Pray for Silence

by Linda Castillo

  The possibilities niggle my brain as I take the hall to Mary’s bedroom. It’s a small space containing a single chest of drawers, a night table, and two narrow beds draped with intricate quilts. A plain dress and two kapps hang on wooden dowels mounted on the wall between the beds.

  The chance of my finding anything useful tonight is slim. It’s dark and the house has already been thoroughly searched. On the other hand, the parents’ bedroom, kitchen and living room were the main focus of our earlier searches. No one had known about Mary Plank’s pregnancy. I can’t help but wonder: How thoroughly was her room searched?

  Crossing to the window, I part the curtains and look out. The rain is coming down in earnest now. Water streams down the glass in a kaleidoscopic waterfall. The dormer window looks out over the tin roof of the front porch. Having been a mischievous teenager myself, I notice how easy it would be to sneak out the window. I check the lock, find it secure. When I shine my light on the sill, I’m shocked to see that the window is nailed shut. Had someone been coming to Mary’s window? Or were the nails a father’s effort to keep his daughter from venturing out? Whatever the case, the nails tell me the parents knew something was going on.

  The generator has been removed from the scene, so I go back downstairs. I grab the battery-powered work light, lug it up the stairs to Mary’s room and set it up on the chest of drawers. Donning latex gloves, I begin my search with the night table. In the top drawer, I find two Bibles, an ancient tome titled Martyrs Mirror, which is a record of persecutions suffered by European Anabaptists during the Reformation era. In the second drawer I find a hairbrush and comb. A kapp in need of mending. I smile when I see the mirror. Young Amish girls are no different that other girls when it comes to adolescent vanity. In some of the more conservative Amish homes, mirrors are forbidden. I wonder if Mary’s parents knew about this one.

  The night table nets nothing of interest so I move to the chest. I find boys’ trousers with tears and holes that need mending. Underclothes. A baseball and well-used glove in the bottom drawer.

  “Where did you keep your secrets?” I say aloud.

  It’s been a long time since I was a teenager. But I remember what it was like. The awkwardness. The longing for things I didn’t understand, most of which I knew I could never have. Like Mary, I had secrets, and those secrets caused me untold agony. It’s the loneliest feeling in the world to so desperately need the love and support of your family, and feel as if you don’t deserve it.

  I go to the bed. It’s unmade, the covers turned down and rumpled. A faceless doll with blond curls lies facedown next to the pillow. I wonder if Mary tossed it aside when she was roused from bed by her killer. I pick up the doll and an overwhelming sadness engulfs me. Amish dolls are faceless because in the Bible, in Exodus and Deuteronomy, graven images are forbidden.

  I set the doll against the pillow. Lifting one side of the mattress, I feel around, but find nothing. At the second bed, I do the same. Nothing hidden beneath the mattress. I’m probably wasting my time; frustration grinds inside me. Kneeling, I lift the quilt for a quick look beneath the bed. My beam reveals a lone sock surrounded by a dust bunny the size of my fist. I’m about to straighten when a flash of lightning brightens my view. In that instant of light, I notice one of the floorboards sticks up a scant quarter inch higher than the rest.

  “What the hell?” Reaching beneath the bed, I pry at the oak plank with my fingers. Surprise ripples through me when it lifts easily. Using my shoulder, I shove the bed over a couple of feet. My pulse spikes when I see the hiding place—and the small book staring up at me. I should photograph it before moving it, but I don’t have the camera with me, and I don’t want to wait. I reach for the book.

  It’s a homemade journal, about six inches square and an inch thick. The front and back covers are made of pink construction paper. Glued to the front cover is a slightly smaller swath of contrasting pink felt upon which the white lace cutout of a sheep is secured. Three holes have been punched along the left side. The paper is secured with pink ribbons tied into neat bows at each hole. The book is meticulously made by caring hands and with much attention to detail.

  I open the journal. It’s filled with lined notebook paper, the kind any kid would have at school, that’s been painstakingly cut to fit inside. The words Mary’s Journal are written in slanted cursive with blue ink. I turn the page and read.

