The Dead Will Tell

by Linda Castillo

  He’d been inside many correctional facilities in the course of his career. They all had the same feel, a closed-in space that smelled of dirty shorts, industrial-strength cleaner, and high school cafeteria food. All of it permeated with an overt sense of desperation, the knowledge of men incarcerated and the awareness that most of them are violent.

  The walls were painted an institutional two-tone gray. To his left was the control center, a reception office of sorts with a bullet-resistant barrier window and security transaction tray. A uniformed corrections officer sat inside, his thick fingers pecking at a keyboard.

  Tomasetti approached the window and leaned close to catch the officer’s attention.

  “Sign in.” Without looking up, the officer dropped a clipboard with a sheet attached to the tray and shoved it toward Tomasetti. “If you’re preregistered, I just need two forms of ID.”

  Tomasetti removed his badge and set it in the tray. “I think this’ll do it.”

  The corrections officer, whose name tag read D. NELSON, finally looked up. He didn’t seem too impressed by Tomasetti’s credentials. “If you have a firearm on your person, you’ll need to check it with the officer in the cage.”

  “No problem.” Tomasetti signed his name and filled in the date, leaving off the part about his being with BCI, and shoved the clipboard back to the officer.

  The man glanced at it, looked at Tomasetti, and then picked up the phone. “Have a seat,” he said, and motioned toward a row of waiting-room chairs that lined the opposite wall.

  Tomasetti took the nearest chair, using the time to check his e-mail and voice mail—none of which were from Kate. Two minutes later, a buzzer sounded. He looked up to see his old academy mate, Stan McCaskill, standing at the door, looking at him as if he wasn’t quite sure who he was.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “John Tomasetti.”

  “Hey, Stan.” Tomasetti rose and crossed to him, extended his hand. “It’s been a while.”

  “Twenty years, give or take.” He opened the door wider, ushering Tomasetti inside. “What are you doing these days?”

  “I’m with BCI.”

  He nodded approvingly. “So what’s your business with Kinnamon?”

  “Cold case I’m about to close.” Tomasetti tapped the file at his side. “Just need to ask a few questions, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  They went through a windowless steel door, down a tiled hall, and then reached the cage, a glassed-in office where two corrections officers controlled the door locks and access to the interior of the jail. McCaskill set a blue form on the security transaction tray and shoved it toward the other man.

  The man inside looked down at it and then gave Tomasetti a quick once-over. “You’ll need to check your firearm here.”

  “Sure.” Once again, he placed his badge in the tray. Then he removed his weapon from his shoulder holster and set it in the tray as well.

  The officer tore off a ticket and sent it back to him. The locks on the door across the room snicked open.

  “Here we go.” McCaskill took him through it and motioned Tomasetti into a small interview room. “You need audio? Escort?”

  Tomasetti shook his head. “Just Kinnamon.”

  “I’ll get him for you.”

  The room was like a hundred other interview rooms Tomasetti had been in over the years. Twelve feet square. Gray walls. Windowless. Not even an observation window. Institutional tile floor. Air temp hovering somewhere around sixty-two degrees. Discomfort helped to thwart stonewalling. The table was four feet long and a couple of feet wide with an off-white Formica surface that was etched with scratches from lawyer’s briefcases. A single Fuck You was carved into the corner. Three cheap blue sled chairs covered with stain-resistant fabric that wasn’t that stain resistant surrounded the table.

  There was a camera mounted in the corner, just below ceiling level. No glowing eye, but that didn’t mean someone didn’t have video running. But there was no intercom. No phone. No visible wires. None of those things guaranteed the conversation he was about to have with Vince Kinnamon was private or wouldn’t be secretly recorded. Tomasetti wasn’t exactly the trusting type, but there was no way around the risk.

  McCaskill didn’t keep him waiting. Tomasetti had barely settled in when the door opened and the corrections officer produced Kinnamon. “Step inside,” he said.

