Breaking Silence

CHAPTER 7

We find Adam Slabaugh in the barn, his legs sticking out from beneath the undercarriage of a Kubota tractor. From atop a fifty-gallon drum, a radio spews static and gospel, harmonizing weirdly with the ping of sleet against the tin roof.

Adam must have heard us walk in, because he rolls out from beneath the tractor and gets to his feet. “Chief Burkholder.” His eyes slide to Pickles and then back to me. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Is everything all right?”

I give him a level look. “Where were you last night and this morning?”

He blinks, takes a quick step back, as if trying to distance himself from something unpleasant. “Why are you asking me that?”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d just answer the question.”

“I was here at the farm.”

“Was there anyone with you?”

“No,” he replies. “I live here alone.” His eyes narrow. “Why are you asking me these things?”

“We learned from the coroner that your brothers and sister-in-law may have been murdered.”

He staggers back, as if the words wield a physical punch. “But … how can that be? They fell into the pit. How can that be murder?”

I refrain from telling him about Solomon Slabaugh’s head injury. You never know when someone’s going to slip up and mention something he has no way of knowing—unless he was there. “One or all of them could have been shoved into the pit.”

“Aw, God.” He raises his hands, sets them on either side of his face, and closes his eyes, as if the horrific images are being branded into his brain. “Who would…” When he opens his eyes, I see realization in them, and I know he knows why we’re here. “You think I did that?” Incredulity resonates in his voice. “You think I killed my own brothers? My sister-in-law? You think I’m evil enough to do such a thing? That I would leave my nephews and niece orphaned?”

“You had a beef with your brother.”

“We had our differences. But I would never have hurt him. I would never have hurt any of them.”

“We know about your arrest,” I tell him.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Two years ain’t that long,” Pickles puts in.

“You have no right to come to my home and accuse me of this terrible sin.” His mouth flutters, as if he can’t get the words out fast enough.

I sense an escalation coming. I don’t know if it will come in the form of tears or violence or both, but I brace for an attack. Pickles senses it, too, because he eases his five-foot-two frame between us, daring the younger man to make a move. I stare at Slabaugh, trying to see inside his head, inside his heart, see beyond the theatrics and drama and the hard slap of grief. But when I look into his eyes, all I see are the jagged layers of shock and outrage, interspersed with flashes of sorrow so heavy that his shoulders seem to bow beneath the weight.

None of those emotions exonerates him. Experience has taught me grief doesn’t equal innocence. When I was a homicide detective in Columbus, I worked a case where the killer truly mourned the loss of his victim. When the confession came, he explained how difficult it was to dismember someone you loved. Looking at Slabaugh, I know it would be premature to take him off my suspect list.

“No one accused you of anything,” I say.

Slabaugh takes a step toward me. “You insinuated—”

“She didn’t insinuate shit.” Pickles sets his hand against the other man’s chest and pushes him backward. “Now back off.”

Slabaugh looks down at Pickles as if he wants to strangle him. His eyes are a little wild when they find mine. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what’s in my heart. I loved my brothers. And I love those children.”

Setting my hand on the baton strapped to my belt, I sidle back a step. The last thing I want to do is get into a confrontation with this man. Guilty or innocent, if he crosses a line, I won’t hesitate to take him to jail. “You need to calm down.”

“I don’t like your questions!” he shouts.

“I’m investigating a triple murder, Mr. Slabaugh. I’m asking questions that need to be answered. If you want us to catch who did it, you’d be wise to cooperate.”

He’s breathing hard. I see spittle on his lower lip. His eyes are wide and slightly out of focus. “I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do that. They were my brothers.”

I give him a minute to regain his composure. “Did you leave the farm at any time last night or early this morning? Did you go anywhere?”

“I worked here. Feeding livestock. Mucking the pens. I worked on the tractor. I was alone the whole time.”

“Did you speak with anyone on the phone?” I ask.

“No.”

“Do you know of anyone who might’ve had a problem with your brothers or sister-in-law? Any kind of dispute or argument?”

“They were good people. Good neighbors.” He shakes his head. “They were Amish, for God’s sake. I can’t see anyone wanting to hurt them.”

“No money disputes? Land disputes? Anything like that?”

“Solly and I were once close, but after I was excommunicated…” He lets the words trail off. “He didn’t exactly confide in me. But I don’t believe he had any enemies. He was a decent man. Fair-minded.”

Pickles jumps in with the next question. “What about his personal life? Any infidelity going on? Anything like that?”

“Solly was a good husband, faithful, and a good father. He would never betray his wife or family in that way.”

“What about Rachael?” I ask. “Is it possible she was involved with someone?”

Another vigorous shake of his head. “No,” he says. “She wasn’t that kind of woman.”

“What about drugs?” Pickles asks. “Any drug use?”

