Sworn to Silence

CHAPTER 19

The Willowdell Motel was a dump, but then John hadn’t expected much. The management made an attempt to capture the quaint atmosphere of an Amish tourist shop, but only achieved Midwestern tacky. Second-rate carpet. Ugly bedspread. Peeling wallpaper in the bathroom. A heater that blew tepid air smelling of cigarette smoke and mildew. But the place was clean; a bed and a shower were all he needed. The TV worked, so he tuned it to the Fox News Channel and broke the seal on the bottle of Chivas.

He poured three fingers into a plastic glass and chugged half while his laptop booted. It was too late to call Harry Graves, his contact at CASMIRC, the FBI’s Child Abduction and Serial Murder Investigative Resources Center, so he drafted an e-mail instead and made a mental note to touch base with him first thing in the morning. He poured a second glass of Chivas as he navigated the FBI’s Web site. VICAP wasn’t web-based, but he could access the forty-six page questionnaire online. Finding a signature match was a long shot, but sometimes long shots paid off. If a similar crime had occurred anywhere in the United States—and had been entered into VICAP—they might catch a break.

It took him an hour to fill out the form. Once the inquiry was sent, he opened the Slaughter house Killer file and began to read. He scribbled notes and tried to lose himself in his work, something that used to come with the ease of breathing. No more. Some days there was no escape from the dark places his mind chose to dwell.

John didn’t take in the details of the murders with the keen and unbiased eye of the cop he’d once been, but with the abject horror of a man intimately acquainted with violent death. His past wasn’t the only thing on his mind tonight. More than once he found his thoughts straying to Kate Burkholder. He’d worked with a lot of cops over the years. A female chief of police was rare, especially in a small town. An Amish cop was unheard of. Maybe that was why he found her so damn interesting.

She was low-key—a trait he’d learned to appreciate when it came to women cops. She was attractive in a girl-next-door kind of way. Dark brown hair cut short. Eyes the color of a mink coat. A pale complexion that made for a striking contrast. An athletic build. A nice mouth. John didn’t have anything against female cops, but he’d known enough of them over the years to know that, like their male counterparts, most were bad relationship material. Not that he was in the market. He was as fucked up as a man could be and still be walking around. From all appearances, Kate was too smart to get tangled up with a head case.

He’d just shut down the laptop when the phone rang. He caught it on the second ring with a rough, “Yeah.”

“Agent Tomasetti?”

Surprise rolled through him when he recognized the mayor’s voice. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to be calling so late. Did I wake you?”

“No.”

“Good. Good.” He cleared his throat. “There’s been a development I wanted to discuss.”

“I’m listening.”

“I had a very . . . disturbing meeting with David Troyers this eve ning. He’s the elder Amish bishop.”

John wondered what the hell this had to do with him. “Go on.”

“Apparently, someone left an anonymous note on the bishop’s door.”

“What kind of note?”

“Well, it’s about Chief Burkholder. And it’s quite troubling.” Paper rattled on the other end of the line. “I have it right here. It says: ‘Chief Katie Burkholder knows who the murderer is.’ ”

John let the words run through his head a couple of times. “That certainly qualifies as troubling. What do you want me to do about it?”

“I’m not sure. I thought I should tell someone in law enforcement.” He paused. “Why would someone send a note like this?”

“Maybe it’s a hoax.”

“Maybe.” The mayor paused. “I was wondering if you could look into it. You know, anonymously.”

Tomasetti considered that, felt his cop’s curiosity stir. “I’m not exactly on her list of favorite people. She’s not going to talk to me.”

“Perhaps you could just . . . observe, make an assessment over the next few days.”

“Have you discussed the note with anyone else?”

“No.”

“Keep it that way. I’ll see what I can do.” John glanced at the clock. After two A.M. Too late to do anything tonight. “How many people have handled the note?”

“Bishop Troyer. Me.”

“Put it in a brown paper bag and seal it. I’ll check it for prints.”

“I’ll get it to you first thing tomorrow.”

They said their good-byes and John hung up, troubled by this new development. The case was complicated enough without the cops keeping secrets. Who would send a note like that and why? Did Burkholder know more about the case than she was letting on? Or had some idiot decided it might be fun to play head games with the cops?

What bothered Tomasetti about the latter scenario was that the note had been sent to an Amish bishop. The Amish weren’t known for their practical jokes. Painters Mill was a small town where everyone knew everyone else. Was it possible Kate Burkholder knew the killer? Was he Amish? Was she protecting him because of that? John couldn’t see her risking lives to protect some psycho. But he knew from experience some loyalties supplanted even the most fundamental ethics.

