Her Last Breath

by Linda Castillo

  “Why did they wait so long?”

  “Lapp was on rumspringa. I guess it wasn’t unusual for him to stay out all night. By the end of the second day, they got worried and started looking, went to the police when they didn’t find him.”

  “Was he a drinker?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Devout?”

  “Not really.”

  “So as far as anyone knows, anything could have happened to him. He could have fallen in with bad company. Gotten involved with drugs. Met with a bad end somewhere else.”

  I nod, understanding. “There was talk that he’d wanted to leave the Amish.”

  He considers that for a moment. “Do you have access to the file?”

  “Yes.” I don’t tell him I’ve pulled the file a hundred times over the years, that I’ve memorized every detail and if he asked, I could recite every word of it verbatim.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Kate, but you know you can’t alter that file in any way, right?”

  “I can’t believe you felt the need to say that.”

  “Just covering all our bases.”

  I realize he’s only trying to help me, that he’s taking a certain risk himself by getting involved in this mess. But I need for him to know there are certain lines I wouldn’t cross. Compromising my ethics is one of them.

  “Tomasetti, for God’s sake, I’m not a criminal.” I raise my hands to my temples and massage at the headache that’s beginning to rage.

  “I know what you are and what you aren’t,” he says, unsympathetic.

  “I killed a man. That makes me a murderer.”

  “You defended yourself from a rapist. You give that to any court in the country and you’ll be acquitted.”

  I want those words and the vehemence with which he spoke them to make me feel better, but they don’t. We both know the situation is more complicated than that. It isn’t going to go away, and there’s not a damn thing we can do to make it better. That’s when I realize the sense of dread has less to do with the legal ramifications than with the thought of that piece of my past becoming public knowledge.

  “I’ve lied by omission for seventeen years,” I tell him. “The problem is made worse by the fact that I’m a cop. If this comes out, I’ll probably be forced to resign. I can kiss any hope of ever working in law enforcement good-bye. And that’s a best-case scenario.”

  “You’re getting a little ahead of yourself.”

  “I can’t stick my head in the sand. I’ve got to deal with it. I’ve got to be ready if—”

  “Kate, you’re not a suspect. You’re not even on the radar.” He tries to temper his impatience with me, but he’s not doing a very good job of it. “We don’t know if the lab will be able to extract DNA. Those remains may never be identified. Add those two probabilities to the fact that some people believe he left of his own accord, and you’re off the hook.”

  For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the hum of the refrigerator and the slow drip from the faucet. Then he asks, “What kind of weapon was Lapp killed with?”

  “Shotgun.”

  “That means there’s no slug. No striations. Nothing to match anything to. That’s good.”

  All I can think is that there’s nothing good about any of this. Miserable, I look down at the tabletop. “If there are pellets at the scene,” I say, “or damage to the bone, they’ll be able to determine the cause of death.”

  “But there’s no way to tie it to you,” he says. “Where’s the shotgun?”

  “In my closet.”

  He doesn’t react, but he doesn’t look happy about my attachment to the one item that could destroy my life.

  Feeling stupid, I add, “I almost got rid of it during the Slaughterhouse Murders case, but…”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t have some overriding need to get caught, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  He doesn’t respond. I don’t know if he doesn’t believe me or if he’s simply working through the myriad ways those bones could lead investigators back to me.

  “Any paper on the shotgun?” he asks. “Bill of sale. Repairs? Anything like that?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s an antique. My grandfather used it for hunting and passed it down.”

  “What about the shell casing? Do you know what happened to it?”

  “I have no idea. It happened at our farm, so my mamm or datt probably threw it away.”

  “So it went to the dump?”

  I look at him, surprised that he would be so concerned about such a small detail after so many years. “I don’t know. We used to burn most of our trash.”

  “Okay. That’s good.” He thinks about that a moment. “Would have been nice to have that casing.” His brows knit. “Why was Lapp at your farm that day?”

