Sworn to Silence

CHAPTER 12

Birds chatter like children outside the kitchen window. I’m lost in the chore of baking bread. Above the sink, yellow curtains billow in the breeze. Beyond, the leaves of the maple tree tremble and hiss, revealing their underside, and I know it will storm later. The smells of fresh-cut hay, kerosene from the stove, and warm yeast fill the air. I want to go outside, but as always there’s work to be done.

I push my hands into warm dough. Bored with bread making, I wish for a radio, but Datt has expressly forbidden it. Instead, I hum a tune I heard in the Carriage Shop in town. A song about New York, and I wonder what the world is like beyond the cornfields and pastures of Painters Mill. They are dreams I shouldn’t have, but they are mine and they are secret.

I sense someone behind me. When I turn, I see Daniel Lapp at the door. He wears dark trousers with suspenders and a gray work shirt. A flat-brimmed straw hat covers his head. He looks at me the way a man looks at a woman. I know I shouldn’t, but I smile.

“God will not forgive you,” he says.

That’s when I notice the burgeoning red stain on his shirt. Blood, I realize. I want to run, but my feet are frozen. When I look down, I’m standing in a lake of blood. I see flecks of red on the curtains. Handprints on the counter. Smears on my dress.

Outside the window, a crow caws and takes flight. I feel Daniel’s breath against my ear. I hear vile words I do not understand.

“Murderer,” he whispers. “Murderer.”

I wake in a cold sweat. For an instant, I’m fourteen years old, helpless, terrified and ashamed. Throwing off the covers, I sit up and put my feet on the floor. My breaths echo in the silence of my bedroom. Nausea climbs up my throat, but I swallow it and slowly the dream recedes.

Sitting on the side of the bed, I put my face in my hands. I hate the nightmare. I hate even more that it still wields the power to reduce me to a frightened adolescent. I breathe deeply and remind myself who I am. A grown woman. A police officer.

As the sweat cools on my body and I rise to dress, I swear to the God I have forsaken—the God who has forsaken me—I will never be helpless or ashamed again.

Farmers begin their day early in Painters Mill. At seven o’clock sharp I stand outside the double glass doors of Quality Implement and Farm Supply and think about the conversation I’m about to have with Donny Beck. The sign on the door tells me the store opens for business at seven A.M. Monday through Saturday. Someone is running late this morning. Peering through the glass, I tap with my keys.

A short woman wearing a red smock and a nametag that reads “Dora” smiles at me through the glass. The keys in her hand jingle as she twists the lock. “Morning,” she says. “You’re the first customer of the day.”

I flash my badge. “I need to talk to Donny Beck. Is he here?”

Her smile falters. “He’s in the break room getting coffee.”

“Where?”

“It’s at the back of the store.” She points. “Want me to take you?”

“I’ll find it.” I start toward the rear of the store. I shop here every so often. It’s a nice place to pick up yard stuff like flowers, pots, hand tools. The police department buys tires for city vehicles here. But Quality Implement mostly sells farm supplies. Plowshares. Tractor tires. Fencing. Augers.

The rubber smell of new tires fills my nostrils as I approach the back of the store. I make a left, walking between massive, floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with tires of every shape and size. Ahead, I hear laughter. A door stands open at the end of the aisle. I purposefully arrived at the start of the business day to catch Beck off guard. I want him unprepared so I can gauge his unrehearsed reactions when I ask him about Amanda Horner.

I find Donny in the break room wolfing down a breakfast sandwich from the diner. A petite blonde wearing a Quality Implement smock sits across from him, slurping Coke through a straw. Both young people look up when I enter. The sandwich stops midway to Beck’s mouth. He knows why I’m here.

I give the girl a pointed look. “Can you excuse us?”

“ ’Kay.” She grabs her Coke and leaves the room.

Closing the door behind her, I face Donny Beck.

He swallows hard. “I guess you want to talk to me about Amanda.”

I nod. “I’m Kate Burkholder, Chief of Police.”

“I know who you are. You gave my dad a speeding ticket once.” Rising, he leans over the table and extends his hand. “I’m Donny Beck. You already know that, though.”

