Pray for Silence (8 page)

Tomasetti, on the other hand, had been dealing with other issues. Working through them. Trying to get his shit together. Or so he’d hoped. Regardless, he wanted to see her. He’d been looking for an excuse to drive down. They worked well together, and it sounded like she could use the help.

It bothered him that she’d hesitated to ask. Tomasetti knew what she was thinking. That he couldn’t handle it. That walking into a case where a family with kids had been murdered would hit too close to home. Maybe she was right. Maybe this case would be like walking into his worst nightmare. Or
maybe this was just one more hurdle on top of a hundred others he still needed to scale.

He was ruminating his options when he found Special Agent Supervisor Denny McNinch waiting outside his office door, pretending to look at the sleekly framed circa 1947 photograph of downtown Columbus perched on the wall like an old piece of siding.

“Morning.” Denny shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and tried to look innocuous. “You got a minute?”

Tomasetti had been around long enough to know there was nothing even remotely harmless any time Denny showed up at your office before nine
A.M
. “Sure. Come in. Have a seat.”

“In the conference room, John.”

Uh-oh,
he thought. The conference room was reserved for the big stuff. Hirings. Firings. Corporate-style powwows that entailed lots of forms in legalese, personnel files brimming with bureaucratic paper and, of course, the covering of managerial asses. It wasn’t the first time he’d been summoned there.

Tomasetti made eye contact and smiled. “Do I need my lawyer?”

McNinch chuckled at the quip, but it was a humorless sound that conjured a deep sense of foreboding in Tomasetti’s gut. “Not even your lawyer can help you this time, partner.”

“Well, that’s good to know.”

They walked side by side down the hall, past cubicles where pretty administrative assistants stared at computer monitors and French-manicured nails pounded keyboards. He could feel their eyes on him, their collective curiosities pricking him like knives. Good fodder for lunchtime gossip.

Tomasetti didn’t like the idea of walking into something unprepared. Since the Slaughterhouse Murders case ten months ago, he’d worked hard to clean up his act. He’d stopped taking the drugs his doctors had prescribed. He’d cut down on the drinking. He’d stopped thinking about putting his gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. His work on the Slaughterhouse case had earned him a commendation and gone a long way toward restoring a reputation of which he’d once been proud.

But it had been more than just the case that had saved him from self-annihilation. He may not have survived if it hadn’t been for Kate. Somehow,
she’d managed to cut through the bullshit when no one else had been able to reach him. She made him want to be a cop again. Made him want to live. Made him want to be a man.

They reached the austere mahogany doors of conference room one. It was then that he knew this was no impromptu morning chat. He’d always known it was only a matter of time before his transgressions of the past caught up with him. When Denny shoved open the door, Tomasetti knew his day of reckoning had arrived.

Deputy Superintendent Jason Rummel stood at the glossy conference table, looking down at a smattering of papers spread out before him. He smiled when he saw Tomasetti. “Morning, John.”

Too friendly,
Tomasetti thought, and figured the meeting was going to be worse than he’d anticipated. “Morning.”

Crossing to him, Rummel extended his hand and they shook. He was a short, wiry man with a pale complexion and a mustache that looked as if it had been fashioned by Adolf Hitler’s barber. “We’re glad you’re here.”

Tomasetti was vaguely aware of the vista of downtown Columbus through the window. The podium affixed with the seal of the great state of Ohio shoved into a corner. The flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. On the opposite side of the table, Human Resources Director Ruth Bogart had already set up shop. He recognized his thick and battered personnel file on the glossy surface in front of her. Next to his file were two pens, a legal pad, several ominous-looking forms and a Starbucks coffee mug smeared with lipstick.

Bogart wore a burgundy power suit with a hint of white lace at the neckline. She looked at him over the bifocals perched on her nose and smiled in a way that reminded him of a coral snake, right before it sank its fangs into you.

