Breaking Silence

by Linda Castillo

  Going around to the rear of the Explorer, I pull out a thermal blanket and a bottle of water I keep stored next to the first-aid kit, then start toward them.

  The driver looks to be in his mid-fifties and has a receding hairline and a paunch. “I was going to cut the ropes, but I didn’t have a knife,” he tells me. “Poor guy says he’s been here all night. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”

  “How long have you been here?” I don’t stop walking, but continue on toward the buggy.

  “Just a few minutes. Called you guys before I even got out of the car.” He falls in beside me. “You just never know what you’re going to run into on the road these days, do you?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Herman Morse. I run an insurance agency up in Wooster.”

  I scan the surrounding woods, wondering if the perpetrator is still around, watching with the glee of some high-school prankster. But I know it won’t be that easy. “You see anyone else?” I ask.

  “No ma’am. Just the Amish guy.”

  I motion toward the green Cadillac parked behind the buggy. “That your car?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I want you to go stand by your car and wait for me, okay? Don’t move around too much; there might be footprints we’ll want to preserve. I’ll need to get a statement from you.”

  “Uh, sure.” He lingers a moment, glances toward the Amish man. “He’s pretty banged up. Shouldn’t you call an ambulance or something?”

  “They’re on the way.” Reaching the young man, I kneel, take a quick visual assessment.

  He’s pale and shivering. His lips are dry and tinged blue from the cold. Probably suffering from hypothermia and dehydration. His left eye is swollen shut. The other is the color of a ripe eggplant. I cringe when I see his hands. Both are swollen and blue. The fingertips are white and hard-looking; I suspect he may have some frostbite. His wrists are chafed and bloody, which tells me he’s been struggling to free himself from his binds for quite some time.

  “How badly are you hurt?” Snapping the blanket open, I cover him with it.

  “C-cold m-mostly.” He stares at me with bloodshot and glassy eyes. “I think my hands are frozen.”

  Tugging my pocketknife from my belt, I cut the rope. He winces when his limbs break free. I can tell by the lack of movement in his hands that he can’t flex his fingers.

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  “All night.” A groan escapes him when he tries to rise.

  I set my hands on his shoulders and ease him back down. “Just stay put a moment.”

  “I need to unhook the horse. He’s old. Been tangled in the harness all night.”

  “I’ll take care of him. You just relax a moment. I don’t want you moving around too much, in case you’re injured.” I motion toward the blood on his shoulders and chest. “Who did this to you?”

  “T-two Englischers.”

  “Do you know their names? Did you recognize them?”

  He shakes his head. “I never saw them before.”

  I look him over, searching for signs of life-threatening injuries—blood, broken bones, stab wounds, bullet wounds. “What happened?”

  He shrugs, looks away. “I was on my way to town for some lumber. They came up fast, blocked my way. When I stopped, they ambushed me.”

  “What kind of vehicle?”

  “A truck. Blue. Old, I think.”

  “Which direction did they go?”

  “Toward town.”

  I hit my lapel mike and put out a BOLO for an older blue pickup truck. “Did they have a weapon?”

  He shakes his head. “Just their fists.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  “They called me names.” He shrugs, letting me know that didn’t bother him. “Took the Lord’s name in vain.” That bothered him a lot.

  I nod, try hard to bank the fury rising inside me. “There’s an ambulance on the way.” I uncap the bottle of water, put it to his lips, and he takes a sip. “What’s your name?”

  “Mark Lambright.” He looks down at his hands. His face contorts in pain when he tries to flex his knuckles. “I need to get home. My wife will be worried.”

  “I’ll have someone go by your place and let her know you’re all right. Where do you live?” He cites a farm a few miles down the road after I give him another sip of water. “Can you tell me what the two men looked like?”

  His eyes skate away from mine. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “You’ve already got trouble.”

  He doesn’t answer, and a sensation of déjà vu engulfs me. I recall the burning buggy incident, and I know this man isn’t going to cooperate, either.

  “Mr. Lambright.” I take a deep breath, reel in my frustration. “I need to find the men who did this to you so that I can keep them from doing it again. You could have been killed.”

  He motions toward his body. “As you can see, I’m okay.”

  “What did the men look like?”

  He stares down at his swollen, frozen hands.

  “If you stick your head in the sand, whoever did this is going to get away and do it again. Next time, it could be a woman or child. They might kill someone. Is that what you want?”

  He watches me with his one good eye, shakes his head. “I do not wish for anyone to be hurt. I just want to go home.”

  I sit back on my heels, frustration churning inside me. In the distance, I hear sirens and I know the ambulance will be here soon. The sound of tires crunching through snow draws my attention. I look up and see Tomasetti’s Tahoe pull up beside my Explorer.

  Rising, I start toward him. He gets out of the SUV, looking tall and dark against the smooth gray sky. He wears the long wool coat, no gloves or hat. His espresso-colored eyes meet mine as he crosses to me.

  “You look aggravated.”

  “Pissed is probably a more accurate description.” I tell him everything I learned from Lambright. “Felony assault at least. Maybe attempted murder. The problem is, he’s not going to be much help.”

