what it’s like to be part of a close-knit group, to desperately want to belong, only to be held apart by secrets.

  “Any hair or fibers on any of the bodies?” I ask.

  He nods. “Both. We sent everything to BCI.”

  If any of the hairs found are from the offender and include an intact root, we could have a second source of DNA. One more nail in the bastard’s coffin. “What about Bonnie Plank?” I ask.

  Rohrbacher replaces the sheet. Doc Coblentz shuffles to the second gurney. “She died from a single penetrating gunshot wound to the mid-back area. The bullet transected the lower cervical and upper thoracic spinal cord.”

  “She died instantly?”

  “Correct.” He pulls down the sheet. For a moment the only sound comes from the buzzing of the fluorescent lights and the hard thump of my heart. Bonnie Plank is a plump woman with ample body fat and breasts that sag to the left and right of her ribcage. The Y-incision has been stitched, but she hasn’t yet been cleaned up. Her head is turned slightly to one side, and I see a blood smear on her neck. Several red droplets stain the sheet.

  When I close my eyes, I can still see the image of her lying in the grass, clutching the baby. She’d been running away. They shot her in the back. Who were you running from?

  “Any sign of sexual assault?” I ask.

  “No.”

  At least she hadn’t had to endure the final insult of a rape. “What about the baby, Doc?”

  He grimaces. “The baby was killed by the same bullet that killed his mother. I won’t have COD on the child until I complete the autopsy.”

  “Do you have anything preliminary on the adult male and two boys?”

  “It appears all three suffered gunshot wounds to the head. They appear to be fatal wounds.” He replaces the sheet, covering Bonnie Plank’s body. “Dr. Rohrbacher and I are going to work through the night, Kate. We’ll finish late tonight. I should have a full report late tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  I’m ready to leave. The smell of death and the things I’ve seen and heard have torn down what little optimism I’ve been able to muster. But I have one more question that must be answered before I can go. “The killer made a halfhearted effort to make these killings look like a murder-suicide. Can you tell me definitively that Amos Plank’s gunshot was not self-inflicted?”

  He crosses to another gurney and lowers the sheet. Amos Plank’s face is colorless. His lips are stretched taut over broken teeth. His tongue looks like a cut of meat that’s been dropped into a blender.

  Coblentz indicates the mouth area with the swab, then defers to his counterpart. “Dr. Rohrbacher?”

  The young doctor looks at the body the way a bright student might look at some fascinating science project. “The bullet entered the skull through the mouth.”

  “That’s consistent with suicide, isn’t it?” I ask.

  “That’s correct,” he concedes. “But the trajectory path of the bullet is not consistent with a self-inflicted wound.” As if handling a piece of fragile porcelain, the doctor places his hands on either side of the head and turns it slightly so that the back of Amos Plank’s head is visible. “The bullet exited here.”

  The exit wound is jagged and large and is located just a few inches above the neck. The flesh has begun to deteriorate, the edges turning red-brown. I can see white chips of bone inside the wound. “The bullet shattered the C1 vertebra as it left the body.”

  “Can you clarify that for me?”

  “The trajectory is at a slightly downward angle. With a suicide, the trajectory is usually upward. The bullet would pass through either the parietal or occipital lobe and exit the rear of the skull. Autopsy will be more definitive, but I would say whoever shot this man was above him. This victim was probably kneeling, the shooter standing, therefore the bullet angled down, shattered the spinal cord at C1 and exited high on the neck.”

  “I concur.” Doc Coblentz takes off his glasses. “Combined with the bruising on the wrists, we’re going to rule the manner of death a homicide.”

  Though I had anticipated this, I’m still shocked by the images running through my mind. Amos Plank kneeling. A killer standing over him, holding a gun in the Amish man’s mouth. An execution-style murder is unfathomable. But for someone to be cold enough to look into another human being’s eyes and pull the trigger is pure, unadulterated evil.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dusk falls softly in October. The hard glare of the afternoon sun acquiesces to the cool hush of the night layer by layer. Darkness will not arrive peacefully tonight. Sitting at my computer in my cramped office at the station, I watch a bank of storm clouds to the west steal the final snatches of light from the horizon. Lightning flickers, outlining the silhouettes of massive thunder-heads. I feel a storm of a different nature roiling inside me.

  The Plank family has been dead for about eighteen hours. I should be relieved Mary Plank’s autopsy uncovered evidence that could conceivably solve the case. Once DNA is extracted and CODIS comes back, we could have a name. I can’t quiet the nagging voice in my head telling me it’s not going to be that easy.

  In order for CODIS to spit out a name, the perpetrator must already be in the system. He must have been arrested at some point in his lifetime. And the data must have been entered into the database, which doesn’t always happen. What if he’s got a previously clean record?

