Breaking Silence

CHAPTER 10

An outdoor scene that’s been trampled and is spread over a large area is extremely difficult to process. Tomasetti called his office and requested a CSU, but none of us are too optimistic they’ll glean anything useful. Sheriff Rasmussen arrived a short while after the ambulance left. We’re basically standing around doing nothing, so I call Glock and send him and Pickles out to canvass the area farms, in the hope that one of the neighbors saw something. But with the area being heavily wooded and the houses more than a mile apart, the prospect of a witness is not very promising.

It’s nearly noon when my cell phone chirps. Pickles says, “Chief, Glock and I are out here at Dickey Allen’s place. We were asking him about the buggy incident, and we got to talking about the Slabaughs. He told us Solly Slabaugh used to hire a guy by the name of Ricky Coulter to do odd jobs around the farm. I ain’t run him through LEADS yet, but if I recall, he’s had some problems with the law.”

That’s the way cases usually go. You get a break from some unlikely source when you’re least expecting it. It’s kind of like falling in love, without all the insanity. “I’ll go talk to him.” I pull out my keys, make eye contact with Tomasetti, and motion toward my vehicle. “Any of the neighbors see anything?” I ask Pickles.

“Not a damn thing.”

“Keep at it.”

I ring off, clip my phone onto my belt. I’m walking fast, energized by the possibility of a break in the case. Tomasetti falls in beside me. “You get something?”

“The name of a guy who did some work for Slabaugh.”

“Sounds promising.”

“A break would be nice.”

We reach the Explorer. “What about your vehicle?” I ask.

“I’ll pick it up after we talk to Coulter.”

“Fair enough.” We climb inside and I pull onto Township Road.

“Wouldn’t be the first time some lowlife killed the guy who signed his paycheck,” Tomasetti says.

“Who says crime doesn’t pay?”

I call Lois for Coulter’s most current address as I head toward the highway. She punches his name into LEADS and discovers he did time at the Mansfield Correctional Institution for burglarizing his place of employment, a tire shop, where he stole some tools and two hundred dollars in petty cash.

“Raiding the till to triple murder is one hell of a leap,” Tomasetti comments.

“Yeah, but not implausible.”

“What’s your theory?”

“Maybe Coulter planned to rob Slabaugh. Maybe he wasn’t expecting the brother to be there. Abel was visiting, remember? Anyway, let’s say Coulter showed up. The three men had a confrontation. Things got physical. Coulter pushed them into the pit, then panicked and ran.”

Tomasetti takes over. “Rachael Slabaugh shows up. Tries to save her husband, but the methane gets to her and she falls into the pit.”

“What about the missing cash in the mason jar?” I ask.

“Maybe he hit the house on the way out, once everyone was in the barn.”

“Pretty cold-blooded.”

“Yeah.”

We look at each other, our minds churning. It’s a good supposition. But is it right?

Coulter lives in a small frame house a block from the railroad tracks and grain elevator. The dank, salty smell of the nearby slaughterhouse wafts into the Explorer as I pull up to the curb. An old Ford Thunderbird with wide tires, aluminum wheels, and oxidized black paint sits in the driveway, a tribute to the muscle cars of the 1970s.

“He work?” Tomasetti asks.

“Third shift at the oil-filter factory in Millersburg.”

We disembark and take the cracked sidewalk to the porch. The front yard is mostly dirt and trampled gray snow. A child’s tricycle and several toy cars litter the sparse grass. It looks like a toy graveyard.

Standing slightly to one side, I use my keys to knock on the storm door.

A moment later, a plump woman holding a newborn baby opens the door. She wears faded jeans and a Cincinnati Reds sweatshirt. Pale blue eyes dart from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “Can I help you?” she asks.

I show her my badge. “Is Ricky Coulter here?”

“He’s in bed.” She looks over her shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

“We just want to talk to him,” I say. “Can you get him for us?”

“He’s only been asleep a couple of hours.”

“This won’t take long.” Tomasetti smiles easily. “Go wake him for us.”

I can tell she doesn’t want to comply, but she’s smart enough to realize she doesn’t have a choice. “Okay.” Hefting the baby, she steps back. “Come on in.”

