Breaking Silence (13 page)

“I am.”

“I just read the report you filed on the burning buggy incident.”

I look from Tomasetti to Rasmussen, wishing I hadn’t done those two shots. I’m at a distinct disadvantage here. The alcohol has rendered my IQ somewhere between that of a toddler and a German shepherd. While I’m pretty sure Rasmussen hasn’t noticed, I’m utterly certain Tomasetti has.

“These crimes qualify as hate crimes, Kate.” Rasmussen gives Tomasetti a pointed look. “I know your department is tied up with the Slabaugh thing, so I contacted BCI.”

“Isn’t a hate-crimes designation usually federal?” I ask.

“Hate crimes are against the law no matter which agency does the investigating.” Tomasetti shows me his teeth. “I drew the case.”

“We wanted an agent who was familiar with the area,” Rasmussen interjects. “Since Agent Tomasetti has worked in Painters Mill before, I thought he was the best person for the job.”

I nod. “We worked the Slaughterhouse Killer case last year. A couple of months ago, we worked the Plank murder case.”

“I remember,” the sheriff says. “Nasty business.” Rasmussen looks from me to Tomasetti and then back to me. “Agent Tomasetti and I met for dinner earlier. We were talking about the hate-crime issue, and we thought with your being formerly of the faith, you might be able to lend a hand with the Amish,” Rasmussen says. “I’m batting zero because none of the victims will press charges.”

“Or even report the crime,” Tomasetti adds.

“You can add Kaufman to that list.” I recap my exchange with Kaufman at the scene. “He denied anything had happened and basically refused to talk to me.”

“Nice.” Rasmussen sighs in obvious frustration. “How the hell do these Amish assholes expect us to get these idiots off the street if they don’t cooperate?” He catches himself and mutters, “No offense, Kate.”

“None taken.” But it makes me smile. “The Amish want to be separate from us. They want to be left alone.” I shrug. “They haven’t yet learned they can’t do that completely when the rest of us live in such close proximity.”

“It takes two to tango,” Tomasetti says.

Rasmussen adds, “That makes the Amish easy pickin’s if someone wants to mess with them.”

“Exactly,” I agree. “There are probably quite a few more crimes that have been committed, but we don’t know about them because they were never reported.”

“And there’s not a whole lot we can do without a complainant,” Rasmussen says.

“Sooner or later, someone’s going to get hurt,” Tomasetti adds.

I nod. “Probably sooner at the rate we’re going.”

“We pulled stats for Holmes and Coshocton counties,” Rasmussen says. “Even though the numbers are skewed because so many of these crimes go unreported, in the last two months there’s been a marked escalation.” He sighs. “Because most of the incidents were mischief-type crimes, local law enforcement hadn’t taken aggressive action.”

I tell them about the two men McNarie mentioned earlier.

“Could be our guys,” Rasmussen says.

“Or part of a concerted effort,” I add. “A group.”

Tomasetti nods. “Considering the escalation in such a short period of time, I’m betting on the latter. Some hate group. Loosely organized. Young Caucasian males, ages fifteen to twenty-five.”

Something unpleasant scrapes at the edge of my brain. I don’t want to let it in, look at it. But it’s there, nagging at me like an arthritic joint: my conversation with Pickles about the Slabaugh case. “It would be a huge escalation with regard to the level of violence, but do you think it’s possible the Slabaugh murders are hate-related?” I give them the particulars of the case.

“I suppose it’s possible.” Rasmussen’s voice is slightly incredulous. “Different MO.”

“Suspects?” Tomasetti asks.

I tell them about Adam Slabaugh. “He doesn’t have an alibi.”

“Pretty strong motive,” Tomasetti says. “The kids.”

Rasmussen leans back in the booth, taking it all in. “So maybe this is all one big fucked-up case.”

“I don’t know,” I say. Both men look at me. “The Slabaugh case feels different. I think there’s something else there we’re not seeing.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something I’ve missed.” I shrug. “Something about the family.”

Both men nod, knowing that some crimes are that way. Solving them takes time, as well as persistence, perseverance, patience. You need to trust your instincts enough to follow them blind, listen to something as intangible as your gut.

