Breaking Silence (7 page)

I look at Glock, and I know we’re both wondering the same thing. “Would a boot or shoe have done it?” I ask.

“This type of injury would require a relatively sharp object or, at the very least, something heavy.”

“Murder straight up,” Glock says.

“Is it possible he was hanging on to the side of the pit until the weight of his body broke his fingers?” I ask.

“That’s a good question, Kate, but the answer is no. That kind of stress would not cause this type of fracture. It certainly wouldn’t have opened the flesh. Had this man been hanging on to the side of the pit with his fingers for any length of time, the metacarpophalangeal joint might have eventually dislocated, causing him to lose his grip. As you can see, the joints are intact.”

I nod, but my mind is reeling. I can’t fathom someone killing an Amish father in such a cold-blooded manner. “Did you find anything unusual with the other two victims?”

“Not during the prelim exam.”

“How soon can you finish the autopsies?” I ask.

“I’ll need at least a couple of hours per body.”

I nod, but I’m deeply troubled by these new developments. “In that case, we’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for the heads-up.” I start toward the door.

I hear Glock behind me as I leave the autopsy suite. In the alcove, I yank off my gown and gear and toss everything into the biohazard receptacle. I hear Glock doing the same, but I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see the emotions banging around inside me: outrage, anger, a keen sense of injustice. Contrary to popular belief, those kinds of emotions are not a cop’s best friend, particularly if you’re female and trying to maintain some semblance of credibility. But when I think about the four orphaned children, the emotions swamp me all over again.

It’s still raining when we leave through the Emergency Services exit. Neither of us bothers with a hood this time. In the face of such a brutal act of murder, petty discomforts seem enormously inconsequential.

By the time I yank open the door of the Explorer and slide inside, I’ve gotten myself under control.

“Pretty damn cold-blooded,” Glock comments as he slides in beside me.

“We need to talk to those kids.” I shove the key into the ignition.

“You think they saw something?”

“Or someone.”

“If that’s the case, why didn’t they mention it?”

“Maybe we didn’t ask the right questions.” I think back to my interview with them and shake my head. “I didn’t ask them specifically if they’d seen anyone else at the scene.”

“Still, you’d think they’d have mentioned it.”

“True. But they had an awful lot to deal with. They’d just lost their parents and uncle. They were upset and not thinking clearly.”

“Or scared,” he adds.

Considering all the implications of that, I shove the Explorer into gear and start down the lane toward the road. “Only one way to find out.”

CHAPTER 5

John Tomasetti unpacked the last moving box, set the framed commendation on his desk, and looked around at his new digs. The office was bigger than most—big enough to piss off some of the more senior agents. A window looked out over the newish business park dotted with winter-dead Bradford pear trees. The rosewood desk had a matching credenza with a hutch. There was a comfortable leather chair with adjustable lumbar support. Not bad for a guy who, a year ago, had been on his way out the door.

John had tried to be optimistic about the move from the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation headquarters in Columbus to the smaller field office in Richfield, near Cleveland. This was another chance for a fresh start, replete with a new office, new work environment, new supervisor. All of those things were nice perks. But the truth of the matter was, none of them had impacted his decision to make the move. The real reason was solely jurisdictional—so he could continue working Coshocton and Holmes counties. He didn’t have a particular fondness for either county. What he did have a fondness for was a certain chief of police.

The truth of the matter was, he hadn’t wanted to go back to Cuyahoga County. Hadn’t wanted to go anywhere near Cleveland. Too many memories there. Too many mistakes. Too much of everything, and all of it was bad. Yet here he was.…

Three years had passed since his wife and two children were murdered. They’d been tough years—the kind that could break a man if he let it. John had skated close to that dark edge a couple of times, done a lot of things he wasn’t proud of. He’d spent a year addicted to prescription drugs—antianxiety medications, painkillers, sleeping pills. If the doctors had prescribed them, John had obliged by taking them with the glee of a suicidal junkie. Somehow, he’d always managed to wake up the next morning.