  “He was helping my brother bale hay.”

  “Who knew he was there?”

  “His parents. His brother.” I shrug. “Benjamin is still around.”

  “He’s Amish?”

  “I don’t think that will keep him from going to the police when he hears about those bones. He never believed Daniel left of his own accord, so that’s pretty much inevitable.”

  “Nothing we can do about that,” he says. “Who knows about all of this, Kate?”

  “My brother, Jacob. My sister, Sarah.” I feel control of the situation slipping from my grasp, and I realize any semblance of influence I’d felt over the years was an illusion.

  “The investigator will look into all cold missing-person cases right off the bat. He’ll talk to Lapp’s brother. If Lapp tells them Daniel was last seen at your parents’ farm, they’re going to talk to you and your siblings.” He gives me a hard look. “You need to get with your sister and brother. Get your stories straight.”

  “I don’t know if I can count on my brother.”

  “Why not?”

  I go to the counter, open the cabinet, and snag a glass. I feel his eyes on my back as I turn on the tap and fill it. I’m not thirsty, but I drink half of it down. “He blames me for what happened. At least in part.”

  “What part?”

  Setting the glass in the sink, I turn to him. My expression feels like that glass, but slowly being crushed and about to shatter. “He saw me smile at Daniel earlier that day. He thinks … I mean, in the Amish culture…” I’m shocked to find my heart beating so fast I can barely speak. “I guess there’s a part of him that thinks I instigated the situation.”

  He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “You know it wasn’t your fault, don’t you?”

  “I know that. I do. It’s just that … Jacob and I used to be so close. This destroyed our relationship.”

  “Will he cover for you?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “If he helped dump the body, he’s guilty, too,” Tomasetti points out. “If you need leverage…”

  I want to tell him it won’t come to that. I suspect we both know I’d do it if I had to. I have that survivor mentality. Sometimes I honestly don’t know if that’s good or bad. “I hate this.”

  “What about your sister?” he asks.

  “I think she’ll cooperate.”

  We fall silent again and I sense the presence of fear in the room, a dark specter skimming cold fingertips across the back of my neck. “I’m scared,” I say.

  “I know.” After a moment, he scoots his chair back and rises. “Get the shotgun.”

  The word echoes, like some depraved statement uttered in the presence of children. “It can’t be traced. A lot of Amish have shotguns. For hunting.”

  “I’d feel better if you didn’t have possession of that particular shotgun. Go get it.”

  I don’t move. “I’d rather you not get involved.”

  “I think I can handle ditching a weapon.”

  “Tomasetti, for God’s sake. You’re a state agent. Your past … If someone sees you—”

  “It’s late. It’s dark. I’m parked i
n the goddamn alley.” He looks toward the window. “Bring me the damn shotgun.”

  I want to protect him from this, I realize. If word ever gets out that he helped me cover up a crime, my career wouldn’t be the only one that goes down the drain. But I need his help, and it’s that desperation that sends me to the bedroom closet where I retrieve the shotgun and carry it back to the kitchen. “It’s unloaded.”

  He checks anyway. “Do you have any shells?”

  I shake my head. “Where are you going to put it?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I’ve never considered myself an emotional woman. I’m relatively even-keel and not prone to crying jags. But I feel one coming on now, the tears hot and pressing at the backs of my eyes. If the situation wasn’t so serious, I might have laughed at the absurdity of what we were about to do. That the most profound act of selflessness and kindness ever shown to me by a man I love involves a shotgun.

  * * *

  I dream of Mattie and the past, a tangled account of true events that are twisted and dark now because I see them through the eyes of the adult I’ve become. It’s the summer of our sixteenth year and we’ve just begun our rumspringas. We’re drunk on youth and innocence and the exciting new freedom bestowed us.

