Breaking Silence (24 page)

A man with curly blond hair approaches us. Wearing black slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looks more like a waiter in some upscale restaurant than an assembly-line supervisor. “Can I help you?”

We show him our badges. “We need to speak to Willie Steele,” I say.

“He do something wrong?” Shields asks.

“We just want to talk to him,” Tomasetti responds.

“Let me pull him off the glue wheel. Gotta get the break operator to replace him or things’ll pile up. Can you hang on a sec?”

Frowning, Tomasetti looks at his watch.

I smile inwardly. “We’ll wait.”

Shields rushes over to his desk, slides to a stop with the verve of a figure skater, picks up the phone. I see him looking at the man working the rotating machine, and I recognize the guy as Willie Steele. “That’s him right there,” I tell Tomasetti.

“Big guy.”

I think of the beating Mose took. “Big coward. Let’s see how tough Mr. Steele is when we haul him to the station.”

I see amusement in Tomasetti’s eyes. “I’ll give you the honors.”

“Hopefully, he knows I used to be Amish.”

“This is going to be a lot more fun than I thought.”

Shields comes back looking harried. “Break operator is on the way. Can you hang for a couple of minutes?”

Tomasetti sighs, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. I’m about to reply, when I notice Steele looking at us. He’s frozen, his mouth open. The cylinders moving down the conveyer belt begin to pile up in front of him, and I realize he’s thinking about running.

The woman working next to him notices and stands up. “Hey!”

“We just got made,” I hiss.

Steele bolts.

“Shit,” I hear Tomasetti mutter, and then I’m running toward Steele.

“Halt! Police!” I shout. “Willie Steele! Stop!”

At the assembly line, a dozen faces turn to watch me as I sprint past them. Twenty feet ahead, Steele knocks over a stool, tosses a trayful of cylinders at me. “Fuck!” he shouts.

For such a big guy, he’s fast and agile. I’m running full out, but he’s still pulling away. Tomasetti is slightly ahead of me now. Wishing I hadn’t done those shots earlier, I hit my lapel mike, call for backup. If Steele gets out of the building and to his vehicle, he could get away.

Tomasetti and I are at an added disadvantage because Steele knows the layout of the building and we don’t. As long as we keep him in sight, we should be okay. Not an easy task when the guy runs like a freaking rhinoceros on speed.

He takes us toward a huge overhead door marked
PAINT ROOM
at the end of the walkway. He makes like he’s going to go right. I veer in the same direction, my arms pumping, my feet pounding the concrete. At the last minute, he goes left, and I lose another yard.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see employees coming off the lines to watch. The conveyer belts don’t wait, and oil-filter cylinders pile up and fall to the floor.

We’re running down another walkway now. A forklift backs into Steele’s path. Cursing the driver, Steele slams his fist into it, but he keeps moving and veers left. Tomasetti darts around the other way. I follow Steele, but I’m losing ground. Then we’re back on the walkway. Steele looks over his shoulder, spots Tomasetti.

“Fuckin’ cop,” he snarls, and darts right. Remembering what he did last time, I take a chance and veer left. At the end of the walkway, he darts left, too. I gain ten feet, almost close enough to tackle him. I’m focused, running as hard as I can, ready to take him down.

He cranks his head around. I’m so close, I can see his eyes widen when he spots me. I’m aware of Tomasetti off to my right, a few feet behind me. The forklift comes out of nowhere. Steele doesn’t have a snowball’s chance of avoiding it. At the last instant, he puts his hands out. The momentum of his body collapses his arms. His forehead clangs hollowly against the steel cage that protects the driver. Steele reels backward two steps, then goes down like a big rodeo bull. He slides along the concrete on his back, coming to rest against a support beam.

I reach him just as he raises his head. “Stay down!” I snap, tugging the cuffs from my belt. “On your belly! Now!”

“Wha…”

Grabbing his arm, I flip him over and kneel. “Shut up and give me your wrists.” Shoving my knee into his back, I reach for his hands. “Don’t move.”

“My fuckin’ head…”

“Serves you right.” His wrists are slick with sweat as I pull his hands behind his back and snap the cuffs into place.

Tomasetti slides to a stop next to me, kneels, and rams his knee against Steele’s back. “I’ll bet no one ever accuses you of being smart, do they?” he says to Steele.

