After the Storm

by Linda Castillo

  The sound she’d heard had been her own quick intake of breath. She’d closed the newspaper and risen so abruptly she’d spilled her coffee. She’d looked down at the newspaper, her eyes drawn once again to the words she wished she hadn’t read.

  … a woman’s engagement ring.

  … thirty years …

  Folding the newspaper, she’d placed it in the paper bag with the rest of the newspapers she’d be using to clean windows later in the week. She was wiping up the coffee spill when her husband came in from the barn.

  Brushing bits of alfalfa hay from his coat, he walked to the table and looked down at the stained tablecloth. “Where’s the newspaper?” he asked in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “I spilled coffee on it,” she told him.

  It was the first time in thirty years of marriage that she’d lied to her husband.

  * * *

  I’ve walked this road a hundred times and yet I don’t recognize it. The wind has stripped the leaves from the trees, ripped the cornstalks from the ground, and set the telephone poles at 45-degree angles. The asphalt beneath my feet is covered with an inch of mud and dead foliage. In the distance, the tornado sirens shriek. The storm bears down, a black beast with an insatiable hunger for violence.

  I hear the cry of a baby, and when I look down, the child is in my arms. Soft skin warm against my breast. Four months old and crying her heart out. She’s soaked from the rain and shivering with cold. Tiny mouth open, chin quivering. Her eyes are on mine, watchful, trusting me to save her.

  She’s partially wrapped in a white blanket, but it’s stained with blood. I’m holding her, running as fast as I can, but the mud is hampering me. The wind is pummeling me, trying to tear her from my arms.

  “I’ve got you,” I tell her. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  But when I look down, the baby is being sucked from my arms. I grab for her, but my fingers slide against wet flesh. I hear her high-pitched wail. And then she’s gone. When I look at my hands, they’re covered with blood.

  “Kate. Kate.”

  Tomasetti’s voice drags me awake. I’m lying in our bed, my back against the pillows. My legs are tangled in sheets that are damp with sweat. I’m aware of Tomasetti beside me. I glance down, but my arms are empty. No baby. No blood on my hands. But I swear I can still feel the warmth from when the child was nestled against my chest.

  “Jesus,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “You okay?”

  In the quiet semi-darkness of our bedroom, I hear myself breathing hard. I see the sheets quivering, and it shocks me to realize I’m shaking. “It was just a stupid dream.” Throwing the sheets aside, I start to get up.

  He stops me. “Kate, hold on. You don’t have to leave.”

  I sit with my legs over the side of the bed. The cool air feels good against my heated skin. I can feel the wet fabric of my T-shirt sticking to my back.

  He moves across the bed to sit beside me. “You want to talk about it?”

  For the first time I look at him, but I can’t hold his gaze and I look away. I’m on the verge of tears. I’m embarrassed because I don’t want him to see me like this. “Not really.”

  He nods as if understanding, but his eyes are digging in to me, prying into places I don’t want him to pry.

  “Tomasetti, for God’s sake, stop staring at me,” I say, trying to feign annoyance and not quite managing.

  “I’m just trying to figure this out.” He shrugs. “Figure you out.”

  I choke out a laugh that eases some of the tension. “There’s nothing to figure out. It was just a dream. That’s all.”

  “Okay.” But he doesn’t look away.

  I glance at the alarm clock and groan when I realize it’s already after seven. “I have to go.”

  I start to rise but he stops me. “You don’t have to tell me what’s bothering you if you don’t want to, but I’m going to keep asking.”

  I look down at my hands, which are clasped in front of me. He puts his arm around my shoulder and holds me against him for a moment. It’s a kind gesture, not sexual, and he tells me he’s here for me if I need him.

  “All right,” I tell him.

  He presses a kiss to my temple. “Just so you know.”