  Tomasetti took the other man’s measure as he shuffled in. Orange prison jumpsuit. Off-brand sneakers. No chains or restraints. Tomasetti had met him a couple of times over the years, but if it hadn’t been for the name tag embroidered into the fabric, he would have been hard-pressed to recognize him. The inmate shuffling into the interview room looked nothing like the man who’d once owned a five-thousand-square-foot house in Edgewater. Three months in jail had taken a heavy toll. He’d dropped sixty pounds. His once-tanned face had the telltale prison pallor. The only thing that was the same were his eyes. They were black as tar and radiated a cunning that could raise the hairs on the necks of even the most seasoned cops. Today, those eyes revealed nothing of what he was thinking as they latched on to Tomasetti.

  Up until his arrest, Vince Kinnamon had been a dangerous man. A killer with a weakness for hard drugs, a penchant for violence, and no conscience to keep him from acting on the most primal of urges. The Cleveland PD suspected him in a plethora of crimes ranging from heroin distribution to murder. Kinnamon’s luck ran out three months ago, when he’d been busted by the feds for laundering money through his Downtown Cleveland bar, The Red Monkey. He’d been put before a federal grand jury, which had quickly handed down an indictment. He’d been incarcerated and, deemed a flight risk, denied bail while he awaited trial. Rumor had it that even in prison, Kinnamon was still connected. Still powerful. Tomasetti was counting on both those things.

  McCaskill gestured toward the chair on the opposite side of the table from where Tomasetti was sitting. “Kinnamon. Sit down. There.” He turned his attention to Tomasetti. “How much time you need?”

  “Ten minutes max.”

  The corrections officer pointed at a button that resembled a doorbell set into the wall. “Just hit the buzzer when you’re through, and we’ll come get him.”

  “Thanks again.”

  The door clicked shut. Without looking at Kinnamon, Tomasetti opened the file and looked down at the blur of black and white that had nothing to do with the purpose of his visit today.

  “You don’t look like a fed,” Kinnamon said.

  “They treating you okay here at County?” Tomasetti asked the question without looking up.

  “Fucking hacks. They treat all the inmates like shit. What’s it to you?”

  “When’s your trial?” Tomasetti flipped a paper. “May?”

  “June.”

  He looked away from the file, made eye contact with Kinnamon. “Looks like the feds have you by the balls this time, Vince. Money laundering. They take that shit seriously.”

  Kinnamon regarded him across the table, saying nothing.

  “How did they get you, anyway?” he asked.

  “Some fucking rat.” Kinnamon waved off the question. “I still don’t know who you are.”

  “Let’s just say I’m the bearer of interesting news.”

  Kinnamon stared at him, saying nothing at first, but he wasn’t doing a very good job of concealing his interest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You heard Joey Ferguson’s conviction was overturned, didn’t you?”

  “I heard. Good for him. What does that have to do with me?”

  “How do you think he managed that?”

  “The Cleveland cops are a bunch of fuckups.”

  For the span of a full minute, neither man spoke. The only sound came from the jiggle of Kinnamon’s foot against the chair. Tomasetti could feel the other man’s curiosity, his misery, his desperation.

  “Official word is he got off on a technicality,” Tomasetti said. “But I heard Joey Ferguson walked because he turn
ed over on you. He ratted you out. Fucked you over.” He leaned back in his chair and contemplated Kinnamon. “That means he gets the house on the lake. A pretty wife. The kids. And a boat. You get life in a six-by-six-foot cell.”

  The other man said nothing. But Tomasetti didn’t miss the color that climbed up his neck or the way the muscles in his jaws quivered with tension. “Who the fuck are you? And why would you come in here and tell me that shit? You got some beef with Ferguson?”

  Tomasetti closed the file and got to his feet. “Good luck with your trial.”

  Kinnamon hissed something, but Tomasetti pressed the call button, shutting him out. When the door opened, he left the room without looking back.