“Never.”

I choose my next words carefully. “Do you mind if I ask you how your wife died, Mr. Slabaugh?”

His lips stretch into a snarl, revealing teeth that are tightly clenched. “What? Do you think I killed her, too? My God!”

“This would be a lot easier on all of us if you’d just answer my questions,” I reply evenly.

“Am I a suspect?”

“We haven’t ruled anyone out at this point.”

He sighs heavily, as if resigning himself to some ultimate humiliation. “My wife was killed in an auto accident three years ago.”

I nod, knowing there will be records I can check. “If you think of anything else that might be important, call me, day or night.”

Slabaugh takes the card and stares blindly at it. Only when Pickles and I turn to leave does he raise his head and look at us. “What about the children?” he asks.

I look back at him. “They’re at the farm. Bishop Troyer and his wife are with them.”

“They should be with family,” he says. “With me.”

“That’s going to be up to Children Services.”

Even from twenty feet away, I see the quiver go through his body. His fists clench at his sides. He makes a sound that’s part grief, part outrage. It’s the kind of sound that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Back in the Explorer, I slide behind the wheel and start the engine. Pickles hefts himself into the passenger seat. “For a moment there, I thought he was going to knock your head off.”

“That would have been a mistake on his part.” I toss him a sidelong look as I turn the Explorer around. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s pretty damn squirrelly.” He shakes his head. “We’ve been cops long enough to know family dynamics play into a crime like this more often than not.”

I nod in agreement. “Even if he loved his brothers, if he wanted those kids badly enough, he might’ve done it.”

“That’s some tough love.”

“Let’s keep him at the top of our suspect list for now.” I think about everything we know about Slabaugh. “When we get back to the station, I want you to pull everything you can get on the accident that killed his wife.”

Pickles gives me a look. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

He laughs. “Yeah, and I ain’t fuckin’ old.”

One thing I’ve realized in the last few months is that an insomniac can get a lot done in a twenty-four hour period. While most people are sleeping, we’re still hard at work. But even the sleepless eventually need sleep. At the very least, they need to turn off. I know from experience that I’m not going to sleep tonight. I’ve got that hum coursing like nitro in my head. An edgy, grinding energy pumping through my veins. A motor revving high and running hot.

It’s nearly 11:00 P.M. when I shut down my computer and grab my parka. In the reception area, I find Mona Kurtz, my night dispatcher, at the switchboard/dispatch station, her UGG boots propped on the desk, her nose in a college text titled Law Enforcement Through History. She starts when she spots me. “Oh, hey, Chief.” Subtly, she sets the book into an open drawer. “Calling it a night?”

She’s an almost pretty twenty-something with wild red hair, a wardrobe that would make Madonna blush, and the attention span of a teenager. But in the two years she’s been my dispatcher, I’ve learned to appreciate her finer points. She’s enthusiastic, with a strong work ethic and an obsessive interest in everything cop. With a little maturity and some experience, she just might make a good police officer.

“I just e-mailed you the press release,” I tell her.

“I’ll get it dispatched pronto.”

“Everything quiet?” I ask, slipping into my parka.

“Just the usual. Skid caught that Hoskins kid speeding out by the Jackson place again, wrote him a ticket.”

“Second ticket in two months.”

“Kid’s an accident waiting to happen.” She taps her fingers on her desktop. “Oh, and Mrs. Cartwright called about an hour ago.”

I nod. Mrs. Cartwright has Alzheimer’s and reports a prowler at least twice a week. Anticipating the cold, I zip the parka up to my chin. “My cell’s on if you need anything.”

“Righto.”

“You can get your book back out now.”

She grins. “Roger that.”

Snow greets me when I step onto the sidewalk, but I’m too distracted to fully appreciate its beauty. Three people were murdered in my town today. An Amish mother and father. An uncle. Here I am, nineteen hours later, and I’m no closer to knowing who did it than when I rolled out of bed this morning.

Before leaving for the day, Pickles dug out the police report for the traffic accident that killed Adam Slabaugh’s late wife, Charlotte. I was shocked to learn it was DUI-related. She’d been driving at a high rate of speed with a blood-alcohol level that was twice the legal limit. She died at the scene from massive trauma. The coroner ruled her death accidental, and the Ohio State Highway Patrol concurred. There’s no way her husband was involved.

The CSU from BCI arrived late in the afternoon. They’ll be working through the night and into the morning gathering evidence in the barn. Glock and T.J. spent the remaining daylight hours canvassing the farms around the Slabaugh place. Unfortunately, no one remembers the day laborer Solly Slabaugh had purportedly hired.

We couldn’t even manage a break on the burning buggy case. Despite the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office doubling up on patrols, the dark truck was never spotted. No one saw anything. The day was a wash.