  * * *

  I blast through an abbreviated morning routine, forgoing breakfast with Tomasetti for a Pop-Tart and a to-go cup of coffee. My third-shift dispatcher, Mona Kurtz, calls as I pull into my designated parking spot off of Main Street, which is crowded with vehicles I don’t recognize, including a news van from Columbus. I let the call go to voice mail and head inside.

  In a town the size of Painters Mill, the police department is usually the kind of place someone might go for a little peace and quiet. That’s not the case this morning. The instant I walk inside, I’m assailed by a series of camera flashes that leave me half blind. The man behind the camera has hair longer than mine, black rimmed glasses, and enough facial hair to make a rug.

  “Blind me with that flash again and you’re going to lose it,” I mutter as I stalk past.

  He snaps two more shots at my back.

  At the reception desk, Mona Kurtz is standing, talking to a woman wearing a geometric-print dress. At twenty-five, Mona is one of my more colorful employees. She keeps things interesting with her Lady Gaga–esque wardrobe and a personality that’s part rock and roll, part girl next door. But when it comes to her job, all frivolity goes out the window; she’s got her eye on an officer position, and as soon as one becomes available—or my budget allows—I plan to promote her. She’s not unflappable, though, and as I close the space between us, I see her composure waiver.

  She spots me and her relief is palpable. “Chief.”

  To my right, I see T.J. Banks, my third-shift officer, standing outside his cubicle. It’s nearly 8:00 A.M., which tells me he’s finishing post-shift incident reports.

  The woman in the geometric dress turns, her eyes sweeping over my uniform. “Chief Burkholder?” Even as she says my name she nods at her hairy counterpart with the camera.

  Giving her half of my attention, I pluck a dozen or more message slips from my slot on Mona’s desk. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Bridge Howard with Channel Sixteen out of Columbus?” She ends the statement on an up note, as if she’s asking a question.

  She’s about six feet tall with the requisite blue eyes and blond hair and enough lip gloss to wax an SUV. Her cameraman passes her a mike, which she promptly shoves in my face. “Chief Burkholder, what can you tell us about the bones found here in Painters Mill? Have you identified them yet?”

  I glance past her to see that the cameraman is already filming, and I tamp down a flare of annoyance. But while I’m no fan of the media, I’ve been around long enough to know I might need them at some point and a contentious relationship is about as helpful as a migraine.

  “We have not identified the remains,” I say simply. “We’re looking at all missing persons cases now. DNA testing will be done, but as you know, that could take a while.”

  “How long have the bones been there?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Have you been approached by any family members looking for loved ones?”

  “No,” I tell her, but I know the calls will come. People never give up hope when a loved one goes missing. “I’ll be sending out a press release later this afternoon. If you leave your contact information, I’ll make sure you get a copy. Excuse me.”

  I start toward my office, when I hear the front door slam open with a little too much force. I turn to see a thirty-something man walk in, not bothering to close the door behind him. I take his measure, not liking what I see. Six feet tall. About 160. Dark, receding hair. Brown eyes. He’s wearing grungy blue jeans and a worn golf shirt, untucked. The tattoo of a horned devil peeks out from beneath the left sleeve. I don’t see a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a firearm or knife tucked into his waistband or boot.

  I’m in uniform, my
firearm strapped to my hip. I make eye contact with him and approach. “Can I help you?”

  “You Burkholder?”

  “I’m Chief Burkholder.”

  He’s got a mean look in his eyes. The kind a man gets when he’s spoiling for a fight. “I’ll tell you what you can do for me. You can keep your goddamn motherfucking wallet handy is what you can do because I’m going to sue your fucking ass off. How’s that for starters?”

  “Sir, I’m going to ask you to watch your language.” I glance to my left toward T.J. who’s started toward us. “Do you understand me?”

  He stares at me, saying nothing.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “You want to know who I am?” He huffs a belligerent laugh. “I’m the man whose baby you killed. The man whose wife you put in jail when she complained. That’s who the fuck I am.”