I shake his hand. His grip is firm, but his palm is slick with sweat. He seems like a decent young man. A farm boy. Probably uses the money he earns here to fix up his muscle car and raise hell on Saturday night. “When’s the last time you saw Amanda?” I begin.

“The night we broke up. About six weeks ago.”

“How long had you two been seeing each other?”

“Seven months.”

“Was it serious?”

“I thought so.”

“Who broke up with whom?”

“She broke up with me.”

“Why’d she do that?”

“She was going back to college. She didn’t want to be tied down.” He grimaces. “She said she didn’t love me.”

“You get pissed off when she dumped you?”

“No. I mean, I was upset, but I didn’t get mad.”

“Really? Why not?”

He chokes out a sound of denial. “I’m not like that.”

“Did you love her?”

Emotion flashes in his eyes, and he looks down at his half-eaten breakfast sandwich. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“Were you sleeping with her?”

To my surprise, his face reddens. He gives me a nod.

“She sleep around with anyone else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you two fight?”

“No.” As if catching himself, his gaze snaps to mine. “I mean we did. Sometimes. But not often. She was pretty easygoing.” He shrugs. “I was crazy about her.”

“Did she have any enemies?”

He shakes his head. “Everyone liked Amanda. She was sweet. Fun to be with.”

“Where were you Saturday night?”

“I went to Columbus with my dad and little brother.”

“What were you doing in Columbus?”

“We went to a basketball game. Special Olympics. My brother’s handicapped.”

“You spend the night?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you stay?”

“Holiday Inn off of Interstate 23.”

“You know I’m going to check.” I jot everything down.

“It’s okay. We were there.”

“When Amanda told you she didn’t want to be tied down, did you get jealous?”

“No. I mean, a little. Like, when I imagined her going out with other guys. But not like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d never hurt Amanda. Jesus Christ, not like that.” A quiver runs through the last word.

“Like what?”

“I heard . . . what he did to her.”

“Who’d you hear it from?”

“Waitress at the diner said he . . . you know.” Sweat beads on his forehead and upper lip. Wrapping the sandwich in a napkin, he tosses it into the trash. “Makes me sick.”

“I need you to think hard about this, Donny. Is it possible Amanda was seeing someone else?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. She wasn’t guy crazy or anything. Amanda had a level head.”

“So you think she was being straight with you?”

“She said she wanted to stay friends.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “I figured that was a lot better than never seeing her again.” His eyes mist. “Doesn’t matter now. I’m never going to see her again, anyway, am I?”

I shove my notepad into my coat pocket. “Don’t leave town, okay?”

His gaze meets mine. In his eyes I see the kind of pain a twenty-two-year-old farm kid probably can’t fake, and I feel an uncharacteristic need to reassure him.

“You guys think I did it?” he asks.

“I just want you to be available in case I have more questions.”

Leaning back in the chair, he swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I don’t have any plans to go anywhere, anyway.”

I offer my card. “If you think of anything else, call me.”

He looks at the card. “I hope you guys catch the lowlife who did that to her. Amanda didn’t deserve to die.”

“No, she didn’t.” As I make my exit, I mentally cross Donny Beck off my list of suspects.

It’s not yet eight A.M. when I arrive at the station. Glock’s cruiser is parked in its usual spot. Next to it, Mona’s Ford Escort is covered with a thin coating of snow. I wonder what new catastrophe waits for me inside.

Mona looks up from her phone when I enter. “Hey, Chief. You’ve got messages.”

“Now there’s a surprise.” I take a dozen slips from her.

Her hair is piled on top of her head with little ringlets spiraling down. Her lipstick is almost as black as her nail polish. Maroon eyeliner makes her look like she’s got a bad case of pinkeye. “Norm Johnston is getting pissed about having to leave messages, Chief. He’s like, you know, taking it out on me.”

“Did he say what he wants?”

“Your head on a platter, probably.”

I give her a look.

“Just a wild guess.”

I laugh. “Where’s Glock?”

She glances down at the switchboard where a single red light stands out.

“On the phone.”

“When he gets off, tell him to call me.” I walk to the coffee station and fill the biggest mug I can find. In my office I turn on my computer, then drape my coat over the back of my chair. I’m anxious to see if OHLEG came back with a hit on Daniel Lapp.

