Fallen

by Linda Castillo

I hear the crack of a police radio. The sound of breaking brush as the deputy makes his way down to me.

  “Do not move!” he screams.

  I see the flicker of a flashlight. My legs are shaking so violently, it takes me two tries to get to my feet. When I finally make it, I’m nauseous, so I lean against the door, shove my .38 back into my holster, and concentrate on not throwing up.

  The approaching deputy blinds me with his flashlight beam as he skids down the incline.

  “Painters Mill PD.” I put up my hand to shield my eyes. “I haven’t seen the shooter for a minute or two,” I say.

  “You know where he went? You get a look at him?”

  “No,” I say. “Male. Armed. He fired multiple times at me.”

  “Vehicle?”

  I shake my head. “No idea.”

  He speaks into his shoulder mike. “Ten-thirty-five-E.” Major crime alert—shooting. “Suspect at large.”

  He runs his flashlight over me. I see recognition in his eyes as he takes in my uniform. “You got a bloody nose.” He reaches into his pocket, passes me a kerchief. “You need an ambulance, Chief?”

  I take the kerchief. “No.” Shaking my head in disgust, I look at the wrecked Explorer. “Might need a new car, though.”

  He grins. “Roger that.”

  * * *

  It takes fifteen minutes for the wrecker to arrive. The driver is a Volkswagen-size man whose company contracts for the county. He’s confident he’ll be able to pull the Explorer from its muddy nest without the use of a chain saw.

  “Went in through all those trees just fine so I ought to be able to pull her out the same way,” he tells me as he hoists his large frame down the incline to attach the winch to the undercarriage.

  I’m leaning against the hood of the deputy’s cruiser when Tomasetti pulls up. Driving too fast. Braking a little too abruptly. He’s out of the Tahoe in seconds and striding toward us.

  “Kate.” Worry resonates in his voice when he calls out. “Are you hurt?”

  Tomasetti is known by most everyone at the sheriff’s office. Even though we’ve been discreet about our relationship, my department is a small one and most of my officers have figured out we’re involved. Most of them know we’re living together. Even so, we do our best to maintain a certain level of professionality. Tonight, it’s not easy.

  I don’t remember crossing to him. His body bumps against me with a little too much force. The next thing I know his arms are around me, his frame solid against me. Out of the corner of my eye I see the deputy I’d been talking to turn away, and I sink into the man I love.

  “I’m betting that’s the fastest trip you’ve ever made from the farm,” I tell him.

  “Record,” he murmurs. “You like to keep a guy on his toes, don’t you?”

  I’m shaking, embarrassed because I feel as if I shouldn’t be. Before I can think of an appropriate rejoinder, he pushes me to arm’s length, his eyes running over me; then his gaze latches on to mine. “My radio lit up on the drive down. A shooter?” he says. “What happened?”

  I tell him all of it, abbreviating when I can. “Initially, I thought it was a blowout. Bad tire. Whatever. The next thing I know the son of a bitch is coming down the hill and taking potshots at me.”

  Tomasetti is a stoic man. He can be a hard man. He’s good at keeping his emotions at bay, especially when it comes to his job. I can tell by the flash of fury that this has hit too close to home. His eyes drift to the opening in the trees where the Explorer sits nose-down at the base of the incline.

  “You recognize him?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Too dark.”

  He thinks about that a moment. “He say anything?”

  “Not a word.”

  He nods. “I’ll have the Explorer towed to impound. I’ll get with the CSU and have them process it. See if our shooter left anything behind.”

  The next thought that occurs to me sends a shudder through me. “Tomasetti, those tires aren’t very old.”

  His eyes narrow on mine. A dozen unspoken theories zing between us.

  “This was no road-hazard situation,” I tell him.

  “What are you implying exactly?”

  I look at him, trying not to appear paranoid or overreactive. “I think he knew I’d be coming this way. He shot out my tire. And then he came down that hill to kill me.”