  He moves closer to me so he’s standing about three feet away. Too close; if he decided to make a move I wouldn’t have time to defend myself, so I step back, keep my right hand loose over my sidearm. He smells like dirty hair and fast food. When he speaks I see stained yellow teeth and a canine tooth that’s black with rot, and I think: meth mouth.

  “What’s your name?” I repeat.

  “My name’s Nick Kester, but you can call me ‘sir.’” Spittle flies from between his lips with the last word. “That’s who you’re going to be making the fucking check out to.”

  “If you want to talk, I’ll talk to you, but you need to calm down. You need to watch your language. I’m not going to ask you again. Do you understand?”

  “Do I understand?” He looks around at all the people staring at us and laughs. “Hell, yeah, people! I understand! I got it! Your chief here? She killed my baby.” He jabs two fingers at me, not touching, but close. “A little fuckin’ girl, four months old. The only good thing I ever done in my whole life.” He turns his attention back to me, and I swear I see raw hatred in his eyes. “And you took her away.”

  I stare at him, my vision narrowing into tunnel vision. Around me, the station has gone silent. Everyone is staring at us.

  “If you’re not going to calm down, you need to leave,” I hear myself say.

  “Don’t tell me to calm the fuck down.”

  T.J. steps forward. “Mr. Kester, you need to leave. Now. Or I’m going to handcuff you and put you in a cell.”

  Kester turns his attention to T.J. and lets out a laugh. “All right. I get it. I’ll leave.” To the journalist standing next to me: “You want to ask her a hard question, blondie? Impress the hell out of your boss? Ask her what she did to Lucy Kester.” His eyes slide back to me. His lips part, giving me a peek at teeth that look sharp enough to tear skin. “You’d better get used to calling me ‘sir,’ because once my lawyer gets finished with you and this Podunk town, you’re going to be waiting tables—if anyone will hire you. Fuckin’ baby killer.”

  He steps back, grinning an ugly smile, and walks backward to the door. There, he turns on his heel and leaves without closing it.

  I stand there for a moment, my pulse thrumming hard, staring at the door. I’m aware of T.J. striding to it, closing it. The switchboard ringing incessantly. Mona’s voice as she answers.

  “Come on, folks,” T.J. says. “It’s over.” He looks over at me and frowns. “You okay?” he says in a low voice.

  I pull myself out of my fugue, glance over at the young journalist, who’s staring at me as if I’ve just become the story. She shoves the mike at me. “Chief Burkholder, do you want to comment on Lucy Kester or any of those allegations against you?”

  “Leave your e-mail address,” I tell her, “and I’ll make sure you get a copy of that press release.”

  As I start toward my office, I hear her whisper to her photographer. “Did you get all that?”

  CHAPTER 8

  Two hours later I’m in my office poring over the files of the six missing persons from Holmes County. Throughout the morning, I’ve received calls from friends and family members of several missing individuals from as far away as Indianapolis. So far, none of them have matched the profile of my John Doe. Nineteen-year-old Jennifer Milkowski went missing in Cleveland four years ago. No, I told her mother; this individual was male, but thank you for calling. Forty-eight-year-old Raymond Stein disappeared from Montgomery County last year. It’s not him, I told his father; this individual was no older than thirty-five. Twelve-year-old Caroline Sutton has been gone thirty years. No, she’s too young and female, I tell her elderly mother. Seventy-seven-year-old Rosa Garcia wandered away from her daughter’s home two years ago, and no one has seen her since. No, I told the weeping woman, these remains are male. I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  How many times have these people heard those words from law enforcement?

  Disappointment, delivered in massive doses over a period of years, has a unique sound over the phone. It’s a silent echo with the power to crush the final, desperate remnants of hope. It’s like a living, contagious cancer, and I feel it spreading and growing inside me with every call.

  I read the six files multiple times. I look at every aspect of each case. Race. Gender. Age. The circumstances of the disappearance. Relationships at the time of their disappearance. Clothing. Jewelry. Dental work that may have been done. I look at old injuries with particular interest, because the one thing I know for certain is that this individual had a broken arm at some point in his life. It’s the one element that could ID the remains and break the case wide open.

