Fallen

by Linda Castillo

  A truth that breaks my heart.

  CHAPTER 28

  One of the lessons life has taught me is that not everyone tells the truth. People lie for all sorts of reasons. To deflect blame. To protect themselves or others. To advance an agenda. To hurt someone or exact revenge. Or any combination of the above. Sometimes, those lies are told by omission. Sometimes with reluctance and guilt. Some people lie with unabashed glee. I’ve seen it all, but I’m not yet so hardened that I don’t feel the occasional punch of shock.

  No cop ever wants to believe one of his own is morally corrupt. That he’s sullied the oath he took to protect and serve. I’ve known Dane Fletcher since shortly after I became chief. I always considered him a solid cop and a good person. He’s a father of four with a longtime marriage to a Painters Mill elementary school teacher. We’ve worked several assignments together. Volunteered together. Once, he helped me nab a wayward herd of goats and we ended up laughing our asses off. I liked Fletch. I enjoyed working with him. Respected him. I’ve trusted him with my life. As I head north toward Millersburg, I’m having one hell of a time getting my head around the possibility that he used his position as a law enforcement officer to rape a seventeen-year-old girl. I can barely entertain the notion that he beat a young woman to death with a baseball bat.

  The possibilities turn my stomach. The cop inside me wants to disprove it. But outrage and disappointments aside, I know from experience that sometimes outwardly decent people harbor a shadow side. They keep the darkness of their nature—weaknesses, perversions, addictions, immoralities—hidden from the rest of the world.

  Is Dane Fletcher one of them?

  Because of the sensitive nature of the accusations and the fact that he’s an LEO with another agency, I can’t move forward until I involve the Holmes County sheriff. I call Mike Rasmussen as I head north toward Millersburg and tell him I’m on my way to meet him. He agrees—reluctantly. He’s got a golf outing with the mayor later in the day and he doesn’t want to miss it. I assure him I won’t take up too much of his time; I don’t let on that I’m about to blow his day to smithereens.

  I call Tomasetti as I reach the outskirts of Millersburg. “Where are you?” I ask.

  “Where would you like me to be?” he returns evenly.

  “How about the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office?” I give him the highlights of my meeting with the Bontragers.

  When I’m finished, he makes a sound of disgust and asks, “How well do you know Fletcher?”

  I tell him. “It would be an understatement to say I’m shocked.”

  “Any strikes against him?”

  I search my memory, realize there were a few minor incidents that never went anywhere, and I feel a churning of uneasiness in my gut. “I think a woman filed a complaint about him several years back. If I recall there was some question about her credibility and nothing came of it.”

  The silence that ensues brings with it a creeping dread that climbs up the back of my neck like some slimy worm.

  After a moment, he sighs. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  The Holmes County Sheriff’s Office is located north of Millersburg, a few miles past Pomerene Hospital. I’m in the process of signing in with the duty deputy when Mike Rasmussen opens the door and leans out.

  “Hi, Kate.”

  I look up from the clipboard to see the sheriff standing outside the door, grinning at me. He’s out of uniform, wearing a pink polo shirt, khaki slacks, and golf shoes. “Hey, Mike.”

  “You want to play golf with us?” he asks. “Proceeds go to the animal shelter. Save a lot of puppies.”

  I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he’s noticed something in my expression and it’s given him pause.

  “Last time I played golf with you I embarrassed myself.” I cross to him and we shake hands. He opens the door wider and ushers me into the hall. Side by side, we make our way to his office.

  There, he motions to the visitor chair adjacent to his desk, and he slides into the chair at his desk. Grimacing, I go to the door and close it.

  “Must be bad,” he says.

  “And then some.” I take the chair. “I think Dane Fletcher may be involved with the murder of Rachael Schwartz.”

  “What? Fletch?” He starts to laugh, realizes belatedly that I’m not kidding, and blinks hard at me. “Are you serious?”

  Over the next minutes, I relay my conversation with the Bontragers. When I’m finished, Rasmussen leans back in his chair, his arms folded at his chest, staring at me as if he’d like nothing more than to pull out his sidearm and shut me the hell up.