  Of course the DNA and fibers will help me build a case, particularly if we make the arrest and it goes to trial. But if I’ve learned anything in my years of law enforcement, it’s that nothing ever gets handed to you. We’re a long way from making an arrest. I don’t even have a suspect yet. That salient responsibility falls heavy on my shoulders tonight.

  I spoke to the crime scene tech earlier and asked him to be on the lookout for Mary Plank’s missing uterus. If there’s a fetus inside, we might be able to extract paternal DNA. The tech said he would get a septic tank company out there tomorrow to check the lines and tank, in case it was flushed down the toilet. I’ll have my own officers do a more thorough search of the grounds. But the small body part could be anywhere.

  I should go home, eat a decent meal, and get some rest. The days and weeks ahead promise to be long and grueling. But I know I won’t sleep tonig
ht. Not when I have a dead family on my hands and a mass murderer running loose in my town.

  Grabbing my jacket and keys, I leave my office. My newly hired second-shift dispatcher, a young woman who just had her twenty-first birthday, sits at the dispatch-switchboard station filing her nails. “Calling it a day, Chief?”

  Jodie Metzger is blond and pretty and came with not one, but four glowing recommendations. Of course all of them were from men. I have a feeling those big baby blues had more to do with it than her typing speed or organizational skills. But I do my best to keep my preconceived notions in check. As long as she shows up on time, and does a good job with the phones and radio, I’m willing to give her a chance.

  “I’m going to head out to the Plank farm,” I tell her.

  “All by yourself?” She gives me an I-wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-out-there look. “Radio says we’ve got heavy weather on the way.”

  “Hopefully, I’ll beat the storm.”

  “It’s going to be kind of scary with no lights.”

  “I’ll try not to scare anyone.” Smiling, I yank open the door. “See you tomorrow.”

  Though the storm hasn’t yet arrived, the wind has kicked up. Leaves skitter like crabs across the sidewalk as I cross to the Explorer. I can smell the rain and blowing dust now. I hope the storm holds off long enough for me to reach the farm.

  I keep an eye on the sky as I head out of town. The first fat drops splat on the windshield as I turn into the lane of the Plank farm. The slow-moving-vehicle sign mounted on the rear of the buggy reflects my headlights as I park. I’m surprised to find the CSU van gone. I was hoping to speak to the techs before they called it a day. Hopefully, I’ll have their report on my desk first thing in the morning.

  Lightning splits the sky as I grab my Maglite and take the sidewalk to the back door. On the porch, crime scene tape flutters in the wind. The bloodstains are still there, but I know they’ll soon be washed away by the rain. Ducking under the tape, I use the key and step inside.

  The smell of death lingers. I shine my light around the kitchen. Smudges of gray-black soot from the fingerprint powder cover the countertops, the cabinets, the table and the sink. Several drawers stand partially open. Someone tracked mud onto a braided rug. I think of Bonnie Plank, and I wonder how many times she scolded her children for the same offense.

  Outside, thunder rumbles with enough gusto to rattle the windows. Inside, the house is as still and silent as an underwater cave. I know this isn’t the ideal time for a look around, after dark, when I can’t see shit. But I know more about the Plank family now. Specifically, I know more about Mary. A young girl with a big secret and a host of problems that secret would have brought down on her life. That’s when I realize her bedroom is the room I want to search again.

  Standing in the darkened kitchen, I think about what might have happened the night of the murders. Had it been dark like this when the killer arrived? Had the Plank family already turned in for the night? Or had the house been lit with the glow of lantern light? Since most dairy operators rise as early as four A.M., they go to bed early.

  “The Planks were in bed,” I say aloud.

  The mind of a killer is a dark, malignant place, viscous with a cancer of black thoughts and secret hungers most people can’t imagine. A place most people don’t want to conceive of because they’d never see the world in the same light. Getting inside a place like that is akin to climbing into a crypt and snuggling up with a decaying body. Still, I open that door and step inside. I conjure thoughts I hope will tell me who and why and how.

  Lightning flashes, illuminating the kitchen for a split second. I shine my beam on the back door and wonder where the killer entered. There was no sign of forced entry. Did the Planks lock their doors? Or did someone let him in? Someone who knew him?

  The killer enters through the unlocked back door. He’s got a gun and a flashlight. He carries a coil of speaker wire in his pocket. He wears gloves. All of it shows intent, premeditation. He’s scared, but driven—and excited. He knows what he wants, what he must do. He wishes for light, but compensates for the lack of it. Is he alone?

  He moves through the kitchen and into the living room. His heart rate is up; he’s breathing hard. Lots of adrenaline. Is he here to steal? Or is he here to kill?

  He travels up the stairs, silent and slow. The first bedroom belongs to the parents. He rouses them from a deep sleep. He holds the gun on Mrs. Plank to keep Amos under control. He binds the Amish man’s wrists first; he’s the biggest threat. He binds Bonnie’s hands next. The baby, little Amos, sleeps in his cradle beside the bed. Neither Bonnie nor Amos understands what the killer wants. They don’t know he’s going to kill them.