  In the course of my career, I’ve worked several missing person cases—runaways and kidnappings mostly. The sheer number of missing never ceases to unsettle me. I honestly don’t know which would be worse: knowing a loved one had been killed, or not knowing if they were dead or alive. With the missing, there’s always hope. But the thing about hope is that with every day that passes without resolution, the heart is devastated a little more. It’s a vicious cycle of hope and devastation. Family members left with a lack of closure. Too many never move on with their lives.

  The families of these six missing persons have been interviewed dozens of times by multiple law enforcement agencies, including the local PD, the sheriff’s department, and BCI. Still, I’m anxious to speak with them again. You never know when someone will mention some seemingly unimportant detail that ends up solving the case.

  Using the contact information my dispatchers collected, I spend two hours contacting friends and family members of the six males missing from Holmes County. The instant I identify myself, I hear the hope leap into their voices. Did you find him? Is he still alive? Each time, I ask first about the broken arm. No, he never broke his arm. And I crush their hopes one more time.

  I’ve just left a message for the final family, when my cell phone chirps. I glance down to see CORONER on the display, and I hit SPEAKER. “Hey, Doc.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” he tells me. “We’re not finished with the autopsy. But we’ve found an irregularity I thought you might want to see.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, I arrive at Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg. I park outside the ER and take the elevator to the basement. The overhead lights buzz as I walk a narrow hall past the yellow-and-black biohazard sign and a plaque that reads MORGUE, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. At the end of the hallway, I push open dual swinging doors and traverse a second hall to the clerk’s desk. Dr. Coblentz’s assistant, Carmen, rises and offers a smile when I enter the reception area. “Hi, Chief. How’s the storm cleanup coming along?”

  “Slowly,” I tell her, but I soften the word with a smile. “The good news is everyone’s accounted for.”

  “Thank God they found that mission boy.” She motions toward the door that will take me more deeply into the morgue. “Doc’s expecting you.”

  I push through the double doors. Ahead, through the blinds of his glassed-in office, I see Doc Coblentz at his desk, leaning back in his big leathe
r chair, his smartphone pressed against his ear. The sight of his feet atop his desk gives me pause. He’s wearing his trademark scrubs with black socks and an unsightly pair of orange Crocs. Across from him is a studious-looking African American man with a salt-and-pepper goatee, horn-rimmed glasses, and close-cropped silver hair. I guess him to be in his mid-fifties. Judging from the scrubs, he’s a colleague, perhaps to consult on the bones.

  Coblentz spots me and motions me in. His visitor rises and, offering a friendly smile, extends his hand. “You must be Chief Burkholder.”

  I smile back. “Guilty as charged.”

  He gives my hand a firm and lingering shake. “I’m Doctor John Harris, coroner up in Lucas County.” He nods toward Coblentz. “Ludwig asked me to drive down to consult on your John Doe.”

  “I appreciate your coming down, Doctor Harris,” I tell him.

  “You just missed Doctor Stevitch.” He sets his thumb and forefinger against his goatee, and in that moment he reminds me of a mathematician whose curiosity has been sparked by an abstract concept. “You have a very interesting case on your hands.”

  Doc Coblentz finishes his call. “Hi, Kate.” His eyes flick to his colleague. “All I have to do is tell him we’ve found bones, and he drops everything and shows up.”

  “We went to med school together,” Harris tells me.

  “Back when dinosaurs ruled the earth,” Doc adds.

  “And we were more interested in poisoning ourselves with good Mexican tequila than dissecting cadavers.”

  “We killed a lot of brain cells in our early years,” Coblentz says with a laugh. “In any case, Kate, John has been coroner up in Lucas County for…” He looks at Harris. “… Twenty-two years now?”

  Harris nods. “Twenty-three next month.”