  “If I didn’t know you so well, Kate, I’d throw you out of my office.”

  “Yep.” I sigh. “Me, too.”

  “Do you believe this Amish couple?” he asks.

  “I believe them enough so that we need to look at it. Get to the bottom of it.”

  A knock sounds on the door. Cursing beneath his breath, Rasmussen gets to his feet and yanks it open. He doesn’t bother greeting Tomasetti and goes back to his desk, falls into the chair.

  Taking his time, Tomasetti nods at me and then takes the visitor chair next to mine. “I take it you told him.”

  I nod, look at Mike. “I need to talk to Fletcher.” I glance at Tomasetti. “We need a warrant. I want his phone records and his banking records.”

  Rasmussen makes a sound of annoyance. “Based on hearsay? Based on secondhand information of something that allegedly happened almost thirteen years ago? By a woman who may or may not be telling the truth? You want to ruin a man’s reputation based on that?”

  “I have no intention of ruining anyone’s reputation,” I snap. “But I have a murder to solve.”

  Ignoring me, he looks at Tomasetti. “Dane Fletcher is a good cop, goddamn it. He’s married with a family. Been with the department for seventeen years.” He turns his rankled expression on me. “You’d better be damn sure about this before you pull him into this.”

  “I’m as sure as I need to be.” Even as I say the words, I feel the doubt crowding that certainty.

  Cursing, Rasmussen slaps his hand down on the desk.

  “I don’t like it either, Mike,” I say. “But we have to talk to him. There’s no way around it.”

  “I don’t believe he had anything to do with that girl’s murder,” Rasmussen says between gritted teeth.

  “At the very least, we need to talk to him about the allegation of what happened between him and Rachael Schwartz.”

  Rasmussen says nothing.

  Tomasetti cuts in. “We looked at Rachael Schwartz’s banking records. She was living above her means. Way above her means. There were several substantial cash deposits made in the last year. We’re trying to find the source, but as you know it’s nearly impossible to trace cash.”

  “So you think she was blackmailing him?” Incredulity rings hard in Rasmussen’s voice. “And he murdered her?”

  “That’s motive. A powerful one if you consider the amount of those deposits, not to mention what word of this would do to him. We’re talking professional ruination. Loss of his family. If not jail time.”

  “We gotta look at him,” Tomasetti says.

  Rasmussen receives all of it with stony silence.

  I look from man to man. “I need to talk to him.”

  “Why don’t we take a look at Fletcher’s file and then see if we can ascertain where he was on the night of the murder?” Grimacing, Tomasetti looks from me to the sheriff. “I’ll get things rolling on a warrant.”

  Rasmussen scowls at me. “I’m assuming you already know he’s had a couple of complaints filed against him over the years.” He looks at Tomasetti. “Nothing came of either complaint due to lack of proof. Sort of a he-said, she-said thing.”

  “Duly noted,” Tomasetti says.

  With a curse, the sheriff gets to his feet. “I’ll pull his file.”

  Access to confidential personnel records is an extremely sensitive issue and involves many po
tential legal concerns. For some municipalities, it requires the involvement of a police union representative. But due to the seriousness of the situation—in this case a homicide investigation—we’ve no choice but to proceed. Because both Tomasetti and I are from outside law enforcement agencies—not coworkers in the same department as Fletcher—and a warrant is in the works, we are deemed fair to look at records that we would otherwise be prohibited from viewing.

  Half an hour later the three of us are sitting in a small, stuffy interview room, Dane Fletcher’s personnel file open on the table in front of us. Rasmussen goes through the file page by page, passing the occasional document to Tomasetti and me.

  “Fletch was off duty the night of the murder,” Rasmussen tells us. “He worked first shift that day. Got off at four P.M.” He flips through several pages, skimming and reading, and passes another sheet to Tomasetti. “Here’s the first citizen complaint form.”

