Fallen

by Linda Castillo

  I reach the end of the bleachers and head toward the concession stand. A girl with a nose piercing, the tattoo of a rose on her throat, lowers a strainer of fries into a vat of boiling oil. I go to the window. “Any fries left?” I ask.

  “Going to be four minutes,” she says without looking at me.

  “Have you seen Dane Fletcher?” I ask. “The deputy?”

  The girl straightens. She looks bored. Put out by her job. Annoyed that I’m requiring her attention. “The cop?”

  I nod. “You seen him?”

  She raises a ring-clad hand and points toward the park across the street. “I think he went over to the park a few minutes ago.”

  “Thanks.” I head that way.

  Creekside Park has been around as long as I can remember. There’s a playground replete with monkey bars and a slide. In summertime, a fountain featuring a giant catfish spurts water and beckons kids to wade or toss pennies for good luck. There’s a hiking path with a footbridge that crosses a small, trickling stream that eventually feeds into Painters Creek. All six acres of it is crowded with old-growth trees that were likely here before Painters Mill became a village back in 1815.

  I make my way to the trailhead, where a sign reminds me to bring water and mosquito repellent if I plan to hike. I look down at the damp earth at my feet and see the footprints. Male boots with a waffle sole. Cop’s boots, I think, and I start down the path.

  I’ve gone just a few yards when I find him. He’s standing on the footbridge, leaning, his hands on the rail, looking into the forest. I stop twenty feet away. “Nice night for a softball game,” I say.

  He looks at me. Something not right about his eyes. “Scotty’s going to be a good hitter.”

  “Like his dad, I guess.”

  He nods, keeps his hands on the rail. He’s wearing khaki pants. A short-sleeved shirt, untucked. The sheriff took his service revolver, but I know he owns a pistol. I wonder if said pistol is tucked into the waistband of his slacks. I wonder how close he is to the end of his rope.

  He lowers his eyes to the trickling water. Not looking at anything in particular. His body language is off. He knows why I’m here.

  “I saw a fox a few minutes ago,” he tells me.

  “They’re out here.” I pretend to look around. Hold my ground. Wait.

  “I figured you’d show up sooner or later,” he tells me.

  “You know I don’t have a choice,” I tell him. “I’ll make this as easy as possible for you, if that’s any consolation.”

  “It’s not.” The laugh that follows is the harsh sound of ripping fabric. “Does Jen know?” he asks, referring to his wife.

  “Not yet.”

  Silence descends. As thick and uncomfortable as a wet blanket on a freezing night. We listen to the spring peepers for a moment and he seems to relax, as if he’s made some decision.

  He steps back from the rail, reaches beneath his shirt. My heart rate jacks at the sight of the pistol. It’s a semiauto H & K .45. Quickly, I slide out my sidearm, level on him, center mass.

  “Dane.” I say his name firmly. “Your son is playing baseball fifty yards away. You don’t want to do this to him. Put down the gun.”

  He doesn’t raise the pistol, but holds it at his side. At first, I think he’s going to obey my command and toss it. But his finger is inside the guard.

  “Come on,” I say. “You know I’ll do right by you.”

  He doesn’t seem to hear me. Doesn’t seem to care that I’ve got a bead on him and he has zero in the way of cover.

  He turns to me, looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “I didn’t kill her,” he tells me.

  “No one said you did.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” he snaps. “I know how this works.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say to that. All I can tell you is that it isn’t too late to end this. Put down the gun. Talk to me. We’ll figure this out. Okay?”

  He cocks his head, trying to decide if I’m bullshitting him. “It’s over for me. This isn’t going to go away.”

  “You made a mistake,” I tell him.

  “It’s all going to come out. For God’s sake, it’ll destroy Jen and the kids.”

  “We’ll deal with it. They’ll get through. Come on. Toss the gun.”

  Every muscle in my body goes taut when he raises the pistol. But he only taps the muzzle of it against his forehead. “I pulled her over. I had sex with her. I did it. I fucked up. I … I don’t know what happened to me that night. She was … just … there. For God’s sake, it was like she wanted it. I’m telling you she … knew things. She was … and I … fucking lost it.”