The downed man groans. “What’d I hit?”

I rise and look around. A dozen factory workers have formed a circle around us, their eyes alight in anticipation of some late-night entertainment. Across from me, Tomasetti brushes dust from his trench coat. He’s breathing hard. I can tell by the look in his eye that he enjoyed the chase.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m good. How about you?”

“Most fun I’ve had all day.”

I’m smiling when I bend and grasp Steele’s arm. “Come on. Up and at ’em.” He outweighs me by a hundred pounds, but he feels as wobbly and frail as an old man when I pull him to his feet.

“I’m dizzy. I think I need a doctor.” Steele shakes his head, makes a show of blinking. He’s got a bump the size of a hen’s egg in the center of his forehead.

I look at Tomasetti. He rolls his eyes, then addresses Steele. “You ever hear the Chinese proverb about the steel dragon?” he asks.

“No, man.”

“Didn’t think so.” Taking Steele’s arm, he guides him toward the exit on the opposite side of the building.

I address the group of line workers. “Sorry for the disturbance, folks. Show’s over, so you may as well go back to work.”

A collective groan of disappointment emanates from the crowd.

I catch up with Tomasetti just as Steele asks, “So what’s the proverb say?”

“Translated, it says don’t ram your head into forklifts.”

Steele gives him an incredulous look. “That’s the stupidest fuckin’ proverb I ever heard.”

*   *   *

Two hours later, Rasmussen, Tomasetti, and I sit at the conference room table with a downcast Willie Steele. At first, he was belligerent, so we let him stew in a cell for an hour or so in the hope that when we started questioning him, he would be ready to talk. It worked. The earlier belligerence has given way to reticence. Or maybe he’s being coy.
That’s all right,
I think.
It’s still early in the game.

The bump on his forehead now resembles a baby eggplant. I’m starting to wonder if we should have him transported to the hospital to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion. Not because I’m unduly concerned about Steele’s physical well-being, but I’ve learned that if a suspect’s health is in the hands of the police, they’d damn well better make sure he emerges in the same condition as when he came in.

A few minutes earlier, the warrant came through from Judge Siebenthaler. I dispatched Skid and Glock to pick it up, then head over to Steele’s apartment for a search. Hopefully, they’ll come back with some shoes or boots we can match to the footwear impressions from the scene.

When everyone’s ready, I hit the
RECORD
button on the digital machine and take a moment to identify all present and recite the date and time. Then I read Steele his Miranda rights. “Do you understand these rights?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

Everyone holds their collective breath, anticipating that Steele may exercise his right to an attorney, which would bring this to a grinding halt. Five seconds pass, then Tomasetti dives in with a harsh summary of Steele’s predicament, using the “We have a bunch of evidence against you, so you may as well start talking” approach. “We have a Skoal can with your fingerprints on it that places you at the scene of a murder.”

“What?
Murder?
”

“We’ve got footprints that are going to match those boots we took off you.”

Steele gives him a red-eyed glare. “I didn’t kill anyone! What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The barn you torched? We found a dead guy inside.”

“What? We didn’t—”

“We’ve got you dead to rights,” Tomasetti points out. “We could charge you with first-degree murder right now. If the prosecutor wants to be a hard ass about it, he might even go for the death penalty.”

“Fuck you! I didn’t kill no one!”

“You’re going down, my man. You’ll be
lucky
to get life in prison. It’s a done deal. End of story. You getting all that?”

“I didn’t do no murder!” he cries.

“So if you’re feeling lucky today, go ahead and keep your big fat mouth shut.”

Steele jumps to his feet, slams his fists against the tabletop, jangling the cuff. “This is bullshit! I didn’t kill anyone!”

In an instant, Tomasetti is on his feet. Clamping his hand around the back of Steele’s neck, he shoves him back into the chair. “Sit the hell down, you piece of shit.”

Steele sits there, breathing hard, glaring up at Tomasetti. “You guys are railroading me.”

“Shut up.” Tomasetti says the words through clenched teeth. I know him well, probably better than anyone, but even I can’t tell if it’s an act. Either he’s a better actor than I’d imagined, or he’s genuinely pissed off.

Tomasetti bends, gets in Steele’s face. “I’m going to give you one chance to save yourself,” he says in an ominous tone. “Are you ready to listen?”