My hopes are dashed when I log in. If he’s alive, he’s being careful. Probably using an alias. Maybe even a stolen identity or false social security number. Under normal circumstances, I’d start flashing his photo around town. But I can’t risk raising questions. People will want to know why I’m asking about a man who hasn’t been seen for sixteen years. They’ll put two and two together, and Daniel Lapp will rise out of obscurity like some Amish version of Jack the Ripper.

I dial Norm Johnston’s number. Miller’s pond would do the job. It’s a good size body of water with a muddy bottom.

Johnston answers on the first ring. “I’ve been trying to reach you for almost two days, Chief Burkholder.”

“I’m tied up with this murder, Norm. What can I do for you?”

“The town council and mayor want to meet with you. Today.”

“Norm, look, I need to work—”

“With all due respect, Kate, you are obligated to keep us informed. We want an update on how the investigation is progressing.”

“We’re working on a couple of leads.”

“Do you have a suspect?”

“I put out a press release—”

“That doesn’t say squat.”

I sigh. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know much.”

“Then a meeting won’t take long. I’ll have everyone in the city room at noon. We’ll have you out of there in twenty minutes.”

He hangs up without waiting for a response and without thanking me. He’s still pissed about that DUI. Self-serving bastard.

“Chief?” I’m so immersed in my thoughts I didn’t hear Mona approach.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

Something in her eyes puts me on alert. Now what? I think. A moment later my sister appears in my doorway. I’ve been the chief of police for over two years. In all that time, neither Sarah nor my brother have visited me here. For a moment I almost can’t believe what I’m seeing. Then I remember my conversation with Jacob the night before.

“Hello, Katie.” Sarah wears a navy dress with a black apron and a heavy winter cape. Her blonde hair is parted severely at the center and drawn into a bun at her nape, all of which is covered by the traditional Amish kapp. She’s two years older than me, pretty and expecting her first child in just over a month.

Rising, I round my desk, pull out the visitor chair for her and close the door.

“Have a seat.” After an awkward moment, I ask, “How are you feeling?”

It’s an uncomfortable question. This isn’t the first time Sarah has been pregnant. There have been three times that I know of. Each time she’s miscarried late in the second trimester.

She smiles. “I think it is God’s will that I have this baby.”

I return her smile. She’ll be a good mother; I hope she gets the chance.

“Did you drive the buggy into town all by yourself?”

She nods, her gaze flicking away briefly, and I know she’s here against her husband’s wishes. “William is at the horse auction in Keene.”

“I see.” Waiting, I watch her struggle with some internal conflict I can’t quite identify.

“I talked to Jacob,” she says after a moment. “He told me you went to the grain elevator. That Daniel Lapp may be alive.”

“It’s only a theory.” I can’t keep my eyes from sliding to the door to make sure we’re not overheard.

She continues as if she didn’t hear me. “All these years we believed he was with God.”

God. The word burns away the last of my patience. I want to tell her the son of a bitch who raped me is burning in hell where he belongs. “Even if he’s dead, I doubt he’s with God.”

“Katie.” Her eyes meet mine. “Someone was in the barn. Three days ago.”

The hairs at my nape prickle. “Who?”

“I do not know.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I was milking and heard the hay chute door slam. When I looked, no one was there. But I saw footprints in the snow.”

“Were the tracks made by a man?”

“I think so. The shoes were large.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“At the time I did not think it important. But now . . .” She averts her gaze, then looks back at me with nervous eyes. “Do you think it could be Daniel? Is he back and killing?”

To consider the possibility that Lapp is not only alive but a possible threat to my family adds an edgy new dimension to the situation. “I don’t know.”

“What if he is angry with us for what we did and seeking revenge?” She lowers her voice. “Katie, I do not wish to burden you with my fears, but I believe the time has come for you to tell your English police about Lapp.”

I flinch. “No.”

“You do not have to tell them . . . all of it.”

“No.” The word comes out more harshly than I intend, but I don’t take it back. “Don’t ask me to do that.”

Sarah’s gaze remains steadfast on mine. “What if Daniel returns? What if he tries to hurt me or William?” She sets her hand on her swollen abdomen. “I have this child to think of now.”

