Sworn to Silence (13 page)

“You think they—”

“No,” I cut in. “But we leave no stone unturned.”

Skid nods.

“Lois and Mona can help you guys type up your reports,” I say. “Document everything.”

I contemplate my team. All three men are good cops, but only two are experienced. I have a good bit of experience myself. But mine is mostly limited to patrol. I worked a total of four homicides during my stint in Columbus.
God help us
is all I can think.

“Recap.” I lean back in my chair. “People of interest?”

“Scott Brower,” Glock says.

“The three condom guys,” Skid adds.

“Donny Beck,” I say.

T.J. pipes up. “The Slaughterhouse Killer.”

If I totally dismiss the old case, I risk appearing incompetent. “I pulled the file,” I say. “Doc Coblentz is sending the complete autopsy reports. I’d like for each of you to familiarize yourself with the details of the case.”

Glock nibbles the cap of his pen. “Let’s say it is the Slaughterhouse guy. What’s up with the lapse in activity? And wasn’t the Roman numeral IX carved into the last victim?”

“So what happened to ten through twenty-two?” Skid asks no one in particular.

“Maybe he’s been a busy boy somewhere else,” Glock surmises.

“Or he wants the cops to think that,” T.J. offers.

I cut in before the conversation takes a turn I don’t want it to take. “I’ve got some database queries going for similar crimes. If he changed locales and used the same signature, we’ll get a hit.”

“He could have been arrested on some unrelated charge,” Skid puts in. “Went to jail, did his time, and was recently released.”

I meet his gaze. “Follow up on that. Check with DRC.” DRC is the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections. I hate wasting his time on a ruse, but I have no choice. “Get a list of names for all male inmates released in the last six months, between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five years of age.”

Skid looks like a gas pain hit him. “That’s a lot of names.”

“Ask DRC to narrow it down for you. They keep statistical information on parolees. Check males with two or more violent offenses, especially sex crimes and stalking. Start with the five surrounding counties, then expand from there. Include Columbus, Cleveland and Wheeling, West Virginia. I’ll call Sheriff Detrick about getting you some help. In the interim, I’ll okay Mona and Lois for overtime.”

He nods, but looks overwhelmed by the task I’ve put before him.

I scan the room. “The victim’s clothes were not found at the scene. That means he either discarded them, left them at the murder scene or he’s keeping them.”

“You mean like a trophy?” T.J. asks.

“Maybe,” I reply. “Something to keep in mind.”

I glance at my notes, realize I’ve covered everything I wrote down. “Mona and Lois are working on getting the old file room set up as our command center. It might be a while before all of us are here at the same time again. We may have to do most of our communicating via phone. As always, mine will be on 24/7. Until we catch this son of a bitch, I expect the same from you.”

All nod in agreement.

“Does anyone have anything they want to discuss before we adjourn?”

T.J. is the first to speak. “Do you think at some point you’ll call BCI or FBI for help, Chief?” All eyes land on him, and he flushes. “I’m not saying we aren’t capable of doing this on our own, but our resources are limited here in Painters Mill.”

“Yeah, who’s going to round up all those loose fuckin’ cows while we work the case?” Skid offers with a smirk.

T.J. holds his ground. “There are only four of us.”

The last thing I want to do is involve another agency. But law enforcement protocol dictates I do. My team expects it. I must have their respect to be effective. My credibility depends on my doing the smart thing.

But I can’t ask for help at this stage. As much as I despise lying to them, I can’t risk some deputy or field agent figuring out that sixteen years ago I shot and killed a man, that my family hid the crime from the police and swept the entire sordid mess under the rug.

“I’ll make some calls,” I say, being purposefully vague. “In the interim, I’ve activated auxiliary officer Roland Shumaker.”

“Ain’t seen Pickles since he shot that rooster,” Glock says.

“He still dye his hair Cocoa-Puff brown?” Skid wonders aloud.

“I expect you to treat Officer Shumaker with respect,” I say. “We need him.”

The men’s expressions indicate that for now they’re satisfied with the way I’m handling the case. Two years ago that wouldn’t have happened. I’m Painters Mill’s first female chief of police. Initially, not everyone was happy about it. The first few months were tough, but we’ve come a long way since then. I’ve earned their respect.

I know from experience cops tend to be territorial. These men do not want some other agency horning in on the investigation. On the other hand, if the killer strikes again, I’ll have another death on my conscience because I didn’t do my job the way I should have. It’s an unbearable dilemma.

I think of the press release I’m about to write and fight a slow rise of dread. Steve Ressler isn’t the only media I’ll be dealing with in the coming days. As soon as word of this murder hits the airwaves, I’ll have reporters from as far away as Columbus skulking around town, looking for photo ops.

“Let’s go get this animal,” I say.

As the men file from my office, I can only hope none of them look hard enough to find the whole truth.

Denny McNinch entered the deputy superintendent’s office to find Jason Rummel leaning back in his leather executive chair like a king presiding over his adoring court. Human Resources Director Ruth Bogart sat adjacent his desk. Denny hoped this wouldn’t take long; he was supposed to meet his wife for dinner in fifteen minutes.

“Denny.” Rummel motioned toward the vacant visitor chair. “Sorry for the short notice.”

Short notice was a stretch. Car keys in hand, Denny had been on his way out the door when Rummel called. “No problem.”

“We received an RFA this afternoon from the town of Painters Mill,” Rummel said. RFA was BCI-speak for “Request for Assistance.”

Denny shifted, glanced at his watch, waited.

“The town council believes they have a serial murderer on their hands.”

Denny stopped fidgeting. “Serial murder?”

“Apparently, there’s a history of a killer working the area. It’s been a while, fifteen or sixteen years. The councilwoman I spoke with said the general consensus is that the killer is back.”

