Sworn to Silence (12 page)

If this had been any other case, I would have jumped on the offer. I would have formed a multi-jurisdictional task force and included not only the sheriff’s office, but the State Highway Patrol and the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation. I can’t do that with this case. The last thing I need is a half dozen overzealous cops breathing down my neck.

I make a mental note to call Detrick later to thank him personally and
stave off any questions about my lack of action. “Let me see where we’re at on this thing and I’ll give you guys a call. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“Good enough.” He jerks his head, then heads toward the door.

I smile at Glock. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Briefing in two minutes.” I start toward dispatch to collect my messages. “My office. Let everyone know about it, will you?”

Glock gives me a mock salute and hustles to his cubicle.

I’m midway to the dispatch desk when Janine Fourman blocks my path. “Chief Burkholder, I’d like a word with you.”

The urge to push past her is strong, but I don’t. She’s a substantial woman, both in physical stature and her standing in the community. I’ve been around long enough to know any mishandling on my part will come back to bite me. Janine ran for mayor last election and lost, but only because a few people figured out a clawed creature exists beneath that favorite-aunt façade. I’ve seen those claws extended a time or two myself, and I have no desire to get verbally mauled when I have a murder to solve.

“Janine, I’m about to meet with my officers.”

She is a woman of about fifty-five with dyed black hair, small brown eyes, and a body as short and round as a milk-fed beef cow. “Then I’ll get right to the point. This whole town is abuzz about the murder. The rumors are flying that it’s the serial killer from the early nineties. Is that true? Is it the same guy?”

“I’m not going to speculate.”

“Do you have a suspect?”

“Not at this time.” It doesn’t elude me that she doesn’t ask about the victim.

“Why on earth did you turn down Sheriff Detrick’s offer to help? You’re not going to try to handle this on your own, are you?”

I’m usually pretty good at handling pushy numbskulls like Janine. But the things I’ve seen so far on this seemingly endless day, coupled with fatigue, the weight of my responsibility to this town—and my own secrets—have squashed my patience.

“I did not turn down Detrick’s offer for help,” I snap. “I told that deputy
I’d give the sheriff’s office a call after I meet with my officers and figure out where we are.” Her eyes widen when I take a step toward her. An edgy sense of satisfaction ripples through me when she gives up ground and steps back. “And if you’re going to quote me, you’d better make damn sure you get it right.”

“As a member of the town council, and I’m entitled to some answers,” she huffs.

“You’re entitled to a lot of things, but you are
not
entitled to embellishing upon information you overhear. That includes misquoting me. Are we clear?”

Her mouth tightens into a thin, unpleasant line. Pink spreads up her neck all the way to her cheeks. “It would benefit you greatly, Chief Burkholder, if you were more cooperative with the people who sign your paycheck.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Pulling myself back from a place I don’t want to go, I glance toward my office. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

I push past her and don’t stop until I reach dispatch. “Messages?”

Lois shoves a stack of pink slips at me and puts her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Nicely done, Chief,” she whispers in a conspiratorial tone.

“If she tries to get into my office, shoot her.”

Snorting, Lois returns to her phone call.

I start toward my office.

“Chief Burkholder!”

I turn to see Steve Ressler, publisher of the
Advocate,
jog up to me. He is tall and wiry with a ruddy complexion and a head full of bright red hair.

I stop because he’s probably the only friendly media I’ll see in the coming days. “Make it quick, Steve.”

“You promised a press release this afternoon.”

“You’ll get it.”

He glances at his watch. “Presses start at five.”

The
Advocate
usually comes out on Friday. Today is Monday, which tells me a special edition is going to press. “Give me an hour, will you?”

His grimace tells me he’s not happy about the delay, but he’s perceptive enough to realize I’m not going to put the case on hold to accommodate his schedule. Steve might look like an older version of Opie from the
Andy Griffith Show,
but he’s a type A personality from the word go.

He checks his watch again. “Can you fax it to me? Say by six?”

It will be fully dark by six. I find myself dreading the darkness. “I have some safety tips for citizens I want printed, too.”

“That’s good.” I can tell by his expression he’s going to ask about the murder, but I turn away before he can.

An odd sense of relief flutters through me when I enter my office and turn on the light. The familiarity of this cramped little space comforts me. Working off my coat, I hang it on the hook and close the door. I need a few minutes to regroup. The energy that’s been driving me since the wee hours of the morning drains from my muscles, and I collapse into my chair. Closing my eyes, I put my face in my hands and massage my temples. I want coffee and food. For a few precious minutes, I want a reprieve from questions I have no idea how to answer, and the nightmare of this case.

But when I close my eyes, I see Amanda Horner’s brutalized body. I see the bruises at her ankles. The black gleam of blood in the snow. Ligature marks that cut all the way to the bone. I see the anguish in her parents’ eyes. I feel a different kind of anguish in my own heart.

Turning on my computer, I pull the “Slaughterhouse Murders” file from my drawer and set it in front of me. I grab a legal pad and as the computer boots, I jot the things I want to review with my officers.

Assignments. T.J.—condoms? Glock—footwear imprints? Tire-tread imprints? Mona—abandoned properties. Me—similar crimes. Background checks—Connie Spencer. Donny Beck. People at the bar. Suspect list.

My hand pauses. I think of the killer. I ponder his mind-set, and I write.

Motive. Means. Opportunity. Why does he kill? Sexual gratification. Sexual sadist. Where does he kill? A place he feels safe—remote, i.e., no gag. Not worried about victim’s screams. Basement? Soundproof room? Abandoned property?