  Tomasetti looks in the direction of the Explorer, where the wrecker is in the process of hauling it from its resting place. “You got a motive in mind?”

  I look away, not wanting to say it, knowing I don’t have a choice. “Maybe it has something to do with the Rachael Schwartz case.”

  He stares at me, searching my face. I see the wheels turning in his mind. After a moment, he nods. “I’ll get another CSU out here and have them process this entire area.”

  CHAPTER 35

  It’s after midnight by the time Tomasetti and I arrive at the farm. He did his utmost to talk me into making a trip to Pomerene Hospital. Only after a paramedic with the fire department gave me a thorough field assessment did he concede. The BCI crime scene unit truck arrived on scene an hour before we left. The Ohio State Highway Patrol. It’s a big deal when someone takes a shot at a cop. Every law enforcement agency in the area is on alert.

  Because the scene is large and out of doors—with the complication of rough terrain—the odds of picking up some piece of evidence that will identify the shooter or his vehicle is doubtful. Our best hope lies with the discovery of forensic evidence from the firearm used. A spent cartridge from which we could conceivably pick up a fingerprint. Or a bullet or fragment from which we could recover striations. Both are possibilities, but no one is holding their breath.

  I sustained a few bruises in the course of the wreck, so I took a hot shower upon arriving home. Tomasetti heated soup, and I downed a couple of preemptive ibuprofen. I planned on a good night’s sleep, getting a fresh start in the morning, and hopefully finding the son of a bitch who tried to kill me. I should have known my overactive mind would throw a monkey wrench into the mix.

  It’s after one A.M. now. I’m at the kitchen table, my laptop open and humming. The Rachael Schwartz homicide file is spread out in untidy piles, the logic to which only I am aware. I’ve filled two pages of my trusty yellow legal pad with theories and conjecture, and a fair amount of chicken scratch. Whatever pinpoint of information I’m looking for continues to elude me.

  The truth of the matter is that with the suicide of Dane Fletcher, the case is tied up as tidily as a case can be. Fletcher had motive, means, and opportunity. In spades. When he got caught, he took the easy way out and killed himself. Maybe Tomasetti is right. I’m wasting my time. My gut steered me wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.…

  So who saw fit to take a shot at me earlier? And why does the thought of closing the case feel so damn wrong?

  “Because I don’t think he did it,” I whisper. It’s the first time I’ve said the words aloud and they sound profane in the silence of the kitchen. But as averse I am to admit it, I’ve drawn the conclusion that Fletcher didn’t murder Rachael Schwartz. There’s something else there. Something I missed.

  Something.

  Sighing in frustration, I page through several reports and set them aside. I come to the copies of the texts between Rachael and Fletcher, read them again.

  In case you’re thinking about going all batshit … don’t forget I got that insurance policy.

  That one stops me.

  Fletcher’s words replay in my head. 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.

  Then, he’d told me there was no kid. She was a pathological liar. A fucking sadist. All she wanted was money. Ruining me was the icing on the cake.

  “So why the hell did you keep paying?” I mutter.

  Did Rachael Schwartz have something else on him? Some hidden guarantee that would pay off if something
happened to her?

  In case you’re thinking about going all batshit … don’t forget I got that insurance policy.

  “What else did you have on him?” I whisper.

  A sealed envelope tucked away in some lockbox that would explain everything when found? A lawyer poised to step forward upon word of her death?

  Frustrated, I set the text messages aside and continue on. My handwritten notes on my conversations with Dan and Rhoda Schwartz are paper-clipped together. I pull them apart and read, hit the passages I highlighted in yellow.

  … she came to see us after Christmas, not before …

  There’s nothing sinister or mysterious about Rhoda changing her story simply because she remembered a detail she’d overlooked that changed the timeline of when she’d last seen her daughter.

  I come to the brown envelope where I’d tucked away the old photo of Rachael Schwartz and Loretta Bontrager. They were barely into their teens. Loretta looking awkward and shy and plain. Rachael too pretty for her own good. Even at that tender age, her smile was knowing, her eyes challenging and bold.

