Page 32 of Sworn to Silence (Kate Burkholder #1)

I want to ask him if he did it, but I don’t.

The general consensus among law enforcement was that John Tomasetti had snapped.

He’d gone after the man responsible for the murder of his family and e xacted revenge.

No one could prove it, but that hadn’t kept the DA from putting him in front of a grand jury.

“How did you end up at BCI?” I ask after a moment.

“The commander wanted me gone, gave me a recommendation. The saps at BCI didn’t know what they were getting.” He gives me a dry smile. “Do you want to get drunk and talk about it?”

“You need to drink to talk?”

“Most of the time.”

We drive for a while in silence, and then he asks, “It’s not easy to pass that detective’s exam, Chief. What made you give up all that glory for small town police work?”

I shrug, feeling self conscious. “I was born here.”

He nods as if he understands. “How is it that you’re fluent in German?”

He’s referring to my conversation with the Augspurgers. “It’s Pennsylvania Dutch.”

“Obscure language.”

“The Amish speak it.”

“Plenty of Amish in this part of Ohio.” I sense him studying me, wondering.

“There are more Amish in Ohio than Pennsylvania now.” A statistic he probably doesn’t give a good damn about.

“They offer Pennsylvania Dutch at the community college here or what?”

“My parents taught me.”

I see his mind combing through that. He’s not sure what to make of it.

What to make of me. Had the circumstances been different, I might have enjoyed the moment.

He doesn’t want to ask. But a man like John Tomasetti doesn’t necessarily give a damn about political correctness.

He earns points with me when he finally asks, “You Amish, or what?”

“Was.”

“Huh. Johnston mentioned you were a pacifist. ”

“In case you’re not reading between the lines, Johnston is full of shit.”

“I got that.” He whistles. “A gun-toting, cursing, former Amish female chief of police. I’ll be damned.”

***

The parking spaces in front of the police station are blissfully vacant when we arrive.

I walk in to see Mona reclined at the dispatch station, her high-heeled boots propped on the desk.

She’s holding a half-eaten apple in one hand, a forensic science book with a CSI -esque cover in the other.

She’s tapping her foot to a Pink Floyd remix she has turned up too loud. She doesn’t hear us come in.

“I guess working graveyard has its benefits,” I say.

She fumbles the book and drops the apple. Her boots slide off the desk. “Hey Chief.” To my surprise, she blushes. “Damn book’s giving me the heebie-jeebies.” She whips out the messages. “Phone was ringing off the hook until about twenty minutes ago.”

“I guess people gotta sleep.”

“Thank God. The crazies are starting to call. Psychic from Omaha claims she was a victim of the Slaughterhouse Killer in her first life. Oh, and some whack job from Columbus called to tell you Amish women shouldn’t be police officers.

” She crumples the pink slip and shoots it into the wastebasket. “I set him straight.”

“Thanks.” I take the messages. “Will you do me a favor and make some coffee?”

“I could use some myself.” Her eyes fall on Tomasetti—and stick.

I know the look of feminine interest when I see it, and I’m surprised.

He doesn’t exactly fall into the nice-looking category.

His eyes are too intense. His mouth is thin and snarlish.

His nose is slightly hooked. He’s probably not much over forty, but his face sports the lines of a man who’s lived hard and long.

What is it about young women being attracted to men old enough to be their fathers? “Mona, this is John Tomasetti with BCI out of Columbus. ”

He extends his hand to Mona. “Nice to meet you.”

Her smile widens as they shake. “We’re glad to have you on board.”

Rolling my eyes, I start toward my office. Once inside, I shed my coat and flip on my computer. While it boots, I dial Glock. “Anything on Lapp?” I ask.

“Nada. Either he keeps his nose clean or he’s dead.”

“Keep digging.” I reassure myself it was an offhand comment; Glock can’t possibly know Lapp is dead. If he’s dead. “Did you guys find anything at the Augspurger farm?”

“There were some old tracks, but they were almost totally obscured by new snowfall and drifting.”

“Were you able to get impressions?”

“No impressions. No prints. Either he’s lucky or he knows all of our tricks.” He pauses. “We canvassed, but no one saw anything. This guy’s a fuckin’ ghost.”

Tomasetti enters my office holding two cups. I motion for him to sit. “Thanks for the update, Glock. Get some rest.”