I think of opportunity and wonder if he has a job, and I write:

Does he work?

A knock interrupts my thoughts. “It’s open.”

The door opens a few inches and a hand clutching a paper bag from Ellis’s Burger Palace appears.

“I come bearing gifts.”

“In that case come in.”

T.J. enters and approaches my desk. “Hamburger with pickles, hold the onions. Large fries and a Diet Coke.”

The aroma elicits a grumble from my stomach. I smile as I reach for the bag. “If you weren’t already engaged, I’d ask you to marry me.”

“Sustenance, Chief. You gotta eat.” But he blushes.

Behind him, Glock appears holding four biggie coffees in a cardboard carrying tray. “I got the caffeine.”

I unpack my lunch as Skid drags in a folding chair. I steal a few bites of the hamburger as the men take their seats. “We’ve gotta catch this guy,” I begin.

Glock sets his coffee on the edge of my desk. “So is it the same guy from before or not?”

I shake my head. “We can’t operate under that assumption.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t want to limit ourselves.” I don’t believe that. But I can’t reveal that the murderer from the early nineties is dead—if that is the case. I hate it, but I have no choice but to lie to my team. “We could have a copycat.”

“That’d be pretty fuckin’ strange,” Skid says between bites.

“The one thing we can assume is that we probably have a serial murderer on our hands. This was no crime of passion. He was organized. Deliberate.”

The room goes so quiet I hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.

“So you think he’s going to kill again?” T.J. asks.

“That’s what he does. He kills. He’s good at it. He likes it.” I sip my Coke. “And it’ll happen right here in Painters Mill unless he moves on to another town.”

“Or we get him first,” Glock adds.

I set my drink on my desk. “We’ve got to pull out all the stops, guys. That means mandatory overtime.”

Three heads nod, and it’s reassuring to know I have the support of my small
force. I look down at my hastily scratched notes. “I’ve got Mona working on a list of abandoned properties in the two-county area. T.J., where are you on the condoms?”

“Manager of the Super Value gave me the names of the two guys who paid with checks.” He glances at his palm-size notebook. “Justin Myers and Greg Milhauser. As soon as we finish up here I’m going to talk to them.”

“Good. What about the cash guy?”

“Manager is going to get me copies of video first thing in the morning.”

“We need it now.”

T.J.’s expression turns sheepish. “His daughter is having some kind of birthday party tonight.”

“Call him. Tell him you need that tape yesterday. If he balks, tell him we’ll get a search warrant and he’ll be scraping produce off the floor for a month.”

“Got it.”

“Once you get the tape, I need the cash guy identified. This is a small town. It shouldn’t be too hard.” I turn my attention to Glock. “What about the tire tread and footwear imprints?”

“I had them couriered to BCI. I’m still working on getting imprints of city vehicles and footwear. Probably be another courier fee, Chief.”

“Don’t worry about the budget. How soon can you finish?”

“Today. If you guys give me a shoe imprint before you leave this meeting, that would be great.”

“You got a kit?”

“I’ll just use an ink roller and put them on paper if that’s all right.”

“Should be good enough for a comparison analysis.” I think about that for a moment. “Did BCI give you a time frame?”

“Two days. Three max.”

“Tell them we want priority or I’ll call the attorney general and have him light a fire.”

Glock nods. “Okay.”

My mind jumps to the next subject. “You getting background checks on those people at the bar?”

“A few have come back.” Glock opens a tattered folder. “Aside from Connie
Spencer, the only other hit that came back is for a guy by the name of Scott Brower.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Thirty-two years old. High school dropout. Worked at the oil filter factory down in Millersburg, but he got into some kind of altercation with his boss, threatened to cut her throat.”

“Nice guy,” T.J. says.

“I bet he didn’t get the raise,” Skid comments.

Glock meets my gaze. “Boss was female. Anyway, he’s been working as a mechanic over at the Mr. Lube.”

“Did the factory press charges for the threats?” I ask.

“Fired him, but there were no charges filed.”

“Any arrests?”

“Four. Two were domestics. One for slugging a guy in a bar in Columbus. The other he pulled a knife on a guy in a bar in Kingsport, Tennessee.”

“Sounds like Mr. Brower has a penchant for knives.”

“And bars,” Skid interjects.

“Not to mention a problem with women,” Glock adds.

I nod. “You got a current address?”

Glock rattles off the address of a downtrodden apartment complex on the west side of town.

“He ever work at the slaughterhouse?” I ask.

“HR says no.”

“See if he’s got a juvie rec. I’ll pay him a visit.”

Glock looks mildly concerned. “Alone?”

“We don’t have the manpower to work in teams.”

“Chief, with all due respect, this guy seems to have problems with women in places of authority.”

“Yeah, well, I have my .38 to back me up in case he mistakes me for the weaker sex.”

Skid gives a raucous laugh.

Impatient, I tap my pen against my notes. “What about Donny Beck?” I ask Glock.

“Squeaky clean.”

“Go talk to his friends and family. I’ll rattle his cage a little. See if he has an alibi.”

He gives me a thumbs-up.

I transfer my attention to Skid, who’s slumped in his chair like a sleepdeprived tenth grader in study hall. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair looks like it hasn’t been washed for a couple of days. He hasn’t shaved. He straightens when I address him. “I want you to finish interviewing the rest of the people at the bar. And I want background reports on the Horners.”