Kate Burkholder 2 - Pray for Silence

by Linda Castillo

  Tomasetti eased her back down. She felt weak. Cool to the touch. Where the hell was the ambulance? “We’ll take care of him. Just be still for now, will you?”

  She closed her eyes, and he felt her body relax. “Are they dead?”

  He glanced at the other two bodies. The staring eyes and lack of color told him they were DOA. “Nice job, Chief.”

  “I’m going to ask for a raise,” she whispered. “Hazard pay.”

  “Kate, you’re bleeding. You need to stop talking. Okay?”

  “You’re a moody bastard, you know that?”

  “That’s what everyone says.” But he smiled.

  She smiled back. “Thanks for coming.”

  Fighting emotions he didn’t want to feel, John Tomasetti bowed his head and thanked the God he had forsaken for the last two and a half years.

  CHAPTER 29

  The more things change, the more they stay the same. Or so I tell myself, anyway. I’m in the Explorer, idling down Main Street the way I have a thousand times before. Light rain patters the windshield, keeping time with a moody Everlast song about saving grace on the radio. To my right, two women in suits and heels stand outside the City Building, huddled against the rain, smoking cigarettes and making small talk. The aromas of warm yeast and cinnamon from the Butterhorn Bakery waft through my open window. I slow down as I pass the Carriage Stop Country Store on the traffic circle. In the display window, a dozen or more colorful Amish quilts hang, and for the hundredth time I find myself thinking of the Plank family.

  Four days have passed since the night I shot Scott Barbereaux and Jack Warner at the Zook farmhouse. I want to think a sort of final justice was served that night. I want to believe I gave the sons of bitches what they had coming. But as is usually the case, things aren’t always that cut and dried.

  Because both perpetrators were killed at the scene, questions about what happened to the Planks will never be fully answered. What linked Scott Barbereaux, Jack Warner and Todd Long? The only connection I could find was that they went to high school together. I can tie Barbereaux and Warner to the Carriage Stop Country Store. But I’m left wondering: Is that where they met Mary? Did her natural beauty and innocence bring out some dark and primal hunger in them? Did they think her naïveté would make her an easy target? Did her being Amish make her easy to exploit? I’ll probably never have definitive answers, but we did uncover evidence that helped fill in some of the blanks.

  Several law enforcement agencies, including the Painters Mill PD, the sheriff’s office, and BCI, conducted a search that produced dozens of disks, drives, computers, a laptop and hundreds of photographs. I’ve seen a lot in the nine years I’ve been a cop, but the outrages inflicted upon Mary Plank top all of it.

  Because Glenda Patterson alibied Barbereaux, Glock and Pickles brought her to the station for questioning. Handcuffed and surrounded by cops, she spilled her guts. She claimed no knowledge of Barbereaux’s involvement in the murders, going so far as to suggest he drugged her, left the house, and then sneaked back before she regained consciousness the next morning. We’re still trying to decide whether to put her before a grand jury. She wouldn’t be the first woman to lie to protect her lover.

  Mary Plank’s journal continues to haunt me. Throughout all of this, I worried I would never be able to prove beyond a shadow of doubt that Barbereaux was the man she wrote about. The man she loved. Just this morning, I learned that the DNA from the sperm found inside Mary’s body was matched to DNA taken from Barbereaux. Evidently, he didn’t know human sperm could live for up to three days.

  Since the fetus and placenta were never found, there was no way to extract paternal DNA from the child Mary Plank was carrying, making it impossible to ascertain the identity of the father. But I know in my heart it was Barbereaux’s.

  T.J., Pickles and Mona spent two days in the woods surrounding Miller’s Pond before finding the tree where Mary Plank carved her and her lover’s initials. M.P. loves S.B. forever. Next to it, she’d carved a heart pierced with an arrow. While it didn’t mean much in terms of evidence, it meant the world to me on a personal level. I had my proof.