  May 19

  I saw HIM today at the shop when Mamm and I went to deliver the quilts. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I would faint. My legs were shaking so badly Mamm asked me if I was cold. I don’t understand myself. He is not Amish. I should not be having these feelings. . . .

  May 24

  He spoke to me today. Just to say hello, but my poor heart didn’t know that. I could not look at him. Mamm and I were delivering the second quilt (the green baby quilt I love). How I hated to see that quilt go. I felt as if I were giving away my own child! But I know some loving mamm will give it a good home, and it will be used to wrap a well-loved baby.

  May 29

  I volunteered to stock candies this morning. Not for the money, but because if I work over six hours, I get a lunch break. I can go to the park, and I know he will be there. I feel terribly guilty for that. I know my feelings are wrong. Against the will of my parents. Maybe against God’s will, too. But I wonder . . . how can something that feels so wonderful be bad?

  I stare down at the words, aware of my heart drumming against my breast-bone. Who is he? The father of her unborn child? Does she reveal anything about him at some later point in the journal? Realizing I need to take it with me and read it from cover to cover, I rise and scoot the bed back into place. I’m midway to the door when my cell phone trills.

  “Chief, it’s Glock.”

  “How’s the canvassing going?”

  “We finished half an hour ago. I wanted to let you know Dick Flatter and his wife remember seeing a truck they didn’t recognize out on Township Road 16 last night.”

  Township Road 16 is a dirt track that runs along the north side of the Plank farm. “What kind of truck?”

  “He couldn’t recall. Said it was dark in color. Didn’t know the make. He remembered it because he’s pretty sure it doesn’t belong to any of the neighbors.”

  “A make would have been nice.”

  “That would make our jobs way too easy.” He pauses. “You want me to give BCI a call and ask for a list of dark pickup trucks registered in Holmes and Coshocton counties?”

  “I’ll call them.”

  “Anything new on your end?”

  I tell him about the Mary Plank’s pregnancy.

  “That’s a stunner. I mean, she was Amish and pretty young.”

  My own past flashes in the periphery of my mind, but I shove it aside. “Unusual, but not unheard of. Get this: she had live sperm inside her body.”

  “So we have DNA?”

  “Going to take a few days. The BCI lab has to run it through CODIS. If our guy is a past offender, we’ll have a name.”

  “If he doesn’t have a record, we’re fucked.”

  I look at the journal in my hand. “I was looking around out here and found a journal in the girl’s room.”

  “A journal? Like a diary? Whose is it?”

  “It’s Mary’s. She’s at that age. You know, wants to write everything down.”

  “Never went through that stage.”

  “Might be a girl thing.” I sigh. “I’m going to take it home and see if she names a boyfriend.”

  “The pregnancy kind of changes things, doesn’t it? Guy doesn’t want a kid, so he offs his girlfriend.”

  “I think there’s more to it, Glock. Not enough motive there to slaughter an entire family. And it doesn’t explain the torture.”

  “Some things just don’t make sense no matter how you cut it. Maybe this guy’s a psycho. Went berserk.”

  I consider asking him for his opinion on the scuff marks in the barn, but realize it’s probably b
etter to sleep on it and brainstorm in the morning when we’re fresh. I sigh. “You heading home?”

  “On my way there now.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  I disconnect and stand there for a moment, listening to the storm. I should be thinking about the case, but as I descend the stairs, it’s John Tomasetti who dominates my thoughts. I should have let Glock call BCI. But I know why I didn’t, and I’m not proud of my motivations.

  By the time I reach the living room, I’m dialing his cell phone number. He picks up on the fourth ring, sounding distracted. “It’s Kate.” Pause. “Are you in the middle of something?”

  “Nothing you can’t drag me away from. How’s the investigation coming along?”

  I recap everything I learned from Doc Coblentz. “One of the neighbors recalls seeing a dark pickup near the Plank farm the night of the murders. I was wondering if you could do me a favor and get me the names of people in Holmes and Coshocton counties who own a dark pickup truck.”

  “Worth a shot. Make? Model? Year?”