  Tomasetti cocks his head. “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t want to get involved.”

  “What is this, some kind of conspiracy? He just had the shit hammered out of him. How much more involved could he be?”

  “He doesn’t want to deal with the English.”

  “You tried?”

  I nod. “If the passerby hadn’t called us, this probably would have gone unreported.”

  “We need to ID whoever did this. Without it, we don’t have shit.”

  I glance toward the victim. “We could try waterboarding him.”

  “Probably wouldn’t go over too well with the brass.”

  I heave a sigh. “I’ll get my guys out here to canvass, see if anyone saw anything.”

  “Scene doesn’t look too promising.”

  The ambulance pulls up behind Tomasetti’s Tahoe. We watch the two paramedics open the rear doors and unload the gurney. They roll it across the road to the bar ditch and kick down the brake. One of the men kneels next to Lambright and begins a field assessment. The other, a freckle-faced man with a red goatee, approaches Tomasetti and me. “What ya got, Chief?”

  “Assault,” I say. “Hypothermia. Frostbite, maybe. He’s been out in the cold all night.”

  “Cold night. He’s lucky.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “You guys know who did it?”

  “We’re working on it.” That’s my standard answer in situations where I don’t know squat.

  Tomasetti and I stand in the dirty snow and watch the two paramedics load Lambright onto the gurney. The Amish man makes eye contact with me briefly as they roll him across the asphalt. I stare back, letting him know I’m not happy with his lack of cooperation.

  That’s when I realize I’ve yet to make good on my promise to take care of the horse. It’s been standing all night with nothing to eat or drink. “I need to unhitch the horse,” I say.

  Tomasetti arches a brow. �

��Can’t help you there.”

  I cross to the animal, moving slowly, my hand outstretched. “Whoa, boy. Whoa.”

  It’s an old gelding with a sorrel coat and the kind eyes of a working animal. Stepping into the mud, I set my hand against the animal’s neck, then run both hands over its shoulder and down both front legs, checking for injuries. Finding none, I go to work on the harness. Having tacked up our own horses many times as a girl, I let the dormant memories come rushing back. I unbuckle the crupper and girth, unfasten the shaft tugs, pull the long reins through the guides, then lift the collar over the animal’s head. In a couple of minutes, the horse is free of the buggy. I lead him to a gnarled fence post, use the scissor snap to attach one of the reins to the halter beneath his bridle, and tie him until a neighbor arrives to walk him home.

  I turn back to the street, to find Tomasetti watching me. “You’re pretty good at that.”

  “Lots of practice as a kid.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  But I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that the horse is the last thing on his mind. “What are you thinking?”

  “I was just thinking about connections.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “You have my attention.”

  He moves closer, his eyes meeting mine. “You mentioned earlier you had considered the possibility that these hate crimes are related to the Slabaugh case. Do you still think that’s a possibility?”

  “I’m not sure,” I tell him. “They feel different.”

  The statement doesn’t need any explanation, not for Tomasetti. And he doesn’t dispute it. “I agree. But maybe we shouldn’t close the door on the possibility.”

  The frustration I’d been feeling earlier transforms into something edgy and uncomfortable. “What’s your angle?”

  “What if the Slabaugh murders weren’t intentional?” He shrugs. “What if it started out as a hate crime? The situation somehow got out of control. Things went too far.”

  My mind takes the turn into territory I don’t want to venture and runs with it. “Maybe whoever pushed them into the pit didn’t know about the dangerous gases. Maybe they didn’t realize the outcome would be fatal.”

  He nods. “Rachael Slabaugh tried to get the two men out of the pit and was overcome by the methane gas.”

  “Collateral damage.” I consider the implications of that. “I don’t know, Tomasetti. If the deaths weren’t intentional, it seems logical that the person or group responsible would stop now that the police are all over it.”

  “Unless they liked it. Or decided those deaths weren’t such a bad thing. A benefit to their cause.”

  “That puts all of this into a whole new category.”

  “A really ugly one.”

  “Not to mention dangerous.” I glance over at the trampled snow where a young Amish man nearly froze to death, and I shiver. Everything Tomasetti said runs through my head like a ticker tape streaming bad news. “Why not just kill him outright, since they’ve already crossed that line?”

  “A few more hours and he might not have made it.”

  I nod without enthusiasm. “I’m not convinced it’s a viable theory, but I’ll keep an open mind.”

  “Something to think about,” he says.

  Watching the ambulance pull away, I find myself wondering if he’s right, if they’ll strike again, and what they’ll do next time.

  CHAPTER 10

  An outdoor scene that’s been trampled and is spread over a large area is extremely difficult to process. Tomasetti called his office and requested a CSU, but none of us are too optimistic they’ll glean anything useful. Sheriff Rasmussen arrived a short while after the ambulance left. We’re basically standing around doing nothing, so I call Glock and send him and Pickles out to canvass the area farms, in the hope that one of the neighbors saw something. But with the area being heavily wooded and the houses more than a mile apart, the prospect of a witness is not very promising.