That was when he realized that wasn’t the only thing bothering him about Kate Burkholder. Faced with a difficult, high-profile case, she should have turned to outside resources right off the bat. Initially, he’d assumed she didn’t want some outsider encroaching on her case. But after meeting her, he’d realized she wasn’t the territorial type. Why hadn’t she asked for help? The question niggled at him like a migraine digging into his brain.

The mayor had dropped this in his lap. John figured he didn’t have a choice but to look into it. This case was his last chance. He didn’t need some cop with loyalty issues sabotaging it. If Burkholder was keeping secrets, he was going to make damn sure he knew what they were.

The trill of a phone jolts me awake. I bolt upright and an ice pick jab of pain shoots down my neck. For a second, I don’t know where I am, then realize I’m in my office at the police station. I fell asleep at my desk. . . .

The phone rings again and I snatch it up. “Yeah.”

“Sorry to wake you, Chief.”

Mona. She must have found me sleeping and turned off the light . . .

“I just took a 911. Driver says there’s a loose cow out on Dog Leg Road, out by the covered bridge.”

Groaning inwardly, I look at the wall clock. Nearly three A.M. “Tell T.J. to get out there, will you?”

“He’s over at Nell Ramsom’s place with a 10-14.” She pauses. “We’ve had six prowler calls tonight.”

People are nervous about the murders, I realize. Wishing I’d gone home for a few hours of decent sleep, I rise and shrug into my parka. I’ve been lenient with Isaac Stutz, letting him off with warnings. With my resources stretched to the limit, I resolve to cite him this time. I don’t have time to chase cows. Dreading the cold, I head for the door.

In the Explorer, I turn the heat on high and drive through town well over the speed limit. Around me Painters Mill sleeps. Tonight, I sense it is the uneasy slumber of a child prone to nightmares.

Dog Leg Road is a narrow road lined by a forest on the north side and a plowed field to the south. The hundred-year-old covered bridge that spans Painters Creek is a tourist attraction during the summer. I pass through the wood structure doing fifty.

On the other side of the bridge, I spot the cow in the bar ditch, a Jersey munching on the tall grass poking up through the snow. Grabbing my Mag-Lite, I shine the beam along the fence until I find the place where the stupid beast pushed through.

Hitting my emergency lights, I hail Mona. “I’m 10-23.”

“Roger that, Chief. You find the cows?”

“One cow.” I run the beam along the fence. A dozen yards beyond is the spot where Amanda Horner’s body was found. I can see a few scraps of the crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze. “I’m going to put the damn thing back in the pasture and call it a night.”

“10-4.”

The blast of cold takes my breath away as I disembark. A few feet away, the cow rolls her eyes at me and pulls another tuft of yellow grass into her mouth. I grew up around cattle, but I’m not a fan. They’re brutish and contrary for the most part. I spent many a cold winter morning pulling teats, and I got kicked more times than I like to recall.

Opening the trunk, I pull out a length of rope and approach the cow. “Come on, you cud-chewing T-bone.”

The animal turns away, but I cut her off. She grabs a few more dry blades of grass, and I make my move, tossing the rope from a yard and a half away. The loop sails over her head and settles around her neck. The cow can do one of two things at this point. She can drag me around and make a fool of me or she can cooperate and let me lead her back into the pasture. Much to my relief, she acquiesces when I tug the rope.

I tromp through a snowdrift and reach the fence. Peeling back the wire where the cow escaped, I lead her through and release her. I’m in the process of repairing the fence when a flash of light in my peripheral vision snags my attention. At first I think Isaac Stutz saw my light and is coming over to help. Then I realize the flicker of light originated near the crime scene, not the Stutz house. What the hell is someone doing out here in the middle of the night?

I jog to the Explorer, cut the lights and hail Mona. “I’ve got a 10-88. Send T.J. Expedite. No lights or siren.”

“Roger that. Be careful, Chief, will you?”

“I always am.” Grabbing my Mag-Lite, I quietly close the car door. Keeping low, I traverse the ditch and scale the fence. The darkness thickens when I enter the woods, but I don’t turn on the flashlight. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness. My feet are silent on the snow as I wend through trees and over deadfall. Overhead, a milky half moon casts just enough light for me to see my shadow. Cold stings my face. The steel Mag-Lite makes my fingers ache with cold. But those minor discomforts are nullified by my need to know who’s out there and why.