“We can talk about this a little bit more tomorrow.” Rasmussen slides out of the booth and tosses a few bills on the table. “It’s past my bedtime.” He looks at me. “Good to see you, Kate.” He turns his attention to Tomasetti. “See you in the morning.”

I watch Rasmussen walk away, but my attention is focused on Tomasetti. Tension creeps down the back of my neck and spreads into my shoulders.

“How are you, Kate?” His voice is deep and intimate, and I feel the rumble of it all the way to my stomach.

“I’m good.” I look at him. John Tomasetti has a powerful presence. Even more so from my perspective, because my feelings for him are fervent. We’re close, but sometimes I sense some unexplained chasm between us, unmapped territory, which feels vast tonight. “You could have told me you were coming.”

He smiles. “You mean warned you?”

I smile back. “That, too.”

“I called.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Then I got busy with Rasmussen. Didn’t want to call you when I was in the car with him.”

“Might have been awkward.”

“Kind of like now.” He softens the words with a smile.

I can’t help it; I laugh. “But we’re so good at awkward.”

“We’re good at a lot of things.”

“Just not surprises.”

“Even when they’re nice.”

Silence falls and Tomasetti lets it ride. I try going with it. I peel the label on my empty bottle. I listen to the music. Usually, silence doesn’t bother me. John and I have been through a lot together; I don’t need conversation to be comfortable. This is one of those times when the silence is like a tuning fork against a broken bone.

When I can stand it no longer, I ask, “How’s the move going?”

“I’m all moved in. Nice digs, by the way.”

“Have you found a place in Cleveland?”

He nods. “Rented a house by the lake.”

“Nice.”

But we’re both dancing around the real subject. The fact that he’s living back in the city where his family was murdered. A city where a lot of people—the cops included—suspect he went rogue and executed the men responsible. I want to ask him how he’s dealing with all that, but some inner voice warns me to tread lightly, give him some space.

McNarie arrives and sets two more Killian’s on the table between us. Frowning at me, Tomasetti slides the pack of cigarettes and lighter across the table toward McNarie. Smoothly, the old barkeep picks them up and drops them in his apron pocket. I give Tomasetti points for not lecturing me on all the dangers of smoking.

“Been here long?” he asks.

“About an hour.”

“You look tired.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m drunk.”

“I’ve noticed.” He sips his beer. “I guess the question is: Why?”

It’s an honest question—one I should probably be asking myself. But then, Tomasetti is one of the most honest people I’ve ever known. He asks the hard questions, even when he knows the person he’s asking probably doesn’t want to answer. He also gives honest answers, even when you don’t want to hear the truth. It’s not easy being his friend; it’s not easy caring for him. But he’s got me on both counts and then some.

When I don’t respond, he lets me off the hook, moves on to a topic we’re both more comfortable with. “Tell me about Adam Slabaugh.”

I recap everything I know about the formerly Amish man. “There was some bad blood between the brothers.”

“Other suspects?”

“The kids mentioned a day laborer, but nothing’s panned out. We canvassed…” I shrug, let the words trail.

“Uncle going to get custody of the kids?”

“Probably. Against the wishes of the bishop.” I’m leaning back in the booth, staring at my beer. I can feel Tomasetti’s eyes on me, probing and poking, and I sense the hard questions coming on.

“Four Amish kids,” he says. “Dead parents. Makes it tough.”

“Kids always make it harder.” But then, Tomasetti already knows that.

“Last few cases you’ve worked have been tough, Kate.”

I look at him. The smile that emerges feels rigid on my face—like if it gets any tighter, the facade will shatter and what I’m really feeling will come pouring out. At the moment, I’m not even sure what that is. “I’m handling it.”

“I guess that’s why you’re here, drinking shots and smoking cigarettes.”

“Maybe it is.” I look at him, let some attitude slip into my voice. “You going to lecture me now, Tomasetti?”

“That would be hypocritical of me.”

“That’s one of the things I like about you.”

“You mean aside from my animal magnetism?”

“You know when to keep your mouth shut.”

“I believe that’s the most touching thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

Smiling, he finishes his beer. We listen to an old Lou Reed song about Sweet Jane. The young couple at the rear finish their pool game, shrug into their coats, and head for the door. The football game on the tube ends and the local news comes on.

“I’ve been a cop for a long time, Kate. I’ve worked a lot of cases. Been to a lot of dark places.”