  Amish girls are generally not granted the same level of freedom as boys for the simple reason that the Amish are a patriarchic society, a cultural foible as set in stone as our garb. But the teenaged mind is a determined thing and, despite our inexperience, Mattie and I were quick studies in all the ways of deception, especially when it came to our parents.

  That afternoon we’re lying in the sun on the grassy bank of Painters Creek. We’ve spread a couple of threadbare bath towels we stole from my mamm’s laundry basket on the ground. Earlier in the day, we’d met at Walmart and spent two hours in the dressing room, driving the attendant crazy and enjoying every minute of it. We walked away with the perfect swimsuits, identical sunglasses, and the sense that it was money well spent.

  “I wish we could do this every day.” Mattie sits up and lights a cigarette, her third in the last hour.

  It’s not yet noon and we’re sharing a can of Budweiser and smoking Marlboros. Mattie calls them “cowboy killers,” which I think is hilarious. It’s the most perfect day of the summer so far.

  “Let’s do it again tomorrow,” I say, reveling in the feel of the hot sun against my bare skin.

  I light a cigarette and gaze at the creek twenty feet away. The water is murky and deep here. A big cottonwood tree grows at a forty-five-degree angle at the water’s edge. Someone looped a rope around one of the branches that extends over the water. The vegetation at the base of the trunk has been compressed by the dozens of bare feet from teens swinging out over the water to drop into the murky depths. Secretly, we’re hoping some boys will show up and catch us in our bathing suits.

  “I wish we had a radio,” I say.

  Mattie grins at me and breaks out into Sam Cooke’s “Wonderful World.” I take another swig of beer and join her. Swaying in time with our make-believe music, we sing off key, mangling the lyrics because we don’t know the words, making up our own as we go, laughing at the silliness of them. After a minute of that, we fall back onto our towels, laughing so hard tears stream from our eyes.

  A comfortable silence ensues and in that moment everything is right in the world. The sun warms my face. I’m lying next to my best friend. The whole summer stretches ahead of us. And there’s no place else in the world I’d rather be.

  I’m dozing off when Mattie speaks. “Does your datt still hug you, Katie?”

  It’s such a strange and unexpected question that I raise up on an elbow and look at her. “When I was little. Not much, though, even back then. I think I’m too old now.”

  She doesn’t open her eyes. “My datt hugs me more now than when I was little.”

  A strange and uncomfortable awareness creeps over me. “Does he hug your brothers and sisters?”

  “No. Just me.”

  “Maybe he just loves you more.” I intended to say the words teasingly, but they come out sounding serious.

  “Because I’m so loveable,” she retorts.

  The odd exchange unsettles me, but I can’t put my finger on why. Before I can think too hard about it, Mattie turns to me. “The last one in the water is a rotten egg!”

  She scrambles to her feet and sprints toward the muddy bank.

  I watch her go, wondering why, in the instant before she turned away, I saw tears in her eyes.

  CHAPTER 13

  Tomasetti left shortly after I gave him the shotgun. That particular type of firearm would be difficult, if not impossible, to trace. But he’s a cautious man. I can only assume it ended up in some deep body of water between here and his place in Wooster. There are plenty of reservoirs and quarries in the area. He’s probably right that I’m better off not knowing.

  It’s not yet 7:00 A.M. as I pull onto Main Street and head toward the police department. From the end of the block I spot the buggy parked in front of the building. The horse, a nice-looking bay, is tethered to a parking meter. The driver is nowhere in sight, so I assume he’s inside, waiting for me.

  I park in my usual spot, two spaces down from the buggy, and enter the reception area to find Mona Kurtz, my graveyard shift dispatcher, at her station, headset on, drumming her palms against her desktop to a funky dance tune on the radio, eating potato chips from a vending-machine-size bag. Mattie’s father, Andy Erb, sits on the sofa, looking uncomfortable and out of place. Mona glances up when I enter, raises her hand to get my attention, and quickly swallows her food.