  I get that antsy sensation at the back of my neck, a sort of pseudo déjà vu that’s prickly and uncomfortable. I snatch up my reading glasses, look at the photo a little more closely.

  A strange sense of … familiarity whispers at the back of my brain. Of course, I’ve seen the photo before. Plus, I knew Rachael when she was that age. Neither of those things explains the quick snap of recognition.

  I set down the photo. I pick it back up.

  A young Rachael Schwartz stares back at me. A pretty strawberry blonde with a nose for trouble and a complete inability to follow the rules.

  I straighten so abruptly I hit my knee on the underside of my desk.

  The image of Fannie astride the horse and loping across the pasture plays out in my mind’s eye. I don’t have a photo of the girl; most Amish don’t take photographs of their children—unless they’re breaking the rules. But I recall the way Fannie had looked at me. The punch of shock that follows leaves me breathless.

  The two look nothing alike. Rachael had light hair with blue-green eyes. Fannie is dark haired with brown eyes—like Loretta. While their physical attributes are as different as night and day, in that instant I recognize the one trait they seem to share.

  Attitude.

  I knew Rachael Schwartz when she was a kid. I’d secretly admired her pluck. Though she was younger than me, I’d looked at her as a kindred soul. How many times did she get herself into some situation that required help while on my watch? When she was six, I rescued her when she climbed a tree and couldn’t get down. Then there was the day she rolled down the hill in that steel drum and ended up in the creek. Later, I saw her get into a couple of fights, which goes against every Amish tenet I can think of.

  Rachael was a purveyor of chaos, invariably in pursuit of some grand adventure. When she went down the slide, she didn’t go feetfirst. She went headfirst, the faster the better, with no regard for safety. She pushed the envelope. Partook in activities that weren’t quite safe. She wasn’t a bad child, but she was different from the other Amish kids.

  Fannie is twelve years old. Rachael left Painters Mill about twelve years ago. The timing is spot-on. I think of the parallels between Fannie Bontrager and Rachael Schwartz, and the possibilities chill me despite the sweat that’s broken out on the back of my neck.

  She’s not the first girl we’ve known who’s in love with adventure, now, is she? Should have been born a boy, that one.

  Rhoda Schwartz’s words reverberate in my head.

  Sick with something akin to dread, I dig through the papers in front of me, pull my incident report from the night Dane Fletcher took his life, and read.

  Claimed she got pregnant that night. Had a kid.

  What if Rachael Schwartz hadn’t been lying—at least about that part of it? What if she had gotten pregnant the night Fletcher assaulted her? I’d assumed he paid the blackmail money because she threatened to go public with the assault. What if the blackmail was about something else? A child born out of an act of violence?

  The questions don’t stop there. In fact, the most excruciating questions have yet to be posed. Is it possible Fannie Bontrager is Rachael’s child?

  In case you’re thinking about going all batshit … don’t forget I got that insurance policy. Anything unsavory happens and presto! Out comes the proof.

  I think about Fannie, riding the horse as well or better than any boy, breaking her arm in a fall off a windmill. A pattern of similar behaviors.

  She’s not the first girl we’ve known who’s in love with adventure …

  It’s not a cohesive theory. Far from it. There’s too much conjecture. Too many loose ends, none of which ever quite meet. Most importantly, and never far from mind, is the fact that an innocent child lies at the heart of it. Parents and grandparents are involved, their lives and reputations hang in the balance.

  “What did you do?” I whisper, not quite sure who I’m addressing.

  How does all of this affect my case? If my suspicions are correct, how much does Ben Bontrager know? And how is it that Loretta and Ben Bontrager raised the girl as their own with no questions asked? I don’t dare put into words the thoughts crowding into my brain.

  Movement at the door yanks a gasp from my throat. Tomasetti stands in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed at his chest, hair mussed, frowning.

  “You’ve been busy,” he says.