Twenty yards from the crime scene, I stop and listen. Around me, the wind sighs. In the distance, a dog barks his outrage at being left outside on such a cold night. The snap of a breaking branch sounds behind me. Startled, I spin. I see movement within the trees and flip on the Mag-Lite. I set my other hand on my sidearm and thumb off the leather catch.

“Stop!” I call out. “Police. Stop right there!”

Holding the flashlight steady, I break into a run. My quickened breaths puff out in front of me as my adrenaline surges. I glance down, see footprints in the snow and follow them. Trees whiz by. I’m almost to the crime scene. The cornfield is to my left; I hear the hiss of dry stalks. The beam of my flashlight illuminates movement ahead. The silhouette of a man. It’s gone in an instant, but for the first time I know without a doubt I’m not pursuing a deer.

“Stop now! Police!” I rush forward, my revolver leading the way. “Halt!”

I have a good sense of direction, and I’m well aware that I’m being led away from my vehicle. I don’t feel threatened; it doesn’t even cross my mind to be scared. Tonight, I’m the predator.

I run semiblind through the darkness, my every sense focused on my quarry. I hear his heavy footsteps crashing through brush and deep snow. He has ten yards on me, but I’m gaining. I’m faster than he is, and he knows it.

“Halt! Police!” I fire a warning shot into the ground. He doesn’t stop. If I wasn’t afraid of shooting some brainless teenager, I’d plug him in the back.

The ground breaks away. I lose sight of him as I plunge down a creek bank. My boots slide as I cross the span of ice and muscle my way up the other side. I’m almost to the top when a heavy body plows into me. The impact knocks me off me feet. I land hard on my side and roll. I see the black silhouette of a man. Something in his hand. I bring up my gun. I hear the whoosh of air, then something slams into my wrist. Electric pain streaks up my arm. The .38 flies from my hand. I get my knees under me, swing the heavy Mag-Lite as hard as I can, feel the steel make contact.

“Fucking bitch!”

I throw myself at my fallen weapon. Hands in the snow. Fingers curling around steel. I twist. Bring up the gun. Decide on a body shot when the blow comes out of nowhere, crown of my head, hard enough to daze. A second blow lands above my right ear. A loud crunch! inside my head. My vision dims. The next thing I know I’m lying on my side. Snow cold against my face.

I don’t know if I’ve lost seconds or minutes. Afraid my attacker might want to go another round, I raise my head, look around. But the son of a bitch is gone.

“Chief! Chief!”

I barely hear T.J.’s voice over the ringing in my right ear. An involuntary groan escapes me as I get to my hands and knees.

He kneels beside me. “What happened?”

“Some crazy shit ambushed me.”

He jumps to his feet and pulls his sidearm. “How long ago? Did you get a look at him?”

“A minute ago.” I get to my feet, hoping my legs hold. “Male. Six feet. One ninety.”

“Armed?”

“With a frickin’ club.”

Studying me a little too closely, T.J. hits his lapel mike. “Mona, I’m 10-23. We got a 10-88 out here on Dog Leg Road.” He repeats my vague description of the assailant. “We need an ambulance.”

“No ambulance,” I cut in, loud enough for Mona to hear. “I’m fine. Tell her to call the sheriff’s office and get a unit to the dirt road by the covered bridge. That’s probably where the son of a bitch parked.”

T.J. repeats my instructions and ends with, “We’re going to look around.”

I spot my Mag-Lite lying in the snow and pick it up. “Did you see anything when you walked up?” I ask.

“Just you. Lying in the snow.” He grimaces. “Jeez, Chief, this is the second time in two days you’ve gotten clobbered.”

“I don’t think we need to keep a tally.” I run the flashlight beam in a 360-degree circle.

“What are you looking for?”

“My gun. Tracks.” I find my weapon lying in the snow a few feet away and pick it up.

“Look there.” T.J. shines his beam on footprints.

“Let’s go.” We follow them for several yards where they form a T. “He must have parked on the dirt road and walked to the crime scene.”

“Crime scene? You think it was some morbidly curious punk—” His eyes widen as realization dawns. “Do you think it’s him? The killer?”

“I don’t know.” I squat for a closer look at the tracks. “He left us a nice tread.”

“Size ten or eleven.”

“Get Glock out here to get some impressions, will you?”

He hits his lapel mike and relays the request to Mona. I rise to my full height and run my flashlight beam along the tracks.

“Why would he return to the scene?” T.J. asks.

I scan the layers of shadows surrounding us. The forest is monochrome in the pale light of the moon. “I was just wondering the same thing.”