  He doesn’t have to say her name. I see it on his face. I bank the rise of disgust, bite back the denunciation dangling on my tongue. I’m keenly aware of the pistol in my hand, the pulse of anger in my veins. How easy it would be to put him out of his misery …

  “Was she blackmailing you?” I ask.

  He looks up at me, jerks his head. “For years.”

  “How much?” I ask.

  “Twenty grand.” He shrugs. “Maybe more. I lost track.”

  “Does Jen know?”

  “She doesn’t know anything.” He shakes his head. “Schwartz was … crazy and … relentless. Said all sorts of crazy shit. Claimed she got pregnant that night. Had a kid. Said she had proof it was mine. Called it her ‘insurance policy,’ and she was going to wreck my life.”

  “She said the kid was yours?”

  “There was no kid,” he snaps. “She was a pathological liar. A fucking sadist. All she wanted was money. Ruining me was the icing on the cake.” His smile sends a chill down my spine. “Looks like she got her way, didn’t she?”

  He looks down at the .45, makes a sound that’s part sob, part laugh.

  For an instant, I think he’s going to use the gun on himself, so I try to engage him, keep him talking. “You met her at the bar in Wooster? The night she was killed?”

  “I tried to reason with her. Told her I had a kid on the way. That I was out of money.” He taps the muzzle of the H & K against his forehead again, so hard I hear the steel tap against his skull. “She didn’t want to hear it.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  He lowers the gun to his side. His eyes latch on to mine. “I’ve done some shitty things, Kate. I’ve raped. Lied. Cheated on my wife. But if you believe one word of what I say tonight, believe this: I did not kill Rachael Schwartz.”

  In the gauzy light I see the shimmer of tears in his eyes. The tremble of his mouth. The run of snot he doesn’t seem to notice. A mask of hopelessness. The soul of a broken man.

  “Then all you have to deal with is the assault,” I tell him. “Fletch, you can do that. It’s not too late.” The statements aren’t exactly true, but I’m free to tell him whatever I think he needs to hear in order to bring this to an end.

  “Come on,” I coo. “We’ll figure it out. Just put down the gun.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re a straight shooter, Kate. I always liked that about you.”

  “Dane—”

  He cuts me off. “I’m fucking done. I used my badge to prey on that girl. She wasn’t the only one. But I swear to God I didn’t kill her. You want the truth? You’d better keep looking.” A sob escapes him. “When you find it … make sure my wife knows.”

  Finality rings in his voice, as if he’s going on a trip with no plans to come back. I get a sick feeling in my gut. In the back of my mind I’m wondering where the deputy is. T.J. “Dane, your kids need you. Jen needs you.”

  He shakes his head. “We both know I’m going to fry for this. Everything I’ve ever worked for. It’s gone. I got nothing left.” He begins to cry. “For God’s sake, I can’t spend the rest of my life in prison for something I didn’t do. You know what they do to cops.”

  Taking his time, he starts toward me. Gun at his side. Finger outside the guard.

  I step back. My finger on the trigger. Pulse in the red zone. “Ke
ep your distance,” I tell him.

  He keeps coming. Not in a hurry. Looking down at the pistol in his right hand.

  My heart stumbles in my chest and begins to pound. “Don’t do this, Dane. Don’t.”

  “I didn’t kill her.” His tread is steady. Gun at his side. Nearly to the edge of the footbridge. Just ten feet away from me now.

  I walk backward, my pistol at the ready. Cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. “You need to stop right there,” I tell him. “Drop the gun.”

  He stops, tilts his head as if I’m some puzzle he’s encountered and he’s not sure how to solve it.

  “I’m glad it was you, Burkholder.”

  He looks down at the H & K in his hand, fiddles with the clip, thinking about something I can’t fathom. It’s like watching a wreck in slow motion. Knowing it’s going to be horrific, that someone is going to die. That there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. A sense of helplessness assails me.

  “Dane! No! Stop!”

  Quickly and without hesitation, he raises the gun, shoves the barrel into his mouth, and pulls the trigger.