Dread curdles like sour milk in my gut. I try to think of some way to reassure her. But I have no words. Leaning forward, I take her hand and lower my voice. “Sarah, listen to me. Jacob believes Daniel died that day. I think so, too.”

“Then why were you looking for his body?”

My brain scrambles for answers that aren’t there. “All I can tell you is that I’m good at what I do. Please. Trust me. Let me handle this my way.”

My phone rings again. I look down to find three lines blinking in discord, but my attention stays focused on my sister. “You know I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.”

“How can you keep us safe when you don’t even know where he is?”

I hate it that I don’t have the answers she needs. A knock on the door draws my attention. “Sarah, I’m sorry.” I release her hand. “I have to get to work. We’ll talk more about this later.”

“I do not think this will wait.”

“Please, just give me some time.”

The door opens. Mona steps in. “Sorry, Chief, I just wanted to let you know the sheriff called.” She passes pink slips to me.

“Would you ask T.J. to escort Sarah home?” I ask Mona.

Sarah tosses me a sheepish look. “That is not necessary.”

“I’d feel better if he did. The roads are slick in spots.”

Mona offers Sarah a grin. “Come on, Sister Sarah. Let’s find T.J.”

Watching my sister walk away, I try not to be troubled, but I am. Who was in her barn and why? Is she right about Lapp? Has he targeted my family? Are they in danger? The questions taunt me with terrible possibilities.

. . . the time has come for you to tell your English police about Lapp.

Sarah’s words echo inside my head like a hammer strike against steel. I tell myself she doesn’t understand the implications of a confession on my part. That it would irrevocably harm my career. My reputation. My credibility. This case. Maybe even land me in jail. That’s not to mention the damage that would be done to my family. If Lapp is dead, it would all be for nothing.

There’s no way dredging up the past will help.

No way at all.

Ten minutes later I find Glock in his office, the phone stuck to his ear. He looks at me when I peek in and raises his finger, telling me to hold on. After a moment, he hangs up and shakes his head. “That was the BCI lab in London.”

“Any luck with the tread or footwear imprints?”

“They got a partial tread that doesn’t match any of the first responders.”

My heart rolls into a staccato. “Can they match it with a manufacturer?”

“Their tire guy is working on it.” He shrugs. “Fifty-fifty chance of IDing the tread.”

The news isn’t great, but I’ll take anything positive at this point. “I’m going to talk to Scott Brower.” Brower was at the Brass Rail the night Amanda Horner disappeared. He’s of particular interest because he’s got an arrest record, one of which involved a knife. “Wanna come?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. You buying breakfast?”

“As long as it’s fast.”

Ten minutes later we’re in my Explorer heading toward Mr. Lube, where Brower works as a mechanic. Next to me, Glock finishes his breakfast burrito and stuffs the napkin into the bag.

“Any luck with Donny Beck?” he asks.

Shaking my head, I tell him about my conversation with the kid. “I don’t think he did it.”

“He got an alibi?”

“I still need to verify, but I think it’ll pan out.”

“Maybe we’ll have better luck with Brower.”

Mr. Lube operates out of a ramshackle garage located in the industrial district near the railroad tracks. The parking lot is part asphalt, part gravel and covered with dirty snow, most of which hasn’t been cleared. A blue Nova, circa 1969, sits on concrete blocks. Next to it, a man in brown coveralls has his head stuck beneath the hood of a truck.

I park near the overhead door and we exit the vehicle. Glock huddles more deeply into his uniform jacket. “I hate snow,” he mutters.

A buzzer sounds when we open the door. Behind the counter, a heavyset man with a bad case of rosacea looks up from a box of doughnuts. “Hep ya?”

“I’m looking for Scott Brower.” I show him my badge and try not to notice the goop in the corner of his mouth.

“What’d he do now?”

“I just want to talk to him. Where is he?”

“Garage out back.”

Glock and I turn simultaneously.

“If he did somethin’ I wanna know about it!” the man yells.