And then there was the small matter of the retribution he’d doled out a few months after the murders. Everyone knew he’d done it—his fellow cops, the Cuyahoga County district attorney, his friends. But cops make the best criminals, and when the grand jury came back after five hours of deliberation, they’d handed down a no bill, and John Tomasetti had walked away a free man.

He’d come a long way since those dark days. He’d left Cleveland, left the Cleveland Division of Police, and landed a position as special agent with the great state of Ohio in Columbus. He’d cut out the pills and most of the booze. He was down to seeing the company shrink just one evening per week now. Tomasetti was on the road to recovery, with the fragile hope of, if not happiness, at least a normal life. He figured it was the best a man like him could shoot for.

He’d just opened his laptop to check e-mail when a tap on the door drew his attention. He looked up, to see Deputy Superintendent Lawrence Bates step into his office. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Since he hadn’t done shit except haul in boxes and clutter things up, Tomasetti smiled. “I have a knack.”

Bates slid into a chair, leaned forward, and set his elbows on his knees. He was a tall, lanky man of about fifty who smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, and somehow still managed to run six miles a day. He was married, with two college-age kids and a couple of Labrador retrievers. He’d come over to BCI from the FBI office in Dallas, Texas, six years ago. Rumor had it that he’d had an affair with his administrative assistant. Things had gotten ugly when his wife found out, and she’d given him an ultimatum. Larry had chosen his marriage over the bimbo and made the move to Cleveland. He looked like a man who’d been paying for his transgressions ever since.

“I understand you’ve spent some time in Holmes and Coshocton counties in the last year,” Bates says.

John thought of Kate and smiled. “I’m familiar with the area.”

Eleven months ago, he and Kate had worked a serial murder case in Painters Mill. It was a brutal case. They’d spent some intense days together, butted heads a few times, and somehow forged a friendship that had, so far, withstood the test of time. Looking back, Tomasetti realized that the Slaughterhouse Killer case and, more specifically, his relationship with Kate, had probably saved not only his career but his life.

“You have a pretty good working relationship with the local law-enforcement agencies down there?” Bates asked.

“I do.”

“This came in this morning.” Bates handed him a blue sheet of paper, which John recognized as a Request for Assistance form. “I spoke with Sheriff Rasmussen down in Millersburg. He tells me there’s been a string of hate crimes in the area in the last six months.”

“Hate crimes?” John knew from experience most were against minorities: African-Americans, Hispanics, Jews, and gay men. “Against who?”

“The Amish.”

“That’s a twist.” But John knew hate for the sake of hate had no boundaries. Vaguely, he recalled that Kate had told him about several incidents. “Doesn’t that fall under the FBI’s jurisdiction?”

“Hate crimes are against the law whether it’s on a state or federal level. Since we got the call, we show up.” Bates continued: “Rasmussen tells me there’ve been half a dozen incidents. Started out with a few bashed mailboxes. The usual kind of thing you see in small towns. Then a couple of weeks ago, someone ran a buggy off the road. A pregnant Amish woman was injured, lost her baby.”

Tomasetti picked up the RFA form and skimmed the particulars. “Any of the vics press charges?”

“Not a one.”

“So even if we catch the perpetrators, we basically have nothing.”

“We have you.”

“Because I have such a charismatic and persuasive personality?”

Bates chuckled. “Because you know Chief Burkholder.”

John wondered if someone had it written down in some file that he and Kate were sleeping together.

“I understand she was born Amish,” Bates said, clarifying.

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“I thought she might be able to persuade some of these Amish to come forward, press charges, and testify, if we get that far.”

“If anyone can do it, Kate can. She’s … determined.”

A picture of Kate materialized in his mind—not the cop, but the woman. She was girl-next-door pretty, with big brown eyes and a sprinkling of freckles over her nose. She kept her brown hair cut a tad too short—when she bothered having it cut at all. She wasn’t beautiful in the classic sense, but she was attractive as hell. And she appealed to Tomasetti on a level that went a lot deeper than the flesh.

Working with her again would be no hardship. He and Kate worked well together. Better than well, if he wanted to be honest. It had been over two months since he’d seen her, and he’d been looking for an excuse to drive down to Painters Mill. Last time he was there, they’d closed a difficult murder case. An Amish family gunned down in their home. The case had taken a heavy toll on Kate. He’d been wanting to check up on her.