  It’s nearly noon when my cell phone chirps. Pickles says, “Chief, Glock and I are out here at Dickey Allen’s place. We were asking him about the buggy incident, and we got to talking about the Slabaughs. He told us Solly Slabaugh used to hire a guy by the name of Ricky Coulter to do odd jobs around the farm. I ain’t run him through LEADS yet, but if I recall, he’s had some problems with the law.”

  That’s the way cases usually go. You get a break from some unlikely source when you’re least expecting it. It’s kind of like falling in love, without all the insanity. “I’ll go talk to him.” I pull out my keys, make eye contact with Tomasetti, and motion toward my vehicle. “Any of the neighbors see anything?” I ask Pickles.

  “Not a damn thing.”

  “Keep at it.”

  I ring off, clip my phone onto my belt. I’m walking fast, energized by the possibility of a break in the case. Tomasetti falls in beside me. “You get something?”

  “The name of a guy who did some work for Slabaugh.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “A break would be nice.”

  We reach the Explorer. “What about your vehicle?” I ask.

  “I’ll pick it up after we talk to Coulter.”

  “Fair enough.” We climb inside and I pull onto Township Road.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time some lowlife killed the guy who signed his paycheck,” Tomasetti says.

  “Who says crime doesn’t pay?”

  * * *

  I call Lois for Coulter’s most current address as I head toward the highway. She punches his name into LEADS and discovers he did time at the Mansfield Correctional Institution for burglarizing his place of employment, a tire shop, where he stole some tools and two hundred dollars in petty cash.

  “Raiding the till to triple murder is one hell of a leap,” Tomasetti comments.

  “Yeah, but not implausible.”

  “What’s your theory?”

  “Maybe Coulter planned to rob Slabaugh. Maybe he wasn’t expecting the brother to be there. Abel was visiting, remember? Anyway, let’s say Coulter showed up. The three men had a confrontation. Things got physical. Coulter pushed them into the pit, then panicked and ran.”

  Tomasetti takes over. “Rachael Slabaugh shows up. Tries to save her husband, but the methane gets to her and she falls into the pit.”

  “What about the missing cash in the mason jar?” I ask.

  “Maybe he hit the house on the way out, once everyone was in the barn.”

  “Pretty cold-blooded.”

  “Yeah.”

  We look at each other, our minds churning. It’s a good supposition. But is it right?

  Coulter lives in a small frame house a block from the railroad tracks and grain elevator. The dank, salty smell of the nearby slaughterhouse wafts into the Explorer as I pull up to the curb. An old Ford Thunderbird with wide tires, aluminum wheels, and oxidized black paint sits in the driveway, a tribute to the muscle cars of the 1970s.

  “He work?” Tomasetti asks.

  “Third shift at the oil-filter factory in Millersburg.”

  We disembark and take the cracked sidewalk to the porch. The front yard is mostly dirt and trampled gray snow. A child’s tricycle and several toy cars litter the sparse grass. It looks like a toy graveyard.

  Standing slightly to one side, I use my keys to knock on the storm door.

  A moment later, a plump woman holding a newborn baby opens the door. She wears faded jeans and a Cincinnati Reds sweatshirt. Pale blue eyes dart from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “Can I help you?” she asks.

  I show her my badge. “Is Ricky Coulter here?”

  “He’s in bed.” She looks over her shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

  “We just want to talk to him,” I say. “Can you get him for us?”

  “He’s only been asleep a couple of hours.”

  “This won’t take long.” Tomasetti smiles easily. “Go wake him for us.”

  I can tell she doesn’t want to comply, but she’s smart enough to realize she doesn’t have a choice. “Okay.” Hefting the baby, she steps back. “Come on in.”

  We step into a small living room. The walls are white and nicked up, evidence of a family that’s long outgrown its dwelling. A few feet away, a toddler wearing a diaper and a stained bib sits on well-worn carpet and pounds a pan with a wooden spoon. In the kitchen, a white dog with a cast on its leg lies on the cracked linoleum, watching us, its tail fanning the air. The television is tuned to a soap opera.

  “Can I help you?”

  I look up and see a thirty-something man shuffle out of the hall. He’s wearing pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt. I can tell by the crease marks on the left side of his face that he’d been sleeping. Behind him, the woman clutches the baby, eyeing us with unconcealed suspicion.

  “You Ricky Coulter?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Rubbing his fingers over mussed hair, he walks toward us. “What’s this all about?”

  “I understand you did some work for Solomon Slabaugh,” I begin.

  “I dug some postholes and put in some end posts for him a couple of months ago.” His brows knit. “Does this have something to do with what happened to him?”

  “Where were you yesterday morning?”

  He takes the question in stride, as if I’d asked about the weather. “I was here.”

  “You work that night?”

  “I was sick. Ate something that didn’t agree with me.”

  “Is there someone who can verify that you were here?”

  Turning, he motions toward the woman. “Honey, tell them where I was yesterday morning.”

  She hovers a few feet away, bouncing the baby, dividing her attention between us and the soap opera. “He was home sick. We ate at that burger place down by the speedway, and he threw up half the night.”

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