I close the door behind us without responding. We follow trampled snow to the rear. The steel building looks as if it survived a tornado—barely. A piece of sheet metal has torn loose and flaps noisily in the wind. I hear the drone of a power tool inside. Hoping Brower is alone, I shove open the door and step inside.

An electric heater blows hot air that stinks of motor oil and diesel fuel. Light filters down from an overhead shop light. Steel shelves line three walls. Pinned above the workbench, a 1999 calendar depicts two nude women engaging in oral sex. Every square inch of space is taken up with either tools or junk. Standing at the table saw in the center of the room, Brower muscles a blade through steel. Sparks fly and scatter.

I wait until he finishes the cut before speaking. “Scott Brower?”

He looks up. To my surprise he’s a nice-looking man. He has a baby face. Puppy-dog eyes. A child’s nose. A bow mouth that’s surprisingly feminine. He’s thirty-two years old but looks younger. His eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. “Who’s askin’?”

“The cops.” I show my badge. “I need to ask you some questions.”

“About what?”

“Were you at the Brass Rail Saturday night?”

“So were a couple hundred other people. Last time I checked that wasn’t a crime.”

I grind my molars, but keep my voice level. “Did you talk to a woman by the name of Amanda Horner?”

“I talked to a lot of chicks. Don’t recall no Amanda.”

“Let me refresh your memory.” Never taking my eyes from his, I pull out a photo of a dead Amanda Horner lying on a gurney. “Now do you remember?”

He doesn’t flinch at the sight of the dead woman. “So that’s what this is about. The chick who got herself killed.”

“What did you two talk about?”

“I don’t recall.”

“You think a trip to the police department would help your memory?”

His gaze darts to the door. “Hey, man—”

“I’m not a man,” I snap. “I’m a police officer, so stop being a dipshit and answer my questions.”

“Okay.” He raises his hands. “Look, I hit on her. We flirted. I swear, that’s all.”

I’m aware of Glock moving around the garage, looking in the trash barrel, opening a toolbox. I’m thankful I have him here to back me up. I don’t like Scott Brower. I don’t trust him. And I’ll bet behind that baby-face façade he’s a nasty son of a bitch.

“You got a temper, Scotty?”

His gaze goes wary. “Sometimes. If someone fucks with me.”

“Did Amanda fuck with you?”

“No.”

“Did your boss at Agri-Flo fuck with you?”

His face darkens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You threatened to cut her throat. Ring a bell?”

“I didn’t do that, man.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

His grimace is more like a snarl. The baby face is breaking down, giving way to the real deal. He’s getting agitated. That’s exactly where I want him. “What do you want with me?” he asks.

“What time did you leave the Brass Rail Saturday night?”

“I don’t know. Midnight. Maybe one A.M.”

“Do you own a knife?”

He looks around, a fox about to be mauled by hounds. “I think so.”

“What do you mean you think so? You don’t know? You don’t remember? How can you not be sure if you own a knife?”

Glock passes close behind him. “You might try some of that gingko shit, buddy. I hear it’s good for the memory.”

Brower sneers. “Look, I just . . . ain’t seen it in a while.”

“Did you lose it? Maybe you disposed of it.”

“Look, it’s probably layin’ around my house somewhere.”

I glance Glock’s way. “Sounds like we might need a warrant.”

“I think so,” he responds.

Brower looks from me to Glock and back to me. “Why are you guys fuckin’ with me like this?”

“Because I can. Because you smell bad. Because I think you’re a lying piece of shit. All of the above.”

He stares at me, his face turning a deep shade of red. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

I glance over my shoulder at Glock. “Did you hear me say anything inappropriate?”

“Maybe he’s sensitive, Chief.”

“Fuck you,” Brower spits in Glock’s direction. “Goddamn nigger cop.”

Glock laughs outright.

My temper ignites. There’s nothing I hate more than a bigot. Even if this man is innocent of murdering Amanda Horner, he’s a rude pig. I’m going to ruin his day. His week. His entire month if I can manage. “You got any weapons on you, Scotty?”

“No.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

He doesn’t obey. Instead, he takes a step back, putting space between us. I set my hand on the expandable baton at my belt. I’d like to taze him, but they weren’t part of the Painters Mill budget. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

My heart begins to race when I realize he’s not going to comply. Adrenaline burns my midsection and spreads like an arterial injection to my limbs with enough force to make me shake. I step toward him, and he bolts.