  I look down at the papers and reports and notes strewn about the table and floor. I’m aware of how I must look. Exhausted. Fixated. “Dane Fletcher didn’t kill Rachael Schwartz.”

  “Why am I not surprised to hear you say that?” Despite the frustration evident on his face, his voice is kind.

  “I could use a sounding board,” I tell him.

  “I’ll make coffee.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, he’s sitting across from me, nursing a cup of dark roast, looking at me over the rim. “All right, Chief,” he says. “Hit me with your best shot.”

  I lay out my theory, holes and all, struggling with every word because I’m not sure of any of it.

  “Rachael Schwartz and Fannie Bontrager don’t share any physical characteristics,” I say. “They do, however, share a psychological trait that could be even more important.”

  “Like what?” he asks.

  “A predilection for reckless behavior. For breaking the rules, the norms set forth by the adults in their lives.”

  “I think the official term for that is ‘being a kid,’” he says.

  I’m talking too fast, stumbling over the words because I’m attempting to explain something I’m not well versed on. “There’s a difference.” I take a breath, slow down, and tell him about some of the behaviors I witnessed in Rachael Schwartz when she was a kid.

  “You’re asserting that behavior carried over to adulthood.” He’s listening now, but skepticism rings hard in his voice.

  “What if this … propensity for thrill seeking is hereditary?” I ask. “Fannie Bontrager displays some of the same tendencies.” I tell him about her riding the horse with such utter confidence. The broken arm.

  “You believe Fannie Bontrager is Rachael Schwartz’s daughter?” he asks.

  “I think Rachael Schwartz got pregnant the night Fletcher assaulted her. She wasn’t prepared to raise a child. Didn’t want a baby. Especially that baby. Loretta on the other hand had just gotten married. I remember hearing the birth of her first child was a little too close to her wedding day.”

  “How old is the girl?”

  “Twelve.”

  The silence that follows breaks beneath its own weight. “So if Fletcher didn’t murder Rachael Schwartz, who did?” he asks after a moment.

  He knows where I’m going with this. He wants me to say it. I hate it that it’s so damn difficult. Doubt sits on my shoulder, stabbing me with its steely little knife. “What if Rachael Schwartz had a change of heart?” I say.
“What if she came back to Painters Mill, not only to extort money from Fletcher, but to see her daughter? What if she wanted more? More than Loretta and Ben were willing to grant?”

  Tomasetti holds his silence for a full minute. I see the wheels of thought spinning in his eyes. He doesn’t like this any more than I do, but he knows it’s something we cannot ignore.

  “Even if the girl is the biological child of Rachael Schwartz, it doesn’t prove Loretta Bontrager committed murder. We can’t place her in that room. We can’t tie her to the bat.”

  “It gives her motive,” I say.

  “Maybe.” But he frowns. “What about Ben Bontrager? Do you think he’s involved?”

  “I don’t know. He has to know that Fannie isn’t their biological child. Whether he knows Fannie is Rachael Schwartz’s child…” I let the words trail when the image of Rachael Schwartz’s broken body flashes in my mind’s eye. “That said, the level of violence … the strength required to do that kind of damage … maybe.”

  “It’s flimsy.”

  “I know.”

  “Any human being capable of doing what was done to Rachael Schwartz needs to be taken off the street,” he says.

  I nod. “DNA would be a good place to start.”

  “No judge in his right mind is going to sign off on a warrant.”

  “I can get something.”

  He scoffs at the notion. “You know surreptitious sampling isn’t admissible.”

  “It doesn’t need to be. But at least we would know. It would change the way we look at the case.” I think about that a moment. “Who we look at.”

  “If you’re wrong?”

  “I drop everything, leave it as it is, and close the case,” I tell him.

  He scowls at me. “If you’re right, you’re going to have to prove your case.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “At the moment, you’ve got nothing.”

  Except that kernel of suspicion that’s been nibbling away at my gut from the start. “For now, I’m going to do some research, see what I can find.” I shrug. “The rest … I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”