  CHAPTER 21

  Half an hour later, I’m standing twenty feet from the bank of a raging Painters Creek, watching a volunteer firefighter retrieve McCullough’s body from the water. Next to me, Skid slurps at an extra-large McDonald’s coffee, watching the scene as if he’s sitting cross-legged in front of the television watching an old episode of Jonny Quest. Behind us, two paramedics from Pomerene Hospital stand beneath the branches of a black walnut tree that does little to shield them from the rain.

  “Chief?”

  I glance behind me to see the coroner approach, sliding a little in the mud as he comes down the slope from the front of the house. He’s eyeing me as if it’s my fault he’s out tromping around in such inhospitable weather and he’s holding me personally responsible. His eyes slide toward the life preserver–clad firefighters as he starts toward us.

  “I wish people would choose better weather in which to die,” he grumbles as he reaches us.

  Skid chuckles into his coffee.

  The doc doesn’t smile. “Any idea who it is?”

  “I think it’s the homeowner, Jerrold McCullough,” I tell him.

  “Chief!” The nearest firefighter looks over his shoulder at me. “You might want to see this.”

  Skid lowers the cup from his mouth and looks at me. “You want me to go, Chief?”

  “I got it.” I cross to the water’s edge, where the two firefighters, both of whom have safety tethers attached to their life vests, are standing in hip-deep water. “What is it?”

  “This guy didn’t just fall off the deck and get tangled in that rope,” he shouts to be heard above the roar of the water. “His hands are bound.”

  In light of the other two murders, I shouldn’t be surprised, but there’s always something intrinsically shocking about murder. “He’s tied to the deck?”

  “Looks like.”

  The deck seems to be shielding them from the worst of the current. Still, it’s a dangerous retrieval. Without those tethers, one slip could send a man into the water, where even the strongest swimmer would be swept downstream.

  A third rescuer approaches me with an orange life vest. “Here you go, Chief.”

  All I can think as I put my arms through the straps is that I don’t want to go into that swirling, dark water. The firefighter doesn’t seem to notice my trepidation as he produces a black nylon tether strap and clips it to my vest with a carabiner.

  The firefighter in the water looks over his shoulder at me. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  At the bank, I look back at Skid. “Grab the camera, will you?”

  Nodding, he starts up the incline toward his cruiser.

  Trying not to slip in the mud, I enter the water. Cold creeps over the tops of my boots and grips my feet with icy hands that streak up my legs with enough force to chill my entire body. No one had any spare wader boots, so I’m destined to go through the day with wet feet. Another step takes me into a foot of swirling brown water. Even though it’s shallow, the current tugs at me, like a child pulling on my pant leg to get my attention.

  I’m about four feet downstream from the deck. Tea-colored water rushes around the wood piers. The two firefighters are taking the brunt of the current; I can see it washing around their legs. One of the men has looped a rope around the nearest pier and is using it to hold on to.

  Water inches over my knees and slaps against my thighs as I wade closer to the deck. When the farthest firefighter steps aside, I get my first good look at the body. I see a blue-white face with cloudy eyes. A gray strip of what looks like duct tape over the mouth. Hair flowing like some exotic fish fin just below the surface. The victim is wearing a white tank undershirt and blue jeans that have been nearly pulled from his body by the force of the water. Bare feet. My eyes seek out his hands, but they’re bound behind his back, cotton rope whipping with the current.

  “See that?” The firefighter points. “Hands are tied. Looks like duct tape over his mouth and wrapped around his head. I thought you might want to see it before we cut him loose.”

  “Let me get a few shots,” I tell him.

  Gripping the tether with my left hand, I wade back to the shore. “Skid!”

  He places the camera in my palm. Wrapping the strap around my wrist, hoping I don’t fall and ruin it, I work my way back out to the body. I stop two feet away, brace my feet against the pull of the water, and start snapping photos. It’s difficult to make out the details because of the murkiness and glare. The raging current is whipping the body back and forth with such force that I hear it striking the deck’s pier.