  CHAPTER 32

  Day 5

  It’s been nearly eight hours since Dane Fletcher committed suicide. The scene at the park has replayed a thousand times in my head. I’ve critiqued my every move, my every word, everything I did and didn’t do—and yet the end result is always the same. Intellectually, I know there was nothing I could have done to stop him. I should be thankful he didn’t rely on me to do his dirty work for him.

  By all accounts, Dane Fletcher was a duplicitous son of a bitch, a rapist, a disgrace to the badge—to all men—and likely a murderer. Despite all of those things, there is no satisfaction that comes with the end of his life.

  I spent several hours in an interview room with Sheriff Rasmussen and Tomasetti. I gave my official statement to the best of my ability, but I was exhausted and shaken. I answered dozens of questions, drank too much coffee, snapped at both men a few too many times. Because I was at the scene when Fletcher committed suicide, the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office will oversee the investigation. Normally, I’d put up some token argument. This time, I’m relieved to step aside. I’m pissed at Fletcher for using his badge to prey on women, and when he got caught, for taking the cowardly way out. What kind of man does that to his wife and children? What kind of man pulls over a seventeen-year-old Amish girl and demands sex in exchange for letting her walk away from a DUI?

  It was after two A.M. when I left the sheriff’s office. Tomasetti followed me home. I tossed my blood-specked uniform into the hamper and went directly to the shower and stood under the spray for ten minutes. I didn’t cry or curse. I didn’t close my eyes, because I knew if I did, I’d see Fletcher drop, his face destroyed, the back of his head a gaping wound.

  By the time I meet Tomasetti in the kitchen, I’ve pulled myself together. He’s already poured two fingers of scotch into a couple of tumblers. The window above the sink is open and I can hear the chorus of spring peepers from the marsh down by the pond, singing their hearts out. The simple beauty of the sound makes me feel like crying. Of course, I don’t. Instead, I pick up the tumbler of whiskey and take a long drink.

  Tomasetti goes to the radio on the counter and fiddles with the knob. An old Led Zeppelin tune about rambling on fills the silence around us. It’s a pretty song full of memories and its own unique beauty, and suddenly I’m absurdly thankful to be here in the kitchen of our modest little farm with the man I love.

  “Any word on how Fletcher’s wife is doing?” I ask, already knowing the answer, hating it because it hurts.

  “The chaplain stayed with her until her parents got there,” he tells me. “That’s all I know.”

  I nod, take another sip. “I didn’t know him that well.”

  “The people who did are about to realize they really didn’t.”

  “What kind of man does that to his wife and kids? What kind of man uses his position to rape a seventeen-year-old girl?”

  “A predator. A dirty cop. A sick bastard.” He shrugs. “All of the above.”

  Leaving his place at the counter, he crosses to the table, takes the chair across from me. He’s looking at me as if he’s searching for something I’m not quite ready to reveal. Or maybe I’m just tired and looking for things that aren’t really there.

  “So what else is bothering you?” he asks.

  Over the last hours, my brain has been preoccupied with witnessing the death of a man I’d once respected. On doing my job and figuring out how it fits into the investigation at hand—the homicide of Rachael Schwartz. Now that I’m settled and thinking more clearly, I’m starting to analyze more closely the exchange between Fletch and me during those final moments.

  “Fletcher admitted to pulling her over and sexually assaulting her,” I say. “He admitted to preying on other women. He acknowledged that Schwartz was blackmailing him. To having paid her somewhere around twenty thousand dollars over the years. He admitted to meeting with her at the bar.”

  Having been present for my interview and having read my official statement, he already knows all of those things. “He knew we had him.”

  I nod, but I’m still mulling the conversation, the words running through my head like a script. I can’t get the sound of Dane Fletcher’s voice out of my head. The look in his eyes.

  … if you believe one word of what I’ve said tonight, believe this: I did not kill Rachael Schwartz.

  I’ve heard too many lies over the years to believe anything an admitted rapist would say. Fletcher lied and cheated and hurt people for years. He doesn’t deserve the benefit of a doubt.