Leaning back in his chair, John looked around the room. “When do I leave?”

Bates glanced at his watch. “How about five minutes ago?”

*   *   *

The sky hovers low and ominous when I turn into the long gravel lane of the Slabaugh farm. The rain has stopped, but I know there’s more coming, probably in the form of freezing rain. It’s late afternoon, but the temperature has already begun a precipitous drop. To make matters worse, the storm clouds that have been building to the west most of the afternoon are creeping this way. Welcome to northeastern Ohio in December.

Bishop Troyer’s buggy is still parked in the gravel near the back door of the house. Two additional buggies are parked near the barn, and I know friends and neighbors of the Slabaugh family are taking care of the livestock, mucking and feeding and doing what needs to be done to keep the farm and up and running until decisions can be made. I know I’ll find the women inside with the children, comforting them with food, prayer, and reassuring words.

None of that makes what I have to do next any easier. The barn is now a crime scene, off-limits to everyone until it’s been processed and any evidence removed. More than likely, the pigs will have to be loaded onto a stock trailer and hauled away. Another disruption to four lives that have already been devastated.

“Scene is probably going to be pretty trampled,” Glock says.

“I’ll call Tomasetti and request a CSU.” I look at the barn, aware of gossamer snowflakes melting on the windshield. “We need to get it taped off. Talk to someone about getting the pigs hauled away.”

“What are we going to do about the kids?”

Thinking about the four children inside, I sigh. I can’t put off calling for a social worker much longer.

“I hate to see them uprooted or separated.” I kill the engine and punch off the lights. “But I’m going to have to contact Children Services.”

“Can’t the Amish take care of them until Slabaugh is cleared?”

I nod. “If he’s cleared.”

“He a suspect?”

The thought makes me feel slightly nauseous. “Let’s just say he’s a person of interest.”

“Got it.”

I give him a look as I reach for the door. “Let’s get the barn taped off.”

At the rear of the Explorer, I open the hatch and pull out my crime-scene kit. There’s not much to it—just a box of disposable gloves, several pair of shoe covers, yellow crime-scene tape, a sketch pad and notebook, evidence bags, a dozen tiny cone evidence markers, a couple of inexpensive field-test kits—for cocaine and crystal meth—and a digital camera.

“Going to be a tough scene to process,” Glock comments.

He’s right. The place has literally been trampled—by the fire department volunteers, the police and paramedics, whoever has been caring for the livestock. “We’re not going to find much.”

“Whatever we do find is contaminated.”

“Won’t do us much good if this ever goes to court.”

The big door still stands open, someone’s attempt to air the place out. The smells of hogs, hay, barn dust, and manure greet us like an offensive old adversary when we walk inside. The barn is filled with deep shadows. Looking around, I spot a lantern hanging from a rafter, pull it down, and light the wick.

Setting my crime-scene kit on the wood windowsill, I open it and hand disposable gloves and shoe covers, the crime-scene tape, and adhesive tape to Glock. “Let’s get it taped off.”

“A little late for shoe covers and gloves.”

“Gotta treat it like a crime scene from here on out.” I look around. “Keep your eyes open for anything that might have been used as a weapon.”

“Will do.”

Quickly, we don the protective gear. While he strings crime-scene tape, I cross to the livestock pens and look around. Someone put the hogs outside, but I can hear them grunting and slopping around in the mud beyond the door. The concrete is slick with muck, both liquid and solids. The smell is overpowering. It strikes me that the pit will need to be emptied, all of its contents gone through. Some lucky BCI agent isn’t going to have a very good couple of days.

I lift the gate latch. The steel groans when I push it open and enter the pen. A hundred or more cloven hoofprints mar the thick sheet of mud. I see human footwear marks with a dozen different treads, and I curse myself for not having been more careful. Looking at the destroyed crime scene, I tell myself there was no way any of us could have known. Still, some caution might have given us a better chance of finding something useful in terms of evidence.