  “I don’t know. I thought we’d start with blue and black.”

  “Well, that narrows it down.”

  I’m crossing the threshold into the kitchen when outside the window a flash of lightning turns night into day. Shock freezes me in place when I see the silhouette of a person standing outside the back door. Snapping the phone closed, I shine my light on the window. At first I think the BCI technician is returning from a late dinner break. But the instant my light hits the glass, the silhouette darts away.

  Shoving the phone into my pocket, I lunge toward the door, yank it open. Thunder cracks like a gunshot as I step outside. Rain slashes down. I see the shadow of my Explorer. The silhouette of the buggy. Then out of the corner of my eye, I see movement to my right. I turn, catch a glimpse of a figure running across the yard.

  “Stop!” I call out. “Police! Stop!”

  The figure doesn’t stop.

  In the next instant, I’m bounding off the porch, sprinting toward him. Rain stings my face. Streaming bullets of water blind me as I run across the side yard. A flicker of lightning illuminates a white rail fence ahead and a cornfield beyond. I see the person go over the fence. In the back of my mind I wonder if the killer has returned to the scene. But why would he do that when my Explorer is parked in plain sight?

  I grapple with my lapel mike as I sprint toward the fence. “This is 235! I’m 10-20 at the Plank farm! I’ve got a 10-88! 10-78!”

  “Uh . . . roger that.” The new dispatcher. A too long pause. “Um . . . who do I send?”

  “Get on the goddamn radio and get someone out here now!” I shout.

  “Ten-four.”

  I draw my .38. I’m running full out when something tangles at my feet. Wire, I realize, and then I’m falling. I reach out to break my fall, lose the grip on my gun. My hands plunge into mud. I land on my stomach hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. I turn over, kick off the wire—a freaking tomato cage—and scramble to my feet. Scooping up my weapon, I lurch into a run.

  My breaths come hard and fast as I scale the fence. I can hear the blood roaring in my ears. I shine the Maglite ahead, and see an ocean of corn. I burst into the first row. Mud sucks at my feet as I sprint to the next row. Husks slash at my face as I run down the row, pop into the next, continue on. I run blindly for several minutes, hoping to intercept my quarry. But he’s nowhere in sight.

  Finally, I stop, my lungs burning. “Damnit.”

  I nearly jump out of my skin when my cell phone beeps. I snatch it up with a cross utterance of my name.

  “What the hell happened? I’ve been trying to call—”

  Tomasetti. I close my eyes, try to steady my breathing. “Suspicious person at the crime scene,” I pant.

  “You alone?”

  “Backup’s on the way.”

  “Kate, goddamnit . . .”

  “I’m okay.” I’m out of breath. Too pissed to talk. “I’ve got to go.”

  He starts to say something else, but I disconnect. I tell myself it’s because I’m standing in the middle of a cornfield soaked to the skin with an unknown subject in the area. But I’m honest enough to know that at least part of the reason I don’t want to talk to him at this minute is because I need him. Such is the nature of our relationship. The thought of needing anyone scares the hell out of me.

  Shining the Maglite in the direction from which I came, I see my muddy tracks being slowly eroded away by the pounding rain. A voice barks over my radio. “This is 289. I’m 10-76 the Plank farm, 10-77 five.”

  Glock, I realize and hit my mike. “Ten-fourteen heading west through the cornfield west of the house. See if you can intercept at Hogpath Road.”

  “Ten-four.” The mike crackles. “You okay, Chief?”

  “That’s affirm.”

  By the time I reach the house, I’m dripping wet. The entire front of my uniform is covered with mud. Chunks fall off my boots as I cross to the Explorer. I’m cold and royally ticked off as I yank open the door and grab my rain slicker. I’m shrugging into it when headlights wash over me.

  I look up to see T.J. emerge from his cruiser, Maglite in hand. He approaches me at a jog, his expression concerned. “Damn, Chief. You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Quickly, I tell him about the journal and seeing the subject at the door. “I gave pursuit. I might have caught him, but I fell, lost him in the cornfield. Glock’s going to try to intercept on Hogpath Road.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “I didn’t get a good look.”