We step into a small living room. The walls are white and nicked up, evidence of a family that’s long outgrown its dwelling. A few feet away, a toddler wearing a diaper and a stained bib sits on well-worn carpet and pounds a pan with a wooden spoon. In the kitchen, a white dog with a cast on its leg lies on the cracked linoleum, watching us, its tail fanning the air. The television is tuned to a soap opera.

“Can I help you?”

I look up and see a thirty-something man shuffle out of the hall. He’s wearing pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt. I can tell by the crease marks on the left side of his face that he’d been sleeping. Behind him, the woman clutches the baby, eyeing us with unconcealed suspicion.

“You Ricky Coulter?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Rubbing his fingers over mussed hair, he walks toward us. “What’s this all about?”

“I understand you did some work for Solomon Slabaugh,” I begin.

“I dug some postholes and put in some end posts for him a couple of months ago.” His brows knit. “Does this have something to do with what happened to him?”

“Where were you yesterday morning?”

He takes the question in stride, as if I’d asked about the weather. “I was here.”

“You work that night?”

“I was sick. Ate something that didn’t agree with me.”

“Is there someone who can verify that you were here?”

Turning, he motions toward the woman. “Honey, tell them where I was yesterday morning.”

She hovers a few feet away, bouncing the baby, dividing her attention between us and the soap opera. “He was home sick. We ate at that burger place down by the speedway, and he threw up half the night.”

The baby squirms and begins to cry. Bouncing him slightly, she coos to him. “Shush now, little bear.”

Tomasetti looks from the baby to Coulter. “You ever have a disagreement with Slabaugh?”

Coulter shakes his head. “Never. Solly was a real stand-up guy. Honest and nice as could be.”

“We know about your record,” Tomasetti says.

“I figured that’s why you’re here.”

“You robbed your employer,” I add. “Took two hundred dollars and over five hundred dollars in tools.”

Coulter’s gaze flicks to me. “That was a long time ago. I did my time for that. I’m a different man now.”

“Prison rehabilitated you?” Tomasetti’s voice is bone dry.

Coulter doesn’t notice. “You might say that. I found the Lord when I was in prison. I read the Bible. Started going to services every Sunday. Once I let Jesus Christ into my life, He showed me the way.”

Tomasetti gives him a “You’ve got to be shitting me” look. “He didn’t happen to show you the way to Slabaugh’s cash or valuables, did he?”

Coulter offers a placid smile, his resolve unshaken. “If someone needed a shirt, Solly would have given them not only his shirt but his coat, too. If I needed something—money, food, whatever—he would have given it to me, no strings. He was a staunch believer and a good man. I couldn’t believe it when I heard they were killed.”

“Do you mind if we take a quick look around?” Tomasetti asks.

Coulter opens his arms, a priest welcoming the lost into his church. “Knock yourselves out. I don’t have anything to hide.”

I see Tomasetti roll his eyes as he starts toward the kitchen. Searching the home of a private citizen without a warrant can be tricky, but I know why Tomasetti asked. He knew Coulter would give us his permission. Chances are, we won’t find a damn thing. Criminals rarely invite the cops into their homes if they’ve got something to hide. But you never know when a lucky break might present itself.

I start toward the bedrooms at the rear, not quite sure what I’m looking for. I pass a bathroom, flip on the light, peek inside. I see a shower curtain with green fish and little blue starfish; seaside-themed wallpaper. Ratty towels hang neatly on a pitted chrome rack. A plastic boat rests on the side of the tub. A typical family bathroom. Nothing of interest here.

Moving on, I come to the first bedroom. It’s a small space with a single window and blue paint on the walls. A bunk bed decked out in Spider-Man sheets sits opposite a crib. Toys of every shape and size lay scattered on the carpeting. The room smells of baby powder and dirty clothes. Stepping over a coloring book on the floor, I peek in the closet. Out-of-season clothes lie folded on an old bookcase. I notice a Sam’s Club–size box of disposable diapers, sneakers, a tiny hoodie wadded up on the floor.

I proceed down the hall to the master bedroom. It’s larger, with two windows, newish beige carpet, and a fresh coat of paint. The furniture is rustic with a Native American theme. The bed is unmade and I can see the glow of the electric blanket control on the night table. I go to the closet, pull open the sliding door. I see a half dozen pairs of blue jeans, sweaters, and flannel shirts. Work boots and a pair of women’s clogs lie on the floor. Moving the clothes aside with my forearm, I check the rear, where an old suitcase, a baseball bat, and an old leather glove are stashed.