  I’ve spent the last couple of days piecing together a theory. I believe Scott Barbereaux delivered gourmet coffees to the shop where Mary worked. He also fancied himself an amateur photographer and did a few wedding and family reunion–type shoots at the store. I believe he met her there, charmed her, pursued her and seduced her. Unaccustomed to that kind of attention from an attractive male, Mary was swept off her feet. In the following weeks, he bought her gifts that seemed lavish to a naïve Amish girl. English clothes. Lingerie. Jewelry. He introduced her to music, sex and drugs. Once her judgment was skewed—either by her feelings for Barbereaux or the drugs—he began drugging her with dangerous barbiturates and sedatives, such as Rohypnol. At that point, he began photographing and videotaping her in pornographic situations, using his friends Todd Long and Jack Warner as actors.

  There’s no doubt in my mind that in some way, Mary loved Barbereaux. She wanted to marry him, have his child and lead a normal life. She was malleable; she wanted to please him. Her naïveté brought out something vicious in Barbereaux. He was a classic sociopath. He knew he could push her and he just kept on pushing. The power of that must have been heady. Toward the end—after he’d raped her body, mind and soul—it wasn’t even a problem for him.

  But what was the impetus for murdering the entire Plank family? I have a theory on that, too. After Mary confessed her sins to her parents—telling them about her relationship with Barbereaux, the drugs, the porn and the child she was carrying—her parents broke Amish protocol and decided to take the information to the English police. But they never got the chance to follow through. Somehow Barbereaux found out what they were going to do and decided to eliminate the entire family. But he didn’t stop with just murder. They filmed the killings and sold the video on the black market as a sort of snuff film.

  Mary Plank was not the first young woman the three men had exploited. Evidence discovered at Barbereaux’s home proved there were others, ranging from fifteen to twenty-two years of age. We also discovered a bank account in the Cayman Islands. Records indicated Barbereaux was raking in a lot of foreign cash. In the last six years, he’d earned over five hundred thousand dollars from the sale of pornographic videos. Mixed in with the sex, were several snuff-like productions. The bulk of the money came from the Philippines, China, Nigeria and Ukraine. Since international borders were crossed, the feds stepped in. For the first time in the course of my career, I was glad to relinquish control of a case.

  It wasn’t until I’d arrived at the hospital that I learned Skid was still alive. During the storm, Barbereaux and Warner ambushed him in the barn. Skid’s no rookie, but he didn’t even have a chance to draw his revolver. They shot him in the back first. As in my case, the Kevlar vest protected him. But when the two men realized he wasn’t dead, they shot him in the head.

  Headshots are almost always fatal. In Skid’s case, however, the bullet struck his forehead at an angle that caused the .25 caliber bullet to ricochet off his skull without penetrating the cranium. The impact knocked him unconscious. He sustained a concussion. The wound required seven stitches to repair. He’s not complaining. Adhering to their usual bad cop humor, the guys are already giving him a hard time about the thickness of his skull. I’ve laughed about that a few times myself.

  After three days in the hospital, I checked out against the advice of my doctor. Tomasetti was there to drive me home. On the way, I asked him to swing by Barbereaux’s house. He balked, of course, but I guilted him into letting me have my way. By that time, Barbereaux’s home had already been thoroughly searched by my team as well as BCI and the feds. I didn’t care. It took me two hours, a double dose of Vicodin, and a physical confrontation with Tomasetti, but I tore the place apart. If it hadn’t been for Tomasetti, I would have continued my mindless tirade until I collapsed. Despite my name-calling and cursing, he took me home.
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  Our relationship is complicated, but I’m thankful to have Tomasetti in my life. I’m thankful for this town. For the people I’ve surrounded myself with. I’m thankful for my job. It gives me purpose. It reminds me why God put me on this earth.

  I’m not supposed to report back to work for a few more days. I’m not even supposed to be driving. I have four broken ribs and a broken ulna that required surgery and the insertion of a titanium pin to repair. But I’ve never been very good at following orders. I pull into my usual spot and kill the engine. I see Glock’s cruiser parked curbside. Mona’s Escort. As usual, Lois is early. Rain beads on her red Cadillac, and I know her husband spent half the weekend waxing it. Farther down, I see Pickles’s old Corvette and T.J.’s brand-new Mustang. Taking a moment to gather myself, I head inside.