  “Hey, Chief.” Rising, she snatches a stack of message slips from my slot and offers them to me. “Mr. Erb was wondering if you have a few minutes to speak with him.”

  I take the messages, trying not to notice her red miniskirt paired with a pink jacket over an orange tank. I think they call it color blocking. Somehow it works for her. “Thanks, Mona.”

  I turn to Andy and nod. “Guder mariye.”

  He rises and crosses to me, holding his hat in one hand, a mug of coffee—at Mona’s insistence, I’m sure—in the other. He bows his head slightly. “Guder mariye.”

  “Would you like more coffee?”

  He all but shudders. “No.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I mutter as I start toward my office. “Come in.”

  I unlock the door, motion him into the visitor’s chair, and slide behind my desk. “I’m very sorry about your son-in-law and grandchildren,” I tell him.

  He ducks his head, but not before I see the raw grief in his eyes. “Sis Gottes wille.”

  “How is Mattie doing?”

  “She is all right.”

  I know she’s not all right, but I didn’t expect him to answer the question honestly. Andy Erb didn’t much care for me back when I was a teenager and his daughter’s best friend. The sentiment had been mutual. We haven’t spoken in a decade, but even now I feel the rise of dislike inside me, and I realize some emotions aren’t erased by time.

  He picks at a loose straw on his hat. “The funerals are this afternoon.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  When he looks up from his hat, I’m surprised to see a flash of something ugly. It’s so incongruous with everything I know about the Amish culture that I’m taken aback.

  “Mattie told me the buggy accident wasn’t an accident,” he says.

  Only then do I identify the emotion I see in his eyes as rage. He’s entitled, but it’s not a good fit. I choose my words carefully because the last thing I want to do is fan the flames. “I don’t know that for a fact, but it’s something we’re looking into.” I hold his gaze, trying to get a feel for his frame of mind. “Do you know something about that, Mr. Erb?”

  “Paul was a deacon,” he tells me.

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Mattie sent me here. To speak with you. She reminded me that Enos Wengerd was excommunicated a few weeks ago. She thought
I should let you know about it.”

  I don’t know Wengerd personally; our paths never crossed when I was Amish, and I’ve never had cause to speak to him since I’ve been back. But I keep my thumb on the Amish grapevine. I know he has a reputation for being Amish when it’s convenient and breaking the rules when it suits him. He raises sheep on a small farm between Painters Mill and Millersburg.

  I open my desk drawer and remove a pad of paper. “Do you know why he was excommunicated?”

  “He bought a truck. He attended Mennischt church services. Er is en maulgrischt.” He is a pretend Christian.

  The mention of his buying a truck makes my antennae go up. “Do you think his being excommunicated is somehow related to what happened to Paul and the children?”

  Erb leans forward, his expression intensifying. “When I went to the horse auction in Millersburg last weekend, I saw him arguing with Paul. Der siffer hot zu viel geleppert.” The drunkard had sipped too much.

  “Wengerd was drinking alcohol?”

  “Ja.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “I don’t know, but Enos was in a state. He was angry about being placed under the bann. His family would no longer take meals with him. His parents refused to let him into their home. He blamed Paul when it was his own doing.”

  “Do you know what kind of truck he purchased?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know anything about English vehicles.”

  “Did Enos threaten Paul?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Did the confrontation get physical?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Did anyone else witness the argument?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. They were out where they park the buggies.” He looks down at his hat. “I wish I had done something. Talked to them.”

  “I’ll talk to Enos,” I tell him.

  Andy rises with the arthritic slowness of a man twice his age and I know the anguish of the last two days has taken a toll.

  “Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Erb.”

  He leaves without responding.

  * * *

  It’s too early for an official visit from the police department—even for the Amish, who rise early—so I decide to swing by my brother’s farm before talking to Enos Wengerd. It’s been months since I spoke to Jacob, and like so many visits in the past, I suspect it’s going to be tense at best, unpleasant if I want to be honest about it. Jacob and I excel at both.