I’m not even a full day into the Slabaugh case, but already I feel battered by the dead ends I’ve run into, and I’m frustrated by my lack of progress. Worse, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something—something that’s right in front of me. But for some reason, I can’t get my mind around it. There’s a dead space in my head I can’t seem to waken.

I should go home, have some dinner, take a long, hot shower, and fall into bed for a few hours. But I know I won’t sleep. The idea of spending the next several hours tossing and turning is about as appealing as a sinus infection. And so as I pull out of the station, I head west instead of east.

I’m not even sure where I’m going until I find myself on Wheatfield Road. It’s a dirt track that dead ends two miles in. My sister, Sarah, and her husband live in the last house. It’s been months since I last saw them. I feel guilty about that because Sarah gave birth to a little girl, my only niece, a couple of months ago. It’s stupid and selfish, but I haven’t been able to make myself come here. I want to believe I haven’t yet met my niece because I’ve been too busy. That would be a somewhat acceptable excuse and a lot simpler than the truth.

A mile from their farm, I cut the headlights and coast down the road. I park on the shoulder and shut down the engine. The kitchen window glows yellow with lantern light. The upstairs bedroom is lit as well, and I picture Sarah up there with her new baby, sitting in the old rocking chair that had once been our grandmother’s, nursing. I wonder if she is the center of her universe, a place where nothing else in the world matters. And I surprise myself by feeling an uncharacteristic rise of an emotion that’s disturbingly close to envy.

Around me, snow floats down from a fuzzy black sky. I can see the tall yellow grass in the bar ditch sway in a light breeze. A row of blue spruce trees runs parallel with the gravel lane. I can just make out the silhouette of the barn and outbuildings beyond, and the big pine tree that grows on the east side of the house. I look at the glowing windows, and I feel like a fool for being parked out here with the headlights doused, like some misunderstood teenager. I know if I went inside, Sarah would be happy to see me. She would welcome me and let me hold my new niece.

But emotions can be so complicated. At the moment, I’m experiencing more than my share, and they all seem a bit too complex to be dealt with when I’m exhausted and distracted by a case. The truth of the matter is, I’m afraid to go inside. I’m afraid to reach out, to tell my sister I’ve missed her and that I want her in my life. Most of all, I’m afraid to hold that little baby. Maybe because there’s a small part of me that feels as if I’m too tainted to hold such a precious thing as a newborn child. Maybe because it would remind me of all the things I’ve lost, of the things I threw away. The memories send a slice of grief through me with such force that I hear myself gasp.

I hit the window control, let the cold air wash over my face. Taking a final look at the house, I start the engine, put the Explorer in gear. And I drive away without looking back.

A few minutes later, I pull into the gravel parking lot of McNarie’s Bar. I’m relieved to find only two cars in the lot. It’s one of many reasons I come here. The place is low-key and quiet—in terms of clientele anyway. McNarie never asks too many questions. Though he’s just a little bit shady, he keeps his ear to the grapevine and passes information on to me if he thinks it might be important. I guess you could call him a small-town version of an informant.

I stifle the little voice telling me to turn around and go home as I kill the engine and get out. Snow stings my face and blows down my collar as I traverse the lot and head for the entrance. Shoving open the heavy wood door, I step inside. The familiar smells of cigarette smoke, old wood, and spilled beer greet me like scruffy old friends. A classic Allman Brothers tune rattles from huge speakers mounted on the back wall. Two men sit on opposite sides of the bar, watching a football game on the tube. At the rear of the room, a young man with a goatee plays pool with a woman in tight blue jeans and a faux-fur coat.

I go to the last booth, where the bulb in the pendant light that dangles above the table is out. Taking off my coat, I sit facing the door. My butt has barely hit the bench when McNarie walks over to the table. He’s a large man with a full beard and a dingy white hair that reminds me of a dirty polar bear. Tomasetti once said he’s a dead ringer for Jerry Garcia.

“I hear them three Amish folks drowned in that pit didn’t get down there all by themselves.” Without looking at me, he sets a shot glass filled to the rim with Absolut and a Killian’s Irish Red on the table.

“That’s what the coroner says.” I reach for the shot glass first and down the vodka in a single gulp. The burn rips down my throat like a fireball. Shuddering, I set the empty glass on the table.

McNarie refills it without prompting. “You know who done it?”

“Not yet.” I give him my full attention. He’s got small brown eyes set in a big puffy face. The white beard partially conceals a scar that bisects his right cheek and runs downward toward his chin. It looks like someone slugged him with a bottle and McNarie never bothered with stitches. I ran a check on him when I first started coming here. Ten years ago, he did a year in prison for felony assault. A few years later, he did two more years on a felony weapons charge and possession of a controlled substance. He’s kept his nose clean since.