  Lois and Mona stand at the dispatch station, bent over the switchboard, solving some new problem that’s cropped up with our antiquated phone system. They look up when I walk inside. “Chief!” Mona’s eyes widen as she takes in my cast and sling. My face still bears scabs from the pellets I took.

  “It looks worse than it is,” I begin.

  Lois comes around the dispatch station. “I didn’t think you were coming in for a couple more days.”

  “I’m not.” I walk toward them. “Officially, anyway. I just wanted to check messages and make sure you guys aren’t having too much fun.”

  Mona snorts. “Only fun thing around here is all the jokes about Skid’s head.”

  “Emergency room doctor shaved the whole front,” Lois adds. “Poor guy won’t take off his cap.” She looks at my cast and sobers. “How are you feeling?”

  “Cast is a pain in the ass.”

  “Some graffiti might help that,” comes a male voice from somewhere behind me.

  I glance over to see Glock, T.J., Pickles and Skid emerge from their cubicles, staring at me as if I’m some mental patient that’s escaped the psycho ward and wandered into the police station. Skid wears his Painters Mill PD cap. I see the edge of a bandage sticking out at his right temple. A black eye. Residual bruising on his right cheekbone. I withhold a smile … barely.

  “You look pretty good for a guy who got shot in the noggin.” My grin spreads despite my efforts. “How’s the head?”

  He grins back. “Pretty hard, evidently.”

  “All them rocks rolling around inside,” Pickles growls.

  “Fragmented the bullet so badly, BCI techs couldn’t find all the pieces,” Glock puts in. “That’s a hard fuckin’ head.”

  Everyone laughs, but I feel their collective attention on me. I wonder if I look as strung out as I feel. I wonder if they know Barbereaux was alive and defenseless when I took that last shot. I wonder if they know I flew into a rage at Barbereaux’s house and that Tomasetti had to physically subdue me before he could drag me out. I wonder if it’s obvious I’ve been hitting the painkillers just a little too hard.

  “How’s the arm?” Glock asks.

  “Hurts like a son of a bitch.”

  Skid sends me a silly grin and moves his eyebrows up and down. “How ’bout those Kevlar vests, Chief?”

  That makes me laugh, which is almost as bad as coughing because my ribs protest loudly. “Don’t make me laugh,” I say, touching my side gingerly.

  Silence trickles over us, reminding me why I’m really here. “I just wanted to thank all of you for going above and beyond on the Plank case. It was a tough one.” I sigh, surprised when my breath shudders. “You did a good job. We got them.”

  Pickles unwraps a toothpick and sticks it between his teeth. “McNarie says he’s got a bottle of Absolut with your name on it when you’re ready.”

  I smile, but for some reason his mention of McNarie’s Bar only makes me think of Tomasetti. He returned to Columbus yesterday, and I haven’t heard from him since. I wonder where he is this morning. I wonder what he’s doing. I wonder if he’s thinking about me. If he misses me as much as I miss him.

  “You’re looking kind of pale, Chief,” T.J. says after a moment. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

  “I’m heading that way now.” I send him a smile, but it doesn’t feel real. I’m aware of their stares, and I realize they’re worried about me.

  “See you guys in a couple of days.” I start toward the door.

  T.J. rushes forward and pushes it open for me. “Get some rest, Chief.”

  “I’ll do that,” I say and start toward the Explorer.

  The graabhof is located on the township road west of Painters Mill. The last time I was here was for the Plank funerals. It was raining and crowded with mourners. I cited the tourist for illegal parking and met Aaron Plank for the first time. It seems like a lifetime ago.

  Today, the graveyard is deserted and unbearably lonely. I park in the gravel driveway and shut down the engine. An arthritic-looking bois d’arc tree stands next to the gate like some ancient, battered sentry. Pain thuds dully in my arm as I open the door and get out. I know better than to mix Vicodin and vodka, but I lift the flask from my coat pocket anyway, and take a long pull of Absolut.

  Drizzle floats down from a Teflon sky as I push open the gate and pass through. There have been several vandalism incidents here at the old cemetery, but the gate is never locked. I wonder if the Amish will ever learn.