  How does he keep them under control while he wakes and ties up the rest of the family? Does he threaten them with the gun? Does he have an accomplice? The questions come at me in a barrage, but I have no answers.

  I slink back into the dark cavern of his mind, and I see him move to the next room. Ten-year-old David and fourteen-year-old Mark. He rouses them from sleep. The boys are confused and disoriented as he binds their hands behind their back. Amish children are taught to respect and obey adults. They wouldn’t have put up a fight; they would have listened to him because the killer is an adult.

  Sixteen-year-old Annie’s room is next. Like the boys, she’s frightened and disoriented. He binds her hands and moves on to Mary’s room down the hall, rouses her from sleep. He’s thinking about other things now. The girls. Pretty and young and innocent. Does their fear excite him? Does he see them as objects? Are they the reason he’s here?

  He herds all of them down the stairs. Does he carry the baby himself? No. The child is nothing but an annoying object to him. Does he leave the baby alone in the cradle? No. Bonnie died with the baby in her arms. The baby is crying. To shut it up, the killer unties Bonnie and lets her pick him up, carry him downstairs.

  “Why did you come here?” I wonder aloud.

  Did he plan to kill the entire family from the beginning? Some of them? Rape the girls? Did he wear a mask? Or did he kill them because they could identify him?

  Downstairs. In the dark. A flashlight and a gun. Amos would sense what the killer had planned for the girls by now. He would be terrified, agitated, prepared to defend his family. But it’s too late for that; his hands are bound. Amos tries to fight, so the killer forces the man to kneel, shoves the gun into his mouth and pulls the trigger. An explosion of blood. The violence begins. Horror. Death.

  Panic fills the house now. Screaming. Bonnie goes to her husband. Touches him. She gets blood on her hands. The baby crying. The killer points the gun at the baby. Shut him up! Bonnie scoops him into her arms and runs, leaving the bloody handprint on the back door. Death chases her. A bullet in her back. She falls in the grass and mother and child die as one.

  Three down. Four to go.

  Screams echo throughout the house. The killer wants the girls now. Two more shots and the boys are gone. The girls scream and cry. They know what’s next, only they don’t. Why did he take them to the barn? He didn’t. The girls break free. Run for their lives. Hands bound and barefooted, they can’t outrun him. The screaming scares the killer. If someone hears them …

  The killer follows them to the barn. Where are his tools? In his vehicle. The tools are evidence of premeditation. He came here not only to kill, but to rape and torture. Live out his darkest fantasies.

  He catches them in the barn. Bound and terrified, the girls are easy to overpower. He chooses the tack room because there are no windows. No one will hear them scream.

  The images running through my head offend me. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. It’s a cop-out, but I can’t think about the rest, and I climb out of that fetid place, back into my own mind.

  I’m still shaking when I traverse the kitchen and enter the living room. Crepuscular light slants in from the two windows. I can make out the silhouette of a wooden bench. A low table where a solitary lantern sits cold an
d dark. I sweep my beam around the room. Three pools of blood mar the floor like dull black mats. My heart skips a beat when I sense movement to my left. I jerk my beam toward it, but it’s only the curtains billowing in the wind. One of the technicians probably opened a window for fresh air.

  I close and lock the window, then turn to face the room. I train my light on the pools of blood. I think of the dead children, and I know this house had once been full of light and chaos and life. Most Amish homes are welcoming, warm and loving; the family is a tightly knit unit. Of course, I didn’t know the Planks. I don’t know if their lives were happy or sad or someplace in between. The one thing I do know is that they didn’t deserve to die.

  Rain taps on the windows like impatient fingers as I take the stairs to the second level. I find myself thinking of Mary Plank as I walk down the narrow hall. So young and pretty. I think of her pregnancy. The fact that she had recently engaged in sexual relations. I wonder who she was seeing. I wonder if that relationship or her pregnancy had anything to do with the murder of her family. It wouldn’t be the first time a reluctant father-to-be killed his pregnant girlfriend. The legal age of consent in Ohio is sixteen years old. Mary was fifteen. If her lover was an adult male, he could be charged with statutory rape. But is that motive enough to wipe out an entire family? No matter how hard I try, I can’t get my mind around that.

  And what about the torture aspect of the crime? In that moment, the realization that there’s more to this than I’m seeing strikes a blow. A statutory rape charge isn’t motive enough to wipe out an entire family. It doesn’t explain the slaughter of two young women. I’m missing something. Something truly, stunningly evil. But what? It’s like having a word you’ve been trying to remember all day on the tip of your tongue.

  My mind rewinds, takes me back to the crime scene in the barn. I’m moving through the murk and into the tack room. I see the girls strung up like ghastly puppets. I see the tools the killer left behind. My mind’s eye stops on the scuff marks left on the dusty floor. Everything inside me stops, focuses on those three small marks, and I know they are somehow meaningful. But how?