Rummel took a seat at the head of the table, reminding everyone he was the man in charge. Behind him, Denny closed the conference room door with an audible
click,
shutting them in. Tomasetti wondered if they were psyching him out. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, he might have laughed at the absurdity of it. Back when he’d worked vice with the Cleveland Division of Police, he’d spent many an hour in interview rooms, psyching out perps. He didn’t much like being on the receiving end.

Tomasetti sat across from Bogart. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”

She ignored him. Rummel cleared his throat. “You’re a good agent, John. One of the best we have. I know we’ve had our differences over the last year or so, but I want you to know I have the utmost respect for you as a professional.”

All Tomasetti could think was that the axe was about to fall. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling in anticipation of the blade. That’s how Jason Rummel operated. Butter them up, then sink the knife in good and deep.

Knowing the value of playing the game, Tomasetti focused his gaze on the photo of the attorney general framed in gold leaf above Rummel’s head. “I appreciate that,” he said.

“I know that last case took a toll, John. Professionally. Personally.” Rummel grimaced. “I know the timing on the whole thing was bad.”

The words were a euphemism for the untimely murders of Tomasetti’s wife and two young daughters two and a half years earlier. People used euphemisms when they didn’t want to say the real thing. This time, because the reality of what happened was too terrible to say aloud. Tomasetti had no use for euphemisms, so he remained silent.

“I want you to know we take care of our agents here at BCI,” Bogart added.

Tomasetti turned his attention to Denny McNinch and gave him a what-the-fuck-is-she-talking-about look. “You going to tell me what’s going on here, or are you going to make me guess?”

Denny wiped his hands on his slacks. “It’s that drug test thing a few months back, John. We tried to make it go away, but the suits want it dealt with. You know, policy.”

Of course, he’d known. The big, bad failed drug test. Back when he’d been self-medicating, alternating between prescription drugs and booze. “That was ten months ago,” he heard himself say.

“These things take time,” Denny said. “There’s a lot of bureaucracy involved and everyone seems to have a different opinion on how things should be handled.”

Tomasetti smiled. Ten months ago, that same failed drug test hadn’t kept
them from sending him into the field in the hopes that he would screw up so they could fire him. “I think the official term is
politics.
”

“No one’s playing politics,” Bogart said quickly.

“In light of your achievements, no one was in a hurry to rush to judgment,” Rummel added. “We’re not here to crucify you.”

“That’s a relief,” Tomasetti said.

If any of them caught the sarcasm in his voice, they didn’t show it.

Rummel looked at the human resources director and nodded.

Ruth Bogart looked down at the file in front of her. “We received a call from the superintendent, John. He wants the drug situation addressed. By the book. You know, to protect the interests of the agency. To protect you.”

“You mean in case I go postal or something?”

Bogart shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Against any sort of liability that might crop up,” Denny added.

“There were some meetings,” she continued. “Jason went to bat for you, John. He put his own career on the line. They weren’t listening.”

I bet,
Tomasetti thought. Rummel didn’t put anything on the line for anyone, unless he had something to gain.

“Jason put in a good word,” she continued. “Made some recommendations. He reminded them of the commendation, your years of service, both with BCI and the Cleveland Division of Police.” She grimaced appropriately. “He reminded them about the ordeal you went through in Cleveland.”

“I appreciate that.” But he felt as if he were being tag-teamed by a pack of dogs. “So what’s the verdict?”

Rummel looked appropriately grave. “The final resolution we arrived at is to place you on administrative leave.”

“Temporarily, of course,” Denny clarified. “You have a lot of friends here at BCI.”

Tomasetti leaned back in the chair. “I guess it pays to have friends in high places.” This time the sarcasm came through loud and clear.

Denny looked like his tie was too tight. “We figured you could use some time off. Get yourself back on track. Hell, get some things done around the house. Go fishing, for chrissake.”

“We play it this way and you can come back with a clean slate. Pick up
where you left off. Everyone wins.” Rummel laughed. “Hell, I wish
I
could take some time off.”

A laugh hovered in Tomasetti’s throat, but he withheld it because he knew it would sound as bitter as it tasted. As far as he was concerned, BCI didn’t give a good damn about him. They just wanted to sweep this dirty little incident under the rug where no one would trip over it.

