Pray for Silence

CHAPTER 22

Tomasetti’s gone when I wake. That surprises me because I’m a light sleeper. But having gone without any measurable sleep for the last few days, I was exhausted. Or maybe I just sleep better when he’s beside me. The thought scares me a little bit.

He never says good-bye when he spends the night. The first couple of times it bothered me. Then I came to realize he doesn’t linger because neither of us is very good at the morning-after thing. We’re too cautious about revealing too much, laying too much of ourselves on the line, keeping all those dark secrets safe from a lover’s prying eyes.

He always seems to leave a small piece of himself behind. I still feel his presence in my bed, in the house, on my body, in my mind. The echo of his voice. His rare laugh. The lingering scent of his aftershave. The softness of his mouth. The urgent touch of a lonely man. This imprint of him stays with me for days sometimes. At first it was disconcerting, but I’ve grown to like it. Already, I find myself wondering when I’ll see him again.

Though it’s only six A.M., I quickly shower and dress. Thoughts of the Plank family don’t creep into my mind until I’m driving to the station. Even then, the hard edges are gone this morning. It’s a step in the right direction.

I arrive at the station to find Mona’s Escort parked in its usual spot. Skid’s cruiser is parked next to it, and I know he’s probably finishing up his reports before he calls it a day. Glock will arrive in an hour or so toting either bagels or doughnuts from the Butterhorn Bakery. Mona will complain about the calories. Lois, T.J. and Pickles will arrive and another typical day will begin. We’ll talk about the murders and deal with the media. I’ll call Auggie and officially close the case. My small department and I will go back to refereeing domestic quarrels, bar fights and corralling wayward livestock. Usually the normalcy, the routine of that would be a comfort to me. This morning, it makes me feel as if I’ve swept something smelly under the rug.

I walk in to find Mona sitting at her station, tapping her fingers to a Gin Blossoms tune that’s cranked up a little too loud. “Hey, Chief. You’re in early this morning.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” I cross to the dispatch station, reach over and turn down the radio. “Any messages?”

“Media mostly. From yesterday afternoon. Wanting to know about the Long thing.” She passes half a dozen pink messages to me. “Sorry about the radio. I didn’t realize it was so late. I mean early.” She grins. “Night shift flew by.”

Since the messages are media-related, I hand them back to her. “Let them know I’ll have a press release later this morning.”

“Sure thing.”

At the coffee station, I pour a cup and carry it to my office. While my computer boots, I go to the record storage box next to the file cabinet and carry it to my desk. T. Long Suicide is written in bold red marker on the side. The box contains only a fraction of what we found at the scene; most of it was sent to the BCI lab for processing. Still, I want to go through everything with a fine-tooth comb before closing the case.

Inside the box, I find the evidence log Mona put together. The preliminary report from Doc Coblentz. A manila folder contains a photo record of the scene. A plastic bag filled with pornographic photos of Mary Plank. In addition, there are two boxes of disks. All are copies; the originals were sent to the BCI lab. The first box is marked Viewed. These are the ones Glock, John and T.J. went through yesterday. The second box is marked To Be Viewed. These are the ones I need to look at this morning.

I set the box on my desk. Reviewing them is the last thing I want to do. I know the images that wait for me—rape and depravity—will negate whatever optimism Tomasetti left with me. But even though Long is dead and the case will soon be closed, all the evidence must still be examined.

Rising, I close my office door and slide the first disk into my computer. The drive whirs. I open Windows and click Play. The video opens to a sparsely furnished, windowless room. Stark white walls. A single bulb hangs down from the ceiling. A twin-size bed with an iron headboard and smaller footboard stands in the center of the room. Mary Plank is on the bed, lying on her side. She wears no makeup, but someone painted her mouth red. Her eyes are glazed. She wears a light blue dress, a white apron, gauzy kapp and ankle boots. I try to take in these details with the unaffected eye of a cop. But my chest tightens at the sight of her.

A man clad in blue jeans and wearing the jester mask enters stage right. Bastard, I think and I find myself glad Long stuck that gun in his mouth. He crosses to the mattress and kneels beside Mary. Leaning close, he whispers something in her ear. She smiles at him, then looks at the camera. “We’re going to be playing a sexy game today,” she says.

It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice, and it shocks me. It’s girlish and innocent with the slow inflection of the Amish. Smiling, she reaches for Long. He brushes his knuckles across her check, and I see a connection between them I hadn’t noticed before. The music begins. An old Van Halen song, “Running with the Devil.” As he undresses her, I focus on camera work, realize it’s steady, probably being shot from a tripod.

I fast-forward through the disk, pausing only when something catches my attention. In terms of an accomplice, my efforts net zero. By the time the disk plays out, I’m shaking with outrage and disgust. I feel dirty and upset and unbearably guilty.

Popping out the disk, I mark it as Read, and place it with the other disks that have been viewed. I don’t let myself think or feel as I slide the second disk into the drive. I steel myself against the black dread rising inside me. The voice inside my head telling me I can’t do this. But I don’t stop. I close the drive and click Play.