“You, too.”

I disconnect. Tomasetti sets one of the cups in front of me and takes the chair adjacent to my desk. “If you’re trying to win over my undying admiration with coffee,” I say, “you just scored a few points.”

“I could make another pot.”

I give him a passable smile.

He doesn’t smile back. “They turn up anything?”

I recap my conversation with Glock.

He rubs his hands together like a man preparing for a meal. “You have time to show me what you have so far?”

“It’s not much.” I hand him the old Slaughterhouse Killer file. “This is the file from the early nineties.”

Pulling reading glasses from his breast pocket, he opens the folder. While he reads, I rise and cross to the fax machine. Sure enough, Doc Coblentz has sent the preliminary autopsy report for Ellen Augspurger. I scan the particulars as I take it to the copy room .

Death is attributed to a deep incised wound of the neck severing the carotid artery. Cause of death: exsanguination.

No photos were faxed, but I don’t need them. I see it all when I close my eyes. Her partially decomposed body hanging from the ceiling beam at the Huffman farm. The grief-ravaged faces of Bonnie and Ezra Augspurger as they try to absorb news of their daughter’s death.

I think of my own secrets and what might have happened all those years ago had I not picked up my father’s shotgun and defended myself.

I could have been Ellen Augspurger or Amanda Horner, my butchered body reduced to a cold piece of evidence.

Staring down at the report, I think about Daniel Lapp and I wish to God I’d shot him in the head instead of the torso.

Tomasetti looks up from the file when I return to my desk. He’s scribbled notes on a legal pad. “What’s your theory on this?” he asks.

“It’s either the killer from before, or we have a copycat on our hands.”

“This is no copycat.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The Roman numerals carved into the torsos of the vics was never made public.” He looks at me over the tops of his glasses, his expression telling me that should be obvious.

“The information could have leaked.”

“If that was the case, you would have seen it in the news.”

He’s right, but I say nothing.

He shakes his head. “The similarities are too striking. This is the same guy.”

“How do you explain the hiatus?”

“He changed locales. Look at the gap in numbering.” He studies me with those intense eyes. “Have you plugged any of this into VICAP?”

VICAP is the acronym for the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. It’s a database that matches major crimes by detecting similar signature aspects and patterns of modus operandi. We both know I should have already done this. Tomasetti’s wondering why I didn’t.

“I was hoping you could help with that,” I say.

“I’ll get this signature plugged in right away.”

“I’ve got queries going in OHLEG as well,” I add.

“While we’re on the subject of resources, is there a specific reason why you didn’t contact the FBI?”

There’s no recrimination in the question.

Just simple curiosity. As if I might have a good reason for not doing what I should have.

Of course, I don’t. He’s backed me into a corner I can’t get out of unless I lie.

“Some of the town council members were concerned about tourism. They didn’t want the national media involved. ”

“You don’t seem like the kind of cop to buckle under that kind of pressure.”

Because I don’t want to dig this particular hole any deeper, I look down at the file. But my heart is pounding. I feel his eyes on me and I know he’s making judgments. About my competence. About me. “You got a theory on the hiatus?” I ask after a moment.

“The numbering suggests there are other victims we don’t know about.

” He taps the folder with his finger. “This guy isn’t fucking with the cops, and I don’t believe he stopped killing.

He doesn’t have that kind of control. I think for the last sixteen years, he’s killed somewhere else.

Unless he was somehow incapacitated. Jail time. Hospitalization.”

I glance at the papers in front of him. He’s already filled two pages of the pad. His handwriting is slanted and small. “Have you begun a profile?”

“Preliminary.” He recites from memory. “He’s a white male between the age of thirty-five and fifty.

He works full-time, but his schedule is flexible.

He’s considered successful and is probably in a position of authority.

He’s controlling and impulsive, but he controls his impulses to a degree.

He’s married, but his relationship is troubled.

May have teenaged or grown children. He’s considered a good father.

His wife may or may not know he’s got a dark side.

If she does, she doesn’t know the degree.

She doesn’t know he kills. No one suspects him.

He may be impotent and may take medication.

Violence excites him a lot more than sex.

He derives sexual gratification from inflicting pain.

Torture is the overriding source of his compulsion.

Killing is a secondary end result. It’s those final moments of life that really get him off.