  I leave the water and shoot a dozen more photos from different angles as the firefighters cut the body loose. The rope drags behind them like a dead snake as they carry the victim to shore. Doc Coblentz and a young female technician, who’s staring at the body as if she’s expecting it to turn into a zombie at any moment, spreads a black zippered body bag on grass that’s been pulverized to mud. The firefighters lay the victim in a supine position atop the vinyl.

  When the two men step away, I move closer and look down at the body. The face is discolored and swollen, but not so much that I don’t recognize him. “It’s Jerrold McCullough,” I say.

  One of the rescuers comes up beside me. “Looks like he’s been submerged awhile,” he says as he removes his life vest.

  I look at Doc Coblentz. “Any idea how long?”

  The doc shakes his head. “Skin hasn’t begun to slough. Not much in the way of bloating. If I had to guess, I’d say less than twenty-four hours. I’ll get a liver temp once I get him to the morgue.”

  Skid’s gaze snags mine. “That means he was there last night when you and Glock were here, looking for him.”

  “The water hadn’t yet reached the deck,” I say. “If he was alive and conscious, he heard us.”

  “Kate, look at his knees.” The coroner glances up at me from where he’s kneeling next to the body.

  I kneel beside him and watch as he indicates holes in the man’s trousers at both knees. Using scissors, he cuts away the wet fabric and reveals neat round bullet holes in both knees. “Looks like gunshot wounds,” he says.

  “Holy shit,” Skid mutters from somewhere behind me.

  The doc studies the wounds. “I won’t be sure until I get X-rays, but it looks like on the left knee, the bullet hit the patella. On the right, it looks as if it penetrated the soft tissue between the patella and tibia.”

  “Was he alive when he was shot?” I ask.

  “There’s bruising. Swelling. I would say yes, he was alive when he sustained those two wounds.”

  I look down at the body and try not to wince at the images prying into my brain. “Doc, can you cut away that duct tape?”

  Using surgical-grade scissors, the coroner cuts the duct tape and peels it away. I work an evidence bag from my belt and hold it out. He drops the length of tape into the bag.

  McCullough’s mouth is open. I see blue lips and yellowed teeth. A small dark object at the back of his throat. “There’s something in his mouth,” I say.

  “Some kind of foreign object.” The doc looks over his shoulder at the technician. “Hand me those pliers.”

  The technician passes the instrument to the doc. We watch in silence as the doc inserts the pincers and pulls out th
e Amish peg doll. “Just like the others,” he says.

  From behind me, Skid hands him another evidence bag and the doc drops it inside.

  I hand the camera to Skid. “Get some photos of that, will you?”

  “Yep.”

  The doc continues with his preliminary exam. “No irregularities in the clothing,” he says.

  Steeling myself against the ghastliness of the body, I kneel for a closer look. “Wrists are scored.”

  “At some point, he was conscious and struggled,” the doc says. “From the looks of that bruising and the abrasions, probably for quite some time.”

  I look toward the deck and try not to imagine the panic and terror Jerrold McCullough endured before his death. The killer had crippled him. Bound him. Gagged with the peg doll stuffed into his throat. Then he’d tied him to the pier, struggling, until the rising water had drowned him.

  “This was personal,” I say to no one in particular. “Someone wanted him to suffer.”

  “I’d say they succeeded,” the doc mutters.

  I make eye contact with Skid and we move away from the doc and firefighters. Out of earshot, I tell him, “I want you to pick up Blue Branson for questioning.”

  “You think he did this?” he asks.

  “I honestly don’t know. But I want you to pick him up. Sweat him a little. See what oozes out.”

  He nods. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to pick up Norm Johnston.”

  I leave Skid standing on the muddy bank with his mouth open.

  * * *

  I sit in the Explorer for several minutes, shaking with cold, heat blasting, trying to decide how to handle Johnston. The optimism I felt earlier has been depleted by the things I’ve seen and the knowledge that this killer isn’t going to stop—until someone stops him. If my theory is correct, and these murders are related to the Hochstetler case, Blue Branson and Norm Johnston—perhaps even Hoch Yoder and his wife—are in danger.