Steele struggles to get himself under control. After a moment, he says, “I’m listening.”

“We know you were working with someone. Give us the name or names, and we’ll cut you a deal.”

“I wasn’t with no one! I swear!”

I fold my hands in front of me and sigh. “Willie, there’s no such thing as loyalty when it comes to doing hard time. When we find your partner, you can bet he’s going to roll over on you. Even if you were only along for the ride, you’re going to fry.”

Steele gapes at me, his mouth opening and closing like a big fish. “I-I think I want a lawyer. I know how you fuckin’ cops operate. You’re trying to trick me into incriminating myself.”

Tomasetti scowls at me. “Book this piece of shit. Murder one. Arson. Felony assault. Attempted murder. And be sure to tack on the hate-crimes designation. That’s good for an extra five years.” He looks at his watch. “I’ve got to get back.”

I rise quickly, look at Steele. “You just blew the best chance you’re going to get.”

“
Wait!
” Steele screams the word. His face blooms brick red. He’s sweating profusely. The bump on his forehead seems to throb beneath the stark fluorescent lights.

We look at him, wait. He stares back. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll talk.”

Tomasetti looks at his watch, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “We don’t have all day.”

Steele blinks rapidly. “What’s in it for me?”

Rasmussen speaks up. “Give us the names of the people who were with you and we’ll recommend manslaughter to the prosecutor.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Best-case scenario,” the sheriff says, “you get probation.”

“No jail time?” Steele asks hopefully.

Rasmussen shrugs. “We can’t make any promises, Willie. All we can do is let the court know you cooperated and make a recommendation.”

“Juries like it when defendants cooperate with the police,” I add.

Steele looks like a trapped animal, one that’s thinking about chewing off its own leg to get free. One more small push and he’s going to start gnawing.

Tomasetti removes the handcuff key from his pocket and bends to unfasten the cuffs. “Better?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Rubbing his wrists, Steele flexes his fingers and stares down at his hands as if wondering what they’re capable of.

Taking Tomasetti’s cue, I rise and go to the coffee station, pour coffee into a Styrofoam cup, and slide it across the table to Steele. “You need creamer?” I ask.

“Black’s fine.” After a couple of minutes, he raises his head, looks at Tomasetti. “You sure you guys aren’t trying to fuck me over?”

“We need your help,” Rasmussen says. “Do the right thing. Help us out here. And we’ll help you as much as we can. You have my word on that.”

Steele picks up the cup and slurps. His hands shake so violently, he ends up spilling some. No one seems to notice.

We wait.

After a moment, Steele raises his gaze to Tomasetti. His forehead is so swollen and misshapen that his eyes look slightly crossed. “We didn’t mean for no one to get hurt.”

“I understand,” Tomasetti says. He’s the good cop now, the guy you can confide in without worrying that he’ll use it against you.

Steele blows out a breath. “We killed them sheep. The ones that belong to that nasty old Amish broad.” He goes silent.

“What else?” I ask.

He stares at his hands. “Tossed a Molotov cocktail into a buggy.” Incredibly, he laughs. “You shoulda seen that fuckin’ horse go.” At the last moment, he remembers whom he’s dealing with and sobers.

“Willie,” I say, pressing. “Tell us the rest.”

“We beat that fat Amish guy. Tied him to his buggy.” He shifts in his chair. “Every time we hit him, that fuckin’ guy spewed Bible shit. Like God was going to swoop down from heaven and rescue him.”

I stare at him, wondering if he’s so stupid that he doesn’t realize that kind of commentary isn’t exactly inspiring our collective sympathies.

“What about the barn?” Rasmussen asks.

Steele’s gaze snaps to his. “That wasn’t my idea. I swear to God. I didn’t want to do it. It was a nice damn barn.”

Tomasetti’s eyes glint. He looks like a predator toying with some half-dead prey. “Whose idea was it?” he asks.

Grimacing, Steele touches the bump on his forehead, checks his fingers for blood. “James Springer.”

Recognition sparks in my brain. I’ve heard the name before. Some long-buried memory tugs at me. I turn the name over in my head, churning through the years. That’s when I recall going to school with a boy by the name of James Springer. An
Amish
boy. He was nearly ten years my junior. I remember him because I always thought he looked like a cute little puppy. “He’s Amish?” I ask.