  A dozen rows of small headstones run in neat lines, parallel with the fence. The headstones are uniform in size. Some are older than others, faded by time and eroded by the elements; in an Amish cemetery, all the dead are equal. Most have a simple cross etched into their façades. Lower is the name of the deceased, their birth date and the date of their death. Some Amish bury their dead according to the order of death with little or no regard to family connections. In this cemetery, however, the dead are buried with their family members. In the case of the Planks, it wouldn’t have mattered since they were all killed on the same night.

  The graves are easy to find. Mounded and shiny from the rain, the freshly turned earth hasn’t yet settled. The headstones are stark and white. Nothing gaudy for the Amish. They die as they have lived. Plainly.

  I walk among the graves, reading each of the seven names. I never met any of the Plank family members, but I feel as if I know them. Envisioning them the way they might have been in life comes easily. Little Amos in the throes of his terrible twos, all giggles and temper tantrums. Ten-year-old David was a prankster, a sixty-two-pound package of mischief. Mark, fourteen years old and already taking on the responsibilities of a man. Annie, sixteen and full of dreams for a future with a husband and children. Lastly, I think of Mary. The lost one. The troubled one. The one most like me. The one I’ve identified with throughout this case. The one whose death touched me so deeply.

  Reaching beneath my coat, I pull out the faceless doll I’d found on her bed the night I discovered her journal. I know it’s going to get ruined, but it doesn’t matter. I think Mary would want it here. Kneeling, I prop the doll against the gravestone. It’s an incredibly sad sight. The faceless doll sitting against that smooth jut of concrete, getting wet. The doll that will never be hugged. Never be loved.

  I know it’s stupid, but that makes me think of the child I had once carried inside my body. I went years without thinking of what I did. I never second-guessed my decision, never regretted it. I sure as hell never let myself imagine what might have been. Today, for the first time in seventeen years, I do. It’s a strange thought, but had I not opted to get an abortion after the rape, I would have a sixteen-year-old child.

  Only then do I realize I’m crying. Open sobs that echo off the headstones and the bare branches of the bois d’arc tree. Rising, I pull the flask from my coat pocket and take another swig. The hiss of tires on wet pavement draws my attention. I look toward the gate to see Tomasetti’s black Tahoe turn into the cemetery. I watch as he parks beside my Explorer and gets out.

  All I can think is that I don’t want him to see me like this. Quickly, I wipe my eyes, drop the flask into my pocket and watch him app
roach. He wears a charcoal-colored trench coat. London Fog. Beneath the coat, I see a crisp blue shirt and a gray paisley tie. Hermès. His strides are long and purposeful. His eyes are intent on me.

  “For the chief of police, you’re a damn hard woman to find.” He reaches me and stops. “You didn’t answer your cell.”

  “I’m off duty.”

  He nods, looks over at the graves. He grimaces upon seeing the doll, then he turns his attention back to me. “You okay?”

  For a split second, I think I am. I’m going to make some snide remark about his city-slicker clothes and give him hell for disturbing me during a private moment. Or maybe I’ll rub it in a little that my high-risk sting paid off. I’ll make fun of Skid’s partially shaved head. Brag about getting the sons of bitches responsible for the murders of this family. Instead, I put my face in my hands and burst into tears.

  For a moment, the only sounds come from the patter of rain against the ground. The caw of a crow as it lifts from a twisted branch of the bois d’arc tree. And the sound of my sobs. Saying nothing, Tomasetti keeps his distance, waits me out.

  “I’m sorry,” I say after a moment. “I’m a mess.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not.” I use my right sleeve to wipe my face. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

  “I’ve seen you naked.”

  Choking out a laugh, I raise my head and look at him. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Sorry.”

  I blow out a sigh, try to settle myself. “I thought I’d feel better when this was over.”

  “Give yourself some time.” He sighs. “You’ve been through a lot, Kate.”

  “I wanted to do more for them.”

  “You did your job. You gave them justice.”

  “I got justice for myself, too.”

  “You shot a murderer in the line of duty,” he returns evenly.

  “I shot him when he was down.”

  “He had a weapon. You didn’t have a choice.” Tomasetti’s eyes sharpen on mine. “Guilt can do a number on you if you let it.”