Dinner forgotten, Denny leaned forward.

Rummel continued. “Painters Mill is mostly rural with a population just over five thousand. Amish country, I’m told. The small police force is overwhelmed. The chief is small town. Female. Inexperienced.”

Usually, it was Denny who was contacted by local law enforcement. It was, after all, his responsibility to assign RFAs to agents. On the outside chance
the RFA found its way to Rummel’s desk, he would normally reroute it back to Denny. He wondered why Rummel was handling this one. He wondered why Ruth Bogart was there, since field cases didn’t fall within her realm of responsibility. He wondered why the hell
he
was here when this could have been handled over the phone.

“I’m assigning the case to John Tomasetti,” Rummel said.

That was the last thing Denny expected him to say. “Tomasetti’s not ready for field work.”

“He’s a field agent drawing a paycheck every week.”

“With all due respect to John, he’s a fucking train wreck.”

“This isn’t a day care. We’ve offered him a sweet retirement deal and he turned it down. If he’s going to continue working here, he’s going to have to pull his weight.”

“To be perfectly honest, I have some concerns about his emotional stability.”

“He’s been given a clean bill of health.”

Denny wondered if he should point out the drug use issue or, more importantly, John Tomasetti’s reputation. The Cuyahoga County grand jury might have given him a free pass, but Denny had been a cop long enough to know how to read between the lines. He’d heard the rumors about what Tomasetti did in Cleveland. Nothing had been proven, but it was the general consensus within the Division of Police that after the murder of his partner and family, Tomasetti had taken the law into his own hands and gone rogue.

“He spent two weeks in a psycho ward,” Denny said. “I don’t think you want to turn him loose on the public.”

Rummel got up and closed the door. “John Tomasetti is dead weight. He’s a liability to the agency. A liability to this office. A liability to me. The only reason he’s still around is because of the threat of litigation if I fire him.”

Denny was starting to connect the dots. He didn’t like the picture they made. “Tomasetti can’t handle a case right now.”

Rummel leaned forward. “I’m speaking to you off the record here, Denny. If any of what I’m about to say leaves this room, I’ll have your ass in a bag. Are you clear on that?”

Heat crept up Denny’s neck. “I understand.”

Rummel gave Ruth Bogart a pointed look. “Ruth?”

Crossing her legs, she glanced down at her notes. “We’re well aware of what John went through,” she began. “Our hearts go out to him. As you know, we offered him a deal, including full medical benefits. He turned it down. If we terminate him, he’ll sue us, and he’ll probably win.”

Rummel cut in. “We want him gone, Denny. We’ve tried reasoning with him. We’ve been more than fair. This is the only way.”

Denny almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Almost. But he’d known Rummel for three years now. He knew the man played dirty to get what he wanted. If you were on Rummel’s hit list, you may as well hang it up because you were going down.

“If you play it this way, there’s a chance you’re going to have collateral damage.” Denny looked from Rummel to Ruth Bogart. “Tomasetti isn’t going to be much help to this town. If there’s a serial murderer operating there, I don’t have to tell you more people could die.”

Bogart spoke up. “Best-case scenario, the RFA alone will compel him to reconsider the retirement deal. On the outside chance he accepts the assignment, he won’t last. We’ll get complaints from local law enforcement. That will give us grounds to terminate him with no repercussions.”

“Everyone wins,” Rummel added.

Everyone but John Tomasetti and the citizens of Painters Mill, Denny thought.

“I want you to get him dispatched ASAP,” Rummel said. “I want everything done by the book. You understand?”

Denny couldn’t imagine assigning John Tomasetti a major case. The man was teetering on a precipitous edge. One shove and he’d tumble into an abyss he might not be able to climb out of. “If we assign Tomasetti this case, it’ll push him right over the edge.”

Bogart looked down at her notes.

Stone-faced, Rummel held his gaze. “We’re counting on it.”

Full darkness has fallen by the time I leave the police station. The night sky is so clear I can see the Big Dipper. The weatherman promised temperatures would plummet to below zero by morning. Not a good night to be prowling an old grain elevator looking for a corpse.

I finished the press release and handed it off to Lois on my way out. She was gracious enough to stay late for some final editing, and agreed to fax it to Steve Ressler before heading home to her husband and children and the kind of normal life I can only imagine.

I need a shower and a few hours of sleep. I should have already questioned Donny Beck. Those things are going to have to wait until Jacob and I search the grain elevator fifteen miles away in Coshocton County. If we find Daniel Lapp’s remains, I’ll know without a doubt I’ve got a copycat on my hands. If we do not find any remains, I’ll know Lapp survived. The focus of my investigation will shift, and I’ll begin working the case from that perspective.

I turn into the gravel lane of Jacob’s farm to find the windows dark. Parking in the same spot I did earlier in the day, I start toward the door. I’m midway there when I see Jacob striding toward me, holding a lantern of all things.

“I’ve got flashlights,” I say.

“Quiet,” he snaps in Pennsylvania Dutch, then douses the lantern and sets it in the snow.

I wonder if he’s sneaking out of the house. “You didn’t tell Irene?”

His head jerks toward me, and I realize he’s not sure of the meaning behind my question. “She knows nothing about this.”

I ruminate on that as we start toward the Explorer. I’ve always wondered if he told her what happened all those years ago. The way she looks at me sometimes . . .

We climb into the Explorer. Tension fills the cab as I start the engine and head down the driveway. I sense an array of emotions radiating from my brother, the most powerful being resentment. He shouldn’t be riding in the car with me, especially since I’m under the
bann
. But I sense that isn’t the main source of his discontent. He doesn’t want to help and begrudges me asking him for it. I don’t understand that. Once upon a time we were close. He was loving and protective and would have done anything for me. All of that changed the day I shot Daniel Lapp.