My pulse jumps when I recognize the Plank farmhouse. The living room. I see the two tall windows, the same lacy curtains. The lighting is bad, probably from some type of battery-powered light. The camera work is jerky, similar in style to The Blair Witch Project, telling me someone is manning the camera. I wonder if this video was shot the night of the murders. Or had Long been at the farmhouse before? And where are the Planks?

The screen goes black for an instant, blinks white, and then the kitchen looms into view. The camera work smoothes out, and I realize he must have set up a tripod. I can see the edge of the table from this angle. The back door. The cabinets and sink. It looks like unedited video. Long appears, adjusting the camera or maybe testing the lighting. He looks into the lens as if he doesn’t realize the camera’s turned on. He’s got a serious look on his face. Is he angry? I wonder. Scared? Intent on killing? Is he about to fly into a rage?

The screen fades to black. The words Death in an Amish Farmhouse appear in red, Gothic-style lettering that reminds me of some high school horror film project. The screen goes scratchy. An instant later the image of Amos Plank lying on the floor flashes in stark black and white. I see a pool of shiny black blood. An open mouth and staring eyes . . . The image lasts for only an instant, but it’s enough to make me queasy.

The camera pans back to the Plank kitchen. No movement. No people. That’s when I realize I’m probably looking at unedited clips that were cut or not used. I think of the title and wonder if I’m seeing snippets of a snuff film. . . .

Staving off a rolling wave of revulsion, I stare at the screen, looking for clues. Doc Coblentz estimated the Planks had died between ten P.M. and midnight. It would have been dark. My eyes go to the back door, but the lighting inside reflects off the darkened window. I hit a couple of keys and zoom in. One hundred and ten percent. One hundred and twenty-five. I squint at the screen. The window is dark. It’s nighttime.

That’s when I notice the pale oval on the other side of the glass. At first I think it’s a reflection. The person behind the camera. I hit the zoom again, taking it up to one hundred and fifty percent. The resolution goes grainy. But I’m almost certain someone is standing outside the back door, looking in. I can see the dark shadows of eyes. The line of a mouth.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

I hit Speaker and speed dial Tomasetti’s cell. He answers on the first ring with his usual growl.

“Do you know someone at BCI who can magnify and improve video?” I ask without preamble.

“I’m still on the road. What’s up?”

I tell him about the face in the window. “When I zoom, I lose resolution, so I’m not getting a clear image.”

He sighs. “I’m about twenty minutes from the lab.” He rattles off an e-mail address. “One of the technicians is a friend of mine. Send the file as an attachment. I’ll swing by and we’ll take a look at it.”

An awkward pause ensues and I realize both of us are thinking about last night. We didn’t get much sleep. Tomasetti breaks the moment and we fall back onto common ground. “You still think there was an accomplice?”

“I don’t know.”

“That would change a lot of things.”

“It would mean there’s a killer running loose in my town.”

The line between us hisses. “I’ll get back to you as soon as we have something.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

They are two of the longest hours of my life. I’m nearly finished reviewing the disks when my phone jangles. I look at the display, but it’s Lois, not Tomasetti. Snarling beneath my breath, I hit Speaker.

“Chief, Aaron Plank is here to see you.”

Shock ripples through me. He’s the last person I expected to see. “Send him in.”

A moment later, Aaron walks into my office. He wears a corduroy blazer over khaki slacks and a nice pair of shoes. When he looks at me, his expression is sage and sad. “I heard about Todd Long,” he says.

Curious as to why he’s here, I motion toward the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. “Have a seat.”

He takes the chair, wipes his palms on his slacks. “I’m heading back to Philly today. I wanted to talk to you before I left. To apologize, I guess.”

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic about that.” But I give him a small smile.

“This has been tough.”

“It was a tough case for all of us.”

He fidgets, looking everywhere but at me, and wipes his hands again. Finally, he meets my gaze. “I just wanted you to know . . . I loved them. Despite what they thought of me, I loved my family. All of them. But Mary . . . she was special.”

A lump rises in my throat, but I swallow, force it down. I don’t know what to say. I barely know how to feel.

Aaron rises. Despite his youth, he looks like an old man this morning. Something in his eyes, in the way he moves. I realize this trip to Painters Mill has aged him in ways that have nothing to do with the passage of years.

He walks to the door, sets his hand on the knob, then turns to face me. “I’d like her journal when the police are finished with it.”

I manage to give him a nod.

At that, he turns and walks out of my office.

I stare after him, trying not to acknowledge the ache burgeoning in my chest. I find myself wishing I’d thanked him for coming in. Wishing I’d said something to let him know I understood. Some things are just too damn hard.

My phone rings. I look down and see the BCI number on the display. Mentally, I shift gears, slam the door on all those old emotions, and snatch up the phone. “What do you have?”

“The technician magnified the still.” Tomasetti’s voice is terse, tense. “He filled in the loss of resolution as best he could. I just e-mailed you the results.”

Without setting down the phone, I open my e-mail software, hit Send-Receive. An e-mail from BCI with an attachment appears in my inbox. I open it and click on the attachment.

The tech did a good job of maintaining the integrity of the photo. While something with this level of touch-up would probably not be admissible in court, it’s enough for me to recognize the face in the window.

“Oh my God,” I hear myself say.

Shock sends me to my feet. I hang up without saying thank you. And then I’m running toward the door.