  Tomasetti hits the highlights aloud. “Three years ago. Female complainant. Twenty-two-year-old Lily Fredricks of Portsmouth, Ohio. Pulled her over at two A.M. for a possible OVI,” he says, using the acronym for “operating a vehicle impaired.” “Vehicle smelled of marijuana. Fredricks claimed Fletcher offered to let her walk if she had sex with him. She refused. Became combative. He made the arrest. Her blood alcohol was point-one-nine. She was charged with OVI and possession of marijuana.” He flips the page. “She filed the complaint a few days later. The department opened an investigation, sent it to the Holmes County prosecutor’s office, who declined to prosecute.”

  I look at Tomasetti. “We need to contact her.”

  He writes down the information. “Yep.”

  Rasmussen hands him another sheet of paper. “Second citizen complaint form.”

  Tomasetti reads. “Six years ago. Female complainant. Nineteen-year-old Diana Lundgren. Pulled over for speeding and possession of a controlled substance. She claims Fletcher asked her for sex in exchange for letting her walk. He detained her, kept her handcuffed. She claims he raped her outside his cruiser. Investigation ensued and she was deemed unreliable. Evidently, she’s got a lengthy criminal record and a history of drug use.”

  I look at Mike Rasmussen. He’s a good sheriff and a good cop. Like most men and women in law enforcement, he’s protective of his subordinates. But he also possesses the strength of character to do the right thing even when that means taking down one of his own.

  “Damn, this is a mess,” he mutters.

  “I want to talk to Fletcher,” I say.

  “The instant he asks for a union rep or a lawyer, we shut it down,” Rasmussen tells me. “You got that, Kate?”

  “We got it,” Tomasetti puts in.

  We get to our feet and head toward the door.

  CHAPTER 29

  Dane Fletcher owns a pretty little place just south of Millersburg. The house is a newish brick ranch that sits on a three-acre lot dotted with maples and oaks. Tomasetti and I take separate vehicles, follow Rasmussen into the gravel driveway, and park adjacent to the garage.

  I meet the two men next to a lamppost where a pavestone walkway leads to the front door of the house. A tricycle lies on its side in the yard. Yellow tulips in the flower beds on either side of the door are starting to bloom. Someone in the Fletcher household has a green thumb.

  Rasmussen had wanted to call Fletcher and ask him to meet us at the sheriff’s office, probably to save him from any questions he’ll likely get from his wife. But due to the seriousness of the allegations, Tomasetti and I thought it would be better to catch him unaware. The plan is to pick him up here and transport him to the sheriff’s office so he can answer our questions in the privacy of an interview room. The only thing I know for certain at this moment is that the hours ahead are going to be difficult for everyone involved.

  “I’ll get him.” Rasmussen has just started down the sidewalk when the door opens.

  Dane Fletcher steps onto the porch. His smile falls when he sees the expression on Rasmussen’s face. He looks past the sheriff, his eyes holding mine for an instant, and I see a skitter of fear whisper across his features. He knows, I think, and a hard pang of disappointment joins the chorus of emotions banging around inside me.

  “Mike?” he says. “What is this? What’s going on?”

  “We need to talk to you, Dane.” The sheriff reaches him and the two men shake hands.

  “About what?” the deputy asks.

  “Dane?”

  At the sound of the female voice, I look toward the back door to see a pretty woman of about forty standing in the doorway, holding open the storm door. Her expression is more curious than worried as she presses her hand against her very pregnant belly.

  “Hey, Mike,” she says to the sheriff, oblivious to the undertones zinging among the rest of us.

  “Hi, Jen.” Rasmussen raises a hand to her. “Tulips looking good,” he says conversationally. “I need to borrow the old man for a few hours. Can you spare him?”

  She grins. “As long as he comes home with ice cream, we’re good.”

  “I’ll get it.” Fletcher doesn’t look at his wife as he says the words.

  “Barbecue this weekend!” she calls out.

  Rasmussen has already turned away and started toward his cruiser. No one else responds.