I’m about to straighten, when I catch a glimpse of glossy wood behind a long coat. I shove the coat aside. A strange thrill rushes through me when I see the dark patina of a rifle stock. I don’t have anything against citizens keeping guns in general. But Ricky Coulter is no ordinary citizen. He’s a felon—not to mention a person of interest in a triple murder case—which makes it illegal for him to possess even a hunting rifle.

I pull a pair of latex gloves from my coat pocket, slip them on, and pick up the rifle. Some vague sense of recognition flares in the back of my mind as I drag it out. The rifle is familiar, but I’m almost certain I’ve never seen it before. It’s an older .22 bolt-action with a walnut stock, no scope. I open the chamber, find two bullets inside. Loaded. With little kids in the house. “Idiot,” I whisper, and tug a Baggie from my belt.

Plucking out the bullets, I drop them into the Baggie, put it in my coat pocket. Closing the chamber, I carry the rifle into the hall.

Tomasetti and Coulter are standing in the living room. I can tell by Coulter’s expression that Tomasetti isn’t being very nice. Both men stare at the rifle in my hands as I approach. I focus my attention on Coulter. “Did you forget about this?” I ask.

He blinks at me. “Where did you get that?”

“I didn’t pull it out of my back pocket.”

“It ain’t mine.”

“Maybe you could explain how it got in your closet.”

His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti to the rifle. “I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

His wife gasps. “Ricky … where’d that come from?”

Tomasetti shakes his head. “And to think I was just starting to like him.”

“I’m serious.” Coulter’s voice is indignant now. “I don’t have any guns in this house. I got kids. I’m a convicted felon; I can’t have any kind of weapon.”

“How did it get in your closet?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” He takes a step back, his eyes bouncing like Ping-Pong balls between me and Tomasetti. “It ain’t mine. I swear. I don’t own a twenty-two, and I never have.”

In ten years of law-enforcement experience, I’ve heard every conceivable lie told in every conceivable form and spewed with the vehemence of brimstone and fire. I’m an expert at spotting lies and the liars who tell them. But as I watch Coulter, all I can think is that this guy is a step above the rest, because he’s almost believable.

Tomasetti steps closer to him. “So if it isn’t yours, how did it get there?”

“I don’t know.” He chokes out the words like a cough. “I’m telling you: That gun ain’t mine.”

I glance sideways at Tomasetti, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing I am: This guy is good. That’s unusual, because Tomasetti is one of those cops who believe 90 percent of the population are pathological liars.

“We’re going to have to take you to the station,” I say.

“Ricky? What’s going on?” His wife rushes toward us. She’s still holding the baby, looking at the rifle as if I’m about to shoot her husband with it. “Where did you get that gun?”

The toddler runs to his mother, grabs her leg, and buries his face in the denim. “Mommy.”

“It’s not mine. I swear!” Coulter chokes out a sound of pure anguish. “Aw, come on … my kids…”

Maintaining eye contact, I tug handcuffs from my belt and approach him. “Turn around.”

“What are you doing?” his wife screeches.

“We’re just going to talk to him,” I tell her, hoping she stays calm.

“Aw man.” Coulter’s face screws up. To my dismay, he hangs his head and begins to cry. “Don’t do this. Not in front of my kids.”

I glance toward the door. “Let’s step outside.”

With the insouciance of a man taking a Sunday stroll, Tomasetti steps between the wife and Coulter. “We just have a few questions for him, ma’am. Step aside.”

“About what?” she cries.

I turn my back on them. Taking Coulter by the bicep, I guide him through the front door. It’s colder and the wind has kicked up. A misty rain falls from a murky sky.

Coulter wipes his face with his sleeve, then turns and offers his wrists. “That’s not my rifle.”

I snap on the cuffs. “We’ll get it straightened out at the station.”

An hour later, Tomasetti and I are sitting in my office, drinking one of Mona’s coffee-chocolate-hazelnut concoctions. I’m wishing I had something a lot stronger. I booked Coulter into jail on a parole violation and contacted his parole officer. She sounded young and inexperienced—and surprised by the news. In the year he’s been out of prison, Ricky Coulter has been a model parolee. He holds down a full-time job and has never missed a single appointment. After hanging up, I recap the conversation for Tomasetti, and he tells me she just hasn’t been part of the system long enough.