I look at him, not ready to get serious, not wanting to hear what he’s going to say next. The urge to spout off something silly and meaningless is strong, but the look in his eyes stops me.

“Whether you want to admit it or not, all of those things take a toll,” he says.

“Tomasetti…”

He raises a hand to quiet me. “All I’m telling you is, if you want to talk about anything, I’m here.”

Some of the ice that has been jammed up inside me melts. The knot that’s been in my chest all day loosens. “I’ll let you know.”

CHAPTER 8

The sun hovers like a fluorescent orange ball above the treetops to the east when I arrive at the station. The storm that rolled through last night is nothing more than a purple line of clouds moving off to the east. The weather system left two inches of snow behind, just enough to cover the tree branches and make the streets slick.

I drank too much last night, and I have the hangover to prove it. Tomasetti followed me home, fixed me a can of soup, then put me to bed. Part of me had wanted him to spend the night, had expected him to ask. He didn’t. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I hate to admit it, but my female ego is smarting this morning.

I find Mona sitting at the dispatch station, surfing the Internet, a lollipop sticking out of her mouth. She looks up when I enter and pulls out the lollipop. “Morning, Chief.”

“Please tell me you made coffee.”

“Figured you’d be in early. It’s hazelnut.”

I prefer plain old Colombian, but I’ve learned to choose my battles when it comes to Mona’s quirks. “As long as it’s hot.” I head for the coffee station, snag the largest mug I can find.

Grabbing message slips, she rises and crosses to me. “Thought you’d want to see this ASAP. Tom Skanks down at the bakery came in at about four this morning. I guess he starts his doughnuts about that time. Anyway, he said he heard about the Slabaughs and remembered some guy hassling the wife a few days back.”

Coffee forgotten, I take the message from her hand and read “Will be at the bakery until eight.” I glance down at my watch. It’s just after 7:00
A.M.
“I’m going to go talk to him.”

“I’ll hold down the fort.”

The Butterhorn Bakery is two blocks from the police station, so I brave the snow and walk. Originally from Boston, Tom Skanks and his wife, Maureen, opened the shop about ten years ago. It’s housed in the storefront of an old brick building that was a funeral home back in the 1970s. Occasionally, Glock or Skid will pick up a couple dozen glazed doughnuts and bring them back to the station. The Skanks have got the best coffee in town and make the tastiest apple fritters I’ve ever had. I always find myself trying not to think about the old crematorium in the basement.

The aromas of cinnamon and yeast reach me from halfway down the block. Warmth envelops me when I open the door and walk inside, and I know Tom has had the big oven at the rear of the store going since the wee hours of the morning. The customer area is dimly lit, since he’s not yet open for business. I look through the service window behind the counter and see Tom in the kitchen area, hovering over a commercial-size deep fryer.

Rounding the counter, I head toward the back and go through the swinging doors. Tom starts when he spots me, sets his hand to his chest. “You trying to give me a heart attack, or what?”

He’s a short man with brown hair and a belly that tells me he spends a good deal of his day sampling the fruits of his labor. He wears a white apron over a navy golf shirt and dark slacks. A smear of flour streaks his right cheek.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” I motion toward the door. “You might consider keeping it locked when you’re not open.”

Shaking his head, he goes to the stainless-steel sink and washes his hands. “I’d argue with you, citing the low crime rate here in Painters Mill, Chief Burkholder. But after hearing about what happened to them Amish folks, I don’t think I’d have a leg to stand on.”

“That’s why I’m here, Tom. I understand you saw some kind of confrontation between Rachael Slabaugh and someone here in town.”

“Didn’t think of it until I heard they might’ve been murdered.” Drying his hands on his apron, he crosses to an industrial-size coffeemaker and pours two cups. “Happened right outside the front door. I saw everything through the window.”

“What happened?”

“That Amish woman…”

“Rachael Slabaugh?”

“Yeah. Her. She was a pretty little thing. I saw her in town all the time, either with the kids or her husband. But she was by herself that day.” He shoves one of the cups at me and motions toward the window. “She tied her horse up to that hitching post, probably to go into the tourist shop next door. Anyway, some guy in one of them little Toyota pickup trucks parked behind her buggy and blocked her in.”