  So why the hell can’t I set aside his sham denial and close my damn case?

  I lift the tumbler, set it down without drinking.

  Tomasetti sips, looks at me over the rim of his glass. “A moment ago, you reiterated all the things Fletcher had done. The one thing you didn’t mention was the murder of Rachael Schwartz.”

  “You’re pretty astute for a BCI agent, aren’t you?”

  “Every now and then I get something right.”

  You want the truth?… keep looking.

  I meet his gaze, hold it. “I know he was a liar. Desperate and willing to say anything. But, Tomasetti, he walked onto that trail to take his life. He had nothing to prove. Nothing to lose. Why deny the murder? Why not try to rationalize or explain why he did it?”

  Tomasetti looks at me over the rim of his glass and scowls. “Fletcher had motive. He had means. And he had opportunity. Rachael Schwartz was bleeding him dry and enjoying putting him through the wringer.”

  I hate it that I’ve put myself in the position of defending an admitted dirty cop. Even so, I can’t shake the sense that not all of the pieces are settling into the proper circles and squares the way they should.

  “Why tell me to keep looking?” I say.

  “Because he didn’t give a damn about anyone, including himself,” he tells me.

  I know this is one of those times that no matter what I say, I’ll not convince Tomasetti that the situation warrants a more thorough looking-into. To be honest, I’m not certain of it myself. But if I’ve learned anything over the years, it is to listen to my gut. Right now, my cop’s instinct is telling me to, at the very least, keep my options open.

  I swear to God I didn’t kill her. You want the truth?… keep looking … make sure my wife knows.

  It’s as if Dane Fletcher is standing outside the window, whispering the words. The thought sends a shiver through me.

  “I’m going to dig around a little,” I say. “A couple days. See if there’s anything else there, that we haven’t looked at.”

  Tomasetti finishes his whiskey and sets down the glass, gives me a dubious look. “Do you need anything from me?”

  “Fletcher’s son plays Little League. Take the bat we found to Jennifer Fletcher,” I tell him, referring to the murder weapon. “If she recognizes it, I’ll close the case.”

 
; He nods, but I can tell by his expression he doesn’t agree with my theory and he doesn’t think my request is a very good idea. “I’ll pay her a visit tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 33

  The final vestiges of an afternoon storm simmer in a sky the color of a bruise as I turn in to the lane of the Schwartz farm. The place looks exactly the same as the last time I was here. The same Jersey cows graze in the pasture to my right. The field across the road is still in the process of being plowed and readied for seed. Same team of horses. Same young boy behind the lines. Life goes on, as it should. As it always does.

  I find the couple on the front porch. Dan is sitting in a rocking chair, legs crossed, a pipe in his mouth, a glass of iced tea sweating on the table next to him. Rhoda sits in the rocking chair next to him, the parcel of a recently started afghan in her lap. They’re not happy to see me. They don’t rise or greet me as I climb the steps, and they watch me as if I’m some vermin that’s wandered up from the field.

  “Guder nochmiddawks,” I say. Good afternoon.

  “You come bearing bad news again, Kate Burkholder?” Dan’s voice is amicable, but there’s a hardness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

  I take the jab in stride.

  Rhoda pats her husband’s hand to quiet him. “Would you like cold tea, Katie? I made a pot and if Dan drinks any more, he’ll be up half the night.”

  “I can’t stay.” I take the final step onto the porch, go to the Adirondack chair across from them and I sit. “I wanted to give you an update on the investigation.”

  Dan picks up his tea and sips. The needles in Rhoda’s hands still. With the music of birdsong all around, I tell them about Dane Fletcher and the turn of events leading up to his death.

  “We heard about that policeman,” Rhoda says.

  “Everyone’s talking about it,” Dan adds.

  “Such a horrible thing.” She shakes her head. “We knew there was some connection to Rachael. We sure didn’t know the rest of it. Mein Gott.” My God.

  I’m loath to tell them the rest, but I know it’s better for them to hear it from me rather than through the grapevine, where facts are scarce and the story grows with every telling.