“A few more years and nothing will surprise her,” he says.

“That’s really jaded, Tomasetti.”

“Reality is jaded.” He shrugs, unapologetic. “One day Citizen Joe’s a born-again Christian; the next he slits his neighbor’s throat over a parking space.”

“Nice.” I’m not going to admit there’s a part of me that agrees with him.

I sip coffee as I type the serial number of the rifle into an NCIC query to see if it comes back as stolen.

“So what are you thinking?” Tomasetti asks after a moment.

“I’m thinking I don’t like this.”

“You mean Coulter as a suspect?”

“I mean any of it.”

I finish typing and look at him over my monitor. He’s wearing a charcoal shirt with a black tie beneath a nicely cut jacket. His trench coat is draped across the back of his chair. I can smell the piney-woods scent of his aftershave from where I sit. He’s a nice-looking man, but not in the traditional sense. He’s got a severe mouth, and his eyes are too intense. But the overall picture of him appeals to me in a way that no other man ever has. I don’t know why, but that scares the hell out of me.

“The kids…” I shake my head. “I felt like the bad guy, taking him in the way we did.”

“You weren’t.”

“I know, but it felt that way.” I hit ENTER, sending the query, and lean back in my chair. “He seemed pretty adamant about the rifle.”

“You tell a lie enough times and you start to believe it yourself.”

For an instant, I wonder if he’s talking about more than just Coulter. I’ve told my share of lies. He knows about most of them, but not all. “Anyone ever tell you you’re cynical?”

“All the time.” Leaning back in the chair, he extends his legs out in front of him and stretches. “What else is bugging you?”

I think about it a moment. “When I saw the rifle in the closet, I got this strange feeling that I’d seen it before.”

“You mean recently?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.” I reach for the memory, but it’s not there, like a hand grasping at smoke. “I was hoping to tie up the Slabaugh case with Coulter, but I don’t think he’s our guy.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t like him for this or the hate crimes.”

“Where’s all that hard-nosed cynicism, Tomasetti?”

“At the risk of ruining whatever image of me you’ve drawn in your head, I don’t think a cop should let cynicism override good old-fashioned instinct.”

“Now there’s a novel concept.”

“Chief?”

I glance toward the door to see Glock standing there, looking excited. “Please tell me you have good news,” I say.

“A guy out on Township Road 2 remembered seeing a dark-colored pickup truck hauling ass last night near where you found Lambright. Says he noticed because the driver blew a stop sign, just about hit him.”

“Anyone get a plate number?”

He shakes his head. “Witness says he was moving too fast.”

“What about a description of the driver?”

“Don’t know. T. J.’s talking to the guy now.”

“Any word on Lambright’s condition?” Tomasetti asks.

“Broken ribs. Broken nose. Hypothermia. Emergency doc says someone worked him over good.”

“Just for being Amish,” I mutter. “Sons of bitches.”

“Maybe the truck will pan out,” Glock says.

I’m not as optimistic. “Run all blue and black pickup trucks, Ford and Chevy, registered in Holmes and Coshocton counties,” I say to Glock. “Run the drivers through LEADS, see if we get anything interesting.”

“I’m on it,” he says, and disappears down the hall.

I feel like breaking something, but there’s nothing handy, so I look at my computer screen to see if anything has come back on the rifle. Of course, there’s nothing there yet. The database is huge and queries take time. Something about the rifle niggles at me. Some insignificant memory on the edge of my brain. Something I thought wasn’t important but is. I know I’ve seen that stock before. But where?

I’m in the process of retracing my every step from the day before when it hits me. “Holy shit.” I jump to my feet fast enough to startle Tomasetti. “I think I just remembered where I saw the rifle.”

He arches a brow. “Lay it on me.”

I look at him, my heart pounding. “The Slabaugh place. Yesterday afternoon. In the mudroom.”

“Yesterday? Are you sure?”

“No.” But I am. The more I think about it, the more certain I become. I grab my parka. “Only one way to find out.”

Standing, he reaches for his own coat and sighs. “Cynicism outstrips faith in mankind once again.”