  * * *

  At the sheriff’s office, I sit in the Explorer, my hands on the steering wheel, and I watch Fletcher and Sheriff Rasmussen cross the parking lot and enter the building. The sense of betrayal is a knot in my gut. At the moment, that knot is so tangled and tight that I can barely draw a breath. In my mind’s eye, I see the way Fletch looked at me when he came out of the house. I’d had misgivings about the allegations against him. I thought maybe the four of us would walk into the interview room and somehow Fletch would convince us he had nothing to do with what happened to Rachael when she was seventeen—or her murder. But I saw the flash of fear and guilt etched into a face well trained to remain neutral, and the truth of that moment is so powerful I’m queasy.

  I think about what he did and the anger inside me roils. Not only did he betray the badge, but he betrayed himself and everyone who loves him. His family. His friends. And every single cop who’s ever considered him a brother.

  A knock on the window startles me from my reverie. I glance over, see Tomasetti standing outside the Explorer. Quickly, I settle my emotions and get out, aware that his eyes are on me.

  “I’d ask what you’re thinking,” he says, “but I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be in Fletcher’s shoes.”

  “You could never be in his shoes.” The statement comes out harshly, but I let it stand.

  Thoughtful, troubled, we start toward the building. “Those women who filed complaints against him?” I don’t look at Tomasetti as I speak. “He sexually assaulted them. He abused his position. I think he sexually assaulted Rachael Schwartz. Tomasetti, for God’s sake, I think he murdered her.”

  “She was blackmailing him,” he says. “He got tired of paying.”

  I nod, trying to get myself into a better frame of mind for the impending interview. I don’t quite manage.

  “That’s a powerful motive.” Tomasetti shrugs.

  “He had a lot to lose,” I add.

  There’s more to say, but we’ve reached the building. Through the door window, I see Rasmussen and Fletcher talking to the duty deputy. Tomasetti pushes open the door and we walk inside.

  Twenty minutes later, the four of us are sitting in an interview room with a beat-up table and four plastic chairs. Rasmussen and Fletcher are on one side of the table, Tomasetti and I on the other. Life and experience have given me the tools I need to keep my emotions in check. Even so, I’m barely able to look at Fletcher. I’m too angry to be sitting here, partaking in a potentially life-altering interview of a peer. But this is my case. I don’t have a choice.

  When the small talk ends, Fletcher sits back and makes eye
contact with each of us, his final gaze landing on Rasmussen. “So are you going to tell me why I’m here or are you going to make me guess?”

  Rasmussen tosses me an it’s-your-show scowl and spits out my name. “Kate.”

  I focus on the turn of events alleged by Loretta Bontrager, and I don’t pull any punches. I withhold mention of Rachael Schwartz, instead focusing on what was alleged to have happened in the barn. All the while, I watch Fletcher for a reaction.

  He stares back at me, stone-faced. But he can’t hide the color that climbs up his throat and creeps into his cheeks. The muscles in his jaws clamping tight and working in tandem.

  When I’ve finished speaking, he takes a moment to make eye contact with each of us. “That did not happen,” he says in a low voice. “I did not threaten her. I did not assault her. I didn’t so much as talk to her. I don’t know those people. I did not drive out to their place last night.” His eyes land on mine. “And I’d like to know why the holy fuck you dragged me in here for this rash of bullshit.”

  “She filed a complaint against you,” Rasmussen tells him.

  “That’s crazy.” Fletcher belts out a bitter laugh. “Why the hell would I go to their farm and assault an Amish woman?”

  He knows instantly the question is a mistake. I see the regret flash in his eyes. He starts to speak, but I cut in.

  “Bontrager claims that Rachael Schwartz told her you pulled her over for an OVI thirteen years ago,” I tell him. “She alleges Schwartz told her that you let her walk in exchange for sex. She alleges in the complaint that you knew they were friends and you assumed Rachael had told her what happened. Bontrager claims you accosted her in the barn and threatened her if she didn’t keep her mouth shut.”

  “That’s not true,” he says. “She’s lying.”

  I lean back in my chair. “Where were you last night between the hours of midnight and four A.M.?”

  Fletcher chokes out a sound of exasperation. “I was home. With my wife and kids.”