Glock and I tear out after him simultaneously, two sprinters out of their blocks and running. Brower is agile and fast. He jets through the back door, upends a shelf to block our way, and heads toward the alley.

I hurdle debris and blast through the door after him. In my peripheral vision I see Glock trip and go down. My vision tunnels on Brower. Blue coveralls. Arms pumping. Occasional look over his shoulder. The ground is slick with snow. My boots slide, but I recover quickly and keep running. I hear a shout behind me, but I’m too focused to make out the words.

To my surprise, I’m gaining on him. I visualize taking him down, kneeing him in the small of his back, sliding the cuffs onto his wrists. But I’ve been in enough foot chases to know nothing ever goes by the book.

Fifty feet in, the alley tees. Brower veers left. I crash through trash cans and gain ten feet on him. “Stop!” I shout.

He keeps running.

Four more strides and I’ll be close enough to take him down. My heart thunders. Adrenaline is a jet engine in my ears. His left foot slides, slowing him. I dive, wrap my arms around his hips, throw my shoulder into him.

An indistinguishable sound bursts from his mouth. He twists in midair. His hands slam down on my shoulders hard enough to bruise. His fingers squeeze like vise grips. “Get the fuck off me, you Amish bitch!”

We hit the ground hard and slide. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. Snow sprays into my eyes, in my mouth. Blind, operating on instinct, I get my knees beneath me. Sliding the baton from its holster, I snap it out. But I’m not fast enough. The blow comes out of nowhere. His fist is like a sledgehammer making nice with the bridge of my nose. The force rattles my brain all the way to my sinuses. My head snaps back, and I lose my grip on Brower.

Air whistles as I bring the baton down on his thigh. He snarls like a beast. “Bitch cop!” He draws back to hit me again. I try to get the baton in position, brace for the blow.

Glock moves in from the side, a Mack truck mowing down a VW. I scramble back. Snow flies. A single unmanly scream rents the air. Glock muscles Brower onto his stomach with the skill of a heavyweight wrestler. Climbing on top of him, Glock grinds his knee into the other man’s back and grapples for his wrists.

“Stop resisting!” Glock shouts.

Blinking back residual tears from the blow, I grab my cuffs and scramble toward the men. I snap the cuffs onto Brower’s wrists, cranking them down tight.

I see blood on the back of his coveralls, realize belatedly it’s coming from me. I wipe my nose with my sleeve and am dismayed to find it leaking like a sieve.

“You okay, Chief?”

I look down. Blood spatters the snow. I use my sleeve again, but I’m only making a mess. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find my eyeballs.”

“I’ve got him if you want to take care of that nosebleed.”

Because my eyes are watering and I don’t want him getting the wrong idea, I trudge toward the garage. Behind me, I hear Glock order Brower to his feet.

Blood drips into my mouth, and I spit before entering the garage. Inside, I glance around for something with which to stanch the flow. Blue workshop paper towels stick out of a dispenser mounted above the workbench. I yank out a handful and pinch my nostrils together.

“Jeez, Chief, you look like you just had a close encounter with Mike Tyson.”

I look up to see T.J. standing in the doorway. “Yeah, well, you should see the other guy,” I mutter. “What are you doing here?”

“Glock put out a call for assistance on the radio.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, T.J. approaches and hands it to me. “Here you go.”

“Gonna ruin it.”

“I got more. My mom buys them for me every Christmas.”

Tossing the soaked towels into a trash can, I put the handkerchief to my nose. “Thanks.”

Glock and Brower enter through the back door. An abrasion the size of a pear mars Brower’s forehead. His hair is wet with melting snow. He looks like a pit bull that just had its ass kicked by a roving band of Chihuahuas.

Glock muscles him inside. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to hit girls?”

The man with the rosacea stands at the door, craning his neck to get a better look. “Damn, that dumb sumbitch hit a cop?”

Gathering my composure, I cross to the two men and look Brower in the eye. “You want to tell us why you ran?”

“I ain’t telling you shit.”