He lives on an old run-down farm north of Millersburg and rides his Harley into Painters Mill nearly every day, weather permitting. He owns this place and does a good business. He’s behind the bar every time I come in. I like to think this man is proof that the system works and that he’s been rehabilitated. Or maybe he just decided it was easier to make a living inside the law.

“You hear anything?” I ask.

He sets a pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter on the table. “No one’s talking about it.”

I think about the escalation of violence against the Amish, decide to ask him about that, too. “Did you hear about the burning buggy incident today?”

“I heard.”

“Anyone bragging about it?” I smile, but it feels wan on my face. “Or have a sign taped to their back that says ‘I Did It’?”

His chuckle sounds like the growl of some rogue lion. “A few days ago, a couple of young guys come in—longhaired types. Laughin’ their asses off ’bout doing some shit to an Amish person.”

My heartbeat trips a couple of times. “You know their names?”

“Never seen ’em before.”

“You get specifics on what they did?”

He shakes his head. “Just caught snatches of what they was saying.”

“Do you know what they were driving?”

Another shake. “No, but I’ll keep my eye out.”

I watch him walk away, wishing he hadn’t left the Marlboros, because I know I’m going to smoke them.

Settling into the booth, I sip the beer and light the first cigarette. I watch the twenty-something couple play pool at the rear. They laugh and flirt, and for some reason that makes me feel old. Go home, Kate, that small voice of reason whispers. I silence it, down the second shot, then light another cigarette.

I watch the game and listen to the jukebox and think about the Slabaugh case. I think about family dynamics and my mind moves on to the kids. Mose, just seventeen years old and doing his best to fill his father’s shoes. Salome, only fifteen and trying desperately to keep the family together. And then there’s Ike and Samuel, little boys who should be out on Miller’s Pond playing ice hockey and building snow forts. Instead, they’re crying for their dead mamm and datt and a future that’s as uncertain as the outcome of this case.

I think of Adam Slabaugh, a widower living alone, an Amish man excommunicated from his church and family, an uncle estranged from his niece and nephews. Loneliness can be a powerful force in a person’s life, especially if they’ve lost something precious. Adam lost his wife. Is he cold-blooded enough to murder his own brothers and his sister-in-law in order to gain custody of the children?

I’m midway through my second Killian’s when the door swings open. I glance up absently to see two men enter with a gust of wind and a swirl of snow. Surprise ripples through me at the sight of a Holmes County Sheriff’s Office parka. McNarie’s is a far cry from a cop bar. It’s unusual for any law enforcement to stop in, especially this time of night. Mild surprise transforms to something a hell of a lot more powerful when I recognize the second man. Long black coat, tall frame with an athletic build, dark hair shot with gray at the temples.

John Tomasetti makes eye contact with me at about the same time recognition kicks in. The jolt of his gaze runs the length of my body—an odd mix of shock and guilt and a thread of pleasure that goes all the way to my toes.

Motioning for the bartender to bring drinks, he crosses to my booth and looks down at me. “Hey, Chief.”

“Don’t tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood,” I manage to say.

“Something like that.”

He’s looking at me a little too closely with those hard, dark eyes, eyes that invariably see too much—things I don’t want to share. It’s a struggle not to squirm beneath that gaze.

Sheriff Mike Rasmussen saunters to the booth. “Chief Burkholder.”

Rising, I shake hands with him. “Sheriff.”

Rasmussen slides into the bench across from me.

Tomasetti sticks out his hand. “Nice cave you’ve got here, Chief.”

I accept the handshake. “Welcome back to Painters Mill, Agent Tomasetti.”

“I take it you two know each other,” Rasmussen says.

One side of Tomasetti’s mouth curves, and he slides in next to me. “We do.”

I’ve known John Tomasetti for almost a year now. We met during the Slaughterhouse Killer investigation last January. He’s a good man, a good cop, and a powerful force to me and everyone around him. That case was an intense time for both of us, and somehow we ended up not only lovers, but friends. In the months since, our relationship has evolved, deepened, and I can honestly say the connection we share goes beyond anything I’ve ever experienced with another human being. But neither of us is very good at the relationship thing. We use our jobs as a guise to see each other, but we’ve been discreet; few people know we’re involved.

“I tried to return your call,” I say to the sheriff.

“Probably better to brief you in person anyway,” Rasmussen says.

McNarie arrives at the table, sets three Killian’s in front of us, then hustles away.

“What brings you to Painters Mill?” I direct the question to Tomasetti. What I really want to ask is: Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?

“Sheriff Rasmussen requested our assistance.” He motions toward the sheriff. “I’ll defer to him to give you the details.”

Leaning forward, Rasmussen sets his elbows on the table and clasps his hands in front of him. “I know you’re well aware that in the last couple of months there’s been an increase in crimes against the Amish, Kate.”

“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.”