  He pauses. “You think it was the killer?”

  The experts say a large majority of killers return to the scene sooner or later. I’ve seen it happen myself a few times in the course of my career. This time, however, the scenario doesn’t make sense. “My Explorer was parked in plain sight.”

  He shines the beam over my muddy uniform. “I’ve got a jacket in my cruiser. . . .”

  The chirp of my radio interrupts. “Two-eight-nine.” Glock’s voice crackles. “I’m 10-23 Hogpath Road.”

  I hit my mike. “Any sign of the subject?”

  “Negative.”

  “Damnit.” The son of a bitch could have exited the cornfield at any point, gotten into a vehicle, and fled the scene. The rain will eradicate any tracks. “Take a look around. See what you can find.” I sigh. “We’ll come back at first light.”

  “Roger that.”

  Shaking my head, I brush at the mud on my jacket. “Damnit.”

  T.J. looks thoughtful. “You think the killer might’ve come back for the journal, Chief?”

  “It crossed my mind.” His expression becomes concerned, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am. “We need to keep the scene secure. I want a more thorough search of the house and outbuildings first thing in the morning.”

  T.J. nods. “Look, I came on duty later than everyone else. You want me to stick around?”

  “That would be great. Thanks. Keep your radio handy, will you?”

  “You bet.” He looks around. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to go through the journal tonight and see if Mary Plank identifies a boyfriend.”

  He seems to consider that a moment. “You think the boyfriend killed the whole family?”

  “I don’t know. But he just became my number one suspect.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “That sounded urgent. Is everything all right?”

  John Tomasetti looked across the span of desktop at his newest nemesis and resisted the urge to get up and walk out the door. “A case,” he muttered. “Agency business.”

  Contemplating him, Dr. Warren Hunt leaned back in his sleek leather executive chair, the poster boy for patience and serenity, and nodded. “If you need to take care of business, there’s an adjoining office you’re free to use.”

  Tomasetti looked down at the cell phone in his hand and tried not to think about Kate. Or the fact that instead of sitting in this of
fice humiliating himself, he should be on his way to Painters Mill. “Let’s just . . . get this over with.”

  The doctor smiled.

  Tomasetti had never been a fan of doctors, but he hated shrinks with particular vehemence. He found all of their how-do-you-feel-about-that questions, their phony concern and not-so-covert glances at their watches obscenely disingenuous. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a choice but to tolerate Dr. Warren Hunt. The suits might call it progress, but John called it a crock of shit.

  “Where were we?” the doctor asked.

  Hunt was a nice enough guy. A little too preppy for someone his age; John guessed him to be in his mid-fifties. But he’d been through some tough times. He’d spent a year in Bosnia way back when. He’d been a cop in New Orleans during Katrina. But while those things held weight for Tomasetti, there was baggage, and then there was fucking baggage. He had the profound misfortune of possessing the latter.

  “I think we were discussing my plethora of vices,” Tomasetti replied.

  Hunt gave a small smile, then looked down at the file in front of him. Tomasetti knew it contained records—damning personal information from past doctors—another proviso he didn’t care for, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about any of it. And so here he was.

  “I see you’ve had some problems with alcohol,” Hunt said. “Are you still drinking?”

  Tomasetti looked across the gleaming span of rosewood, wondering how much of this would get back to his superiors. “I’ve cut back. A lot.”

  “You still running?”

  “I’m up to a couple of miles.” He hadn’t run for a week, but then he didn’t feel the need to confess.

  “What about sleep?” Hunt asked. “You sleeping at night?”

  “Better.”

  “Sleep disturbances? Nightmares?”

  “Sometimes.” For the last two and a half years—since the murders of his wife and two little girls—Tomasetti had been plagued by nightmares. More than one shrink had called them a by-product of post-traumatic stress disorder. They’d prescribed everything from Valium to antidepressants to antianxiety drugs to sleeping pills. The antidepressants seemed to do more harm than good, so John had stopped taking them almost immediately. The rest, however, he’d sucked down with the self-destructive glee of an addict.