“Either way you’re going to jail.” I look at T.J. “Pat him down and transport him, will you?”

“My pleasure.” T.J. is usually pretty laid back, but he looks pissed as he approaches Brower.

Quickly, T.J. frisks him, then checks his pockets. His hand emerges with a Baggie. “Looks like meth.” T.J. holds up the bag.

I look Brower in the eye. “If you’d just answered our questions instead of acting like an idiot, we probably never would have found this stuff.”

“I wanna call my lawyer,” he says.

“It’s going to take more than a lawyer to get you out of this one.” I look down at the handkerchief, relieved that the bleeding has stopped. I glance at Glock. “Read him his rights. Book him in. Possession. Intent to sell. Assaulting a police officer. Evading arrest. I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”

“Bitch,” Brower hisses.

Glock smacks the back of his head. “Shut up, loser.”

I smile. “Oh, and let him make his call.”

“Probably wants to call his mommy,” Glock mutters.

T.J. approaches me, his eyes taking in the blood on the front of my jacket. I’m not sure why, but the concern on his face embarrasses me. “I’m fine,” I snap.

“It’s just that your . . . um . . .” His face reddens.

I look down to see my shirt gaping. My bra is showing. The red, lacy job I ordered on a whim. Quickly, I rebutton my uniform shirt and zip my coat up to my chin. “Thanks.”

T.J. looks at the Baggie. “I’ll swing by the station, log this in and send it to BCI.”

“Any luck on the condoms?”

“Got a name on the guy who paid with cash.” Settling back into cop mode, he pulls a spiral notebook from his coat pocket. “Patrick Ewell. Lives out on Parkersburg Road.”

“That’s not far from where Amanda Horner’s body was found.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

My heart rate picks up, adrenaline of a different nature. “Get back to the station. See if he has a sheet. See if you can find a connection between Ewell and Amanda Horner. See if he was at the Brass Rail Saturday night.” That’s a lot for T.J., but I have more pressing things to take care of and time is of the essence.

“You got it, Chief.” He starts toward the door.

That’s when I spot Pickles standing by the window, smoking a cigarette, taking in the scene with the blasé expression of a seasoned cop who’s seen it all. I wonder how more than half of my small department arrived on the scene so quickly.

I start toward him. He makes eye contact with me and waits. He is a short man—not much taller than five feet—with grizzled hair and a day’s growth of whis kers. His eyes are the color of a robin’s egg and bracketed with lines as deep as a man’s finger. Wearing an old-fashioned trench and pointy-toed cowboy boots, he looks like a cross between Columbo and Gus of Lonesome Dove fame.

I extend my hand and we shake. “Welcome back, Pickles.”

He sucks hard on the cigarette and flicks it onto the floor, but not before I see the flash of emotion in his eyes. “Retirement’s for goddamn old people.”

“You up to speed on the murder?”

He nods solemnly. “Hell of a thing to happen to a young girl. Just like before. Hard to believe.”

“You do much work on the case back in the nineties?”

“Some. Seen one of the crime scenes. Gruesome shit, I’ll tell ya. I never puked so hard in my life.”

“What was the general consensus?” Pickles is smart enough to know I’m looking for information that wasn’t necessarily written in any report. Unfounded hunches or suspicions. You never know where something like that might lead.

“McCoy always thought the guy worked at the slaughterhouse. You know, right under our noses. Those girls were butchered like a side of beef.”

Pain creeps up my nose, but I resist the urge to touch it. “Call J.R. Purdue over at Honey Cut Meat and get a list of employees. People who work in the slaughterhouse as well as the office. I want you to sit down with Glock and cross-reference with the people who were at the Brass Rail on Saturday night.”

For the first time Pickles looks excited. Like an old dog that had been replaced by a new puppy finally getting to play with his ball again. Opening his coat, he hikes his trousers, exposing his sidearm. “I’ll get right on it.”

I touch his shoulder. “Thanks, Pickles.”

“Where you gonna be, Chief?”

“City hall. Probably getting my ass raked over the coals.”

Pickles gives me a grumpy old man frown. “Give ’em hell.”

As I head toward the Explorer, I suspect I’m going to be on the receiving end of any bureaucratic brimstone and fire.