“I guess that commendation only goes so far when it comes to politics,” he said.

“This has nothing to do with politics,” Rummel said.

Tomasetti let out a sigh. “How long?”

Bogart and Rummel exchanged glances. “As part of your leave package, you will be required to attend regular weekly sessions with a licensed psychiatrist contracted by this agency,” she clarified. “And a drug test. Every week.”

“You gotta pass it,” McNinch added.

Tomasetti couldn’t help it; he laughed. An inappropriate sound that echoed in the room like the growl of some wounded beast. “Oh, for chrissake.”

“It’s a condition of your continued employment,” Rummel clarified.

That was the point when Tomasetti knew he was sunk. There would be no negotiation. No defending what he’d done. No undoing the past. No lying his way out of a reality he himself had created.

Of course, he tried anyway. “Those drugs were prescribed by the same doctors you’re telling me to see now.”

“Those drugs were prescribed by different doctors at different times,” Bogart pointed out. “You abused that.”

“Look, I don’t think we need to get into ancient history.” This from Rummel, the advocate, looking out for the well-being of one of his top agents. “That’s not the purpose of this meeting. I mean it, John. This is an opportunity. Try to look at it that way. Make the best of a bad situation and move on from there.”

All Tomasetti could think was that he’d been making progress. As far as he was concerned, work was the best therapy. Putting him on leave now was like yanking the rug out from under him just when he’d found his balance.

“What about my case load?” he asked, his voice sounding inordinately reasonable.

“Your open cases will be dispersed to other agents,” Denny McNinch said.

Tomasetti didn’t like to share. Not his cases. Not anything. He could feel the anger, the old bitterness rising into his throat. His heart bumping against his ribs, the blood squeezing through his veins with so much force he could feel it pulsing at his temples. “I guess the three of you have it all figured out.”

Denny sighed. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

“Nobody likes this sort of thing,” Bogart said.

“But we have your best interest as well as the interests of this agency in mind,” Rummel added.

“Not to mention the best interest of your collective asses,” Tomasetti put in.

Nobody had anything to say about that.

“Last time you guys had me in here, you were trying to squeeze me out the door,” Tomasetti said. “You were willing to send me into the field to achieve that end.”

Rummel grimaced, put on the face of a man owning up to a painful mistake. “Try to put yourself in my position, John. You went through a terrible ordeal. Nobody’s blaming you, and you’re not being punished for that. We’ve got a vested interest in your well-being. We want you well and back at work. But you’ve got to do this.”

“I’m glad everyone has my best interest at heart,” Tomasetti said, but the cynicism in his voice was unmistakable.

Rummel shot a pointed look at the personnel file in front of Bogart.

The human resources director opened the file and removed a sheet of paper and a form and slid both across the table to Tomasetti. “We’ll need for you to sign the form. For the file, of course. The other sheet contains a list of doctors. You choose which doctor and call them at your convenience.”

When Tomasetti made no move to pick up the papers, she added: “All of this will be kept in the strictest of confidence, John. You know that.”

What he knew was that they had him backed into a corner. His reputation and career were on the line. As badly as he wanted to tell them to go to hell, he knew he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to salvage what was left of his life.

He reached for the papers. The single sheet contained the names and contact information of six accredited psychiatrists located in the greater Columbus area printed neatly on BCI letterhead. The form was a human resource application for leave filled with legalese, already signed and approved by Jason Rummel.

“It’s a good deal,” Denny said.

Tomasetti picked up the pen.

Bogart leaned forward, put a red nail on the line at the bottom. “Sign right there,” she said. “Press hard. It’s in quadruplicate.”

John Tomasetti signed his name on the dotted line.

The October sun has burned through the clouds by the time Glock and I leave the Zook place. As I speed down the lane, I glance toward the Plank farm a mile to the north. The barn roof and the top of the grain silo are visible, but the hedge apple trees growing along the fence line block my view of the yard, house and outbuildings.