The Dead Will Tell

by Linda Castillo

  “Bad?”

  “I don’t know. Paramedic thinks the bullet went in through the arm hole at an angle, got him in the side.”

  “Shit. Shit.” I feel his eyes on me, drilling into me, seeing too much, and I’m annoyed because this isn’t about me. “He’s too old for this. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Chief, he’s a cop. And he’s tough. He’ll be okay.” Then his eyes narrow. “You’re bleeding pretty good yourself.”

  Vaguely, I’m aware of the warmth of blood streaming down the left side of my face. “Let’s go see Pickles.”

  As we approach the ambulance, I spot two uniformed paramedics carrying a litter toward a waiting gurney. I can just make out Pickles’ form, his uniform wet and black-looking in the flashing lights. His face isn’t covered, and suddenly I feel like crying. I reach them, but they don’t stop, so I keep pace with them and look down at my most senior officer. An oxygen mask covers his nose and mouth. His eyes are open, but unfocused. I say his name, but he doesn’t respond; he doesn’t look at me or give me any indication he heard me. I see a blood smear on a pale, gnarled hand.

  I make eye contact with one of the paramedics. “How is he?”

  “He sustained a single gunshot wound to the armpit area, penetrated the chest. Vitals are stable. We’re transporting him to Pomerene. That’s all I can tell you at this point.”

  “Can I ride with him?” I ask.

  He hesitates, then I see him looking at the blood on my temple and he nods. “Sure, Chief. Hop in.”

  * * *

  An hour later I’m sitting in the surgical intensive care waiting area of Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg, worried and pacing and trying in vain not to acknowledge the headache gnawing at my temple. The paramedics allowed me to ride in the ambulance with Pickles. I’d known there wasn’t anything I could do to help, but I wanted to sit with him or maybe hold his hand. I never got my chance and ended up spending most of the ride trying to stay out of the way.

  Upon arrival, Pickles was quickly assessed by the ER physician and, after some tests, rushed to surgery. At that point, I called Glock and asked him to notify Clarice that her husband had been shot. In typical Glock style, he was already en route. I feel incredibly lucky to have such a good team of officers and know they have my back.

  I couldn’t escape the doctor’s notice of my own injury, a gash I must have sustained when my head struck the driver’s-side window. And while Pickles was in the OR, the ER doc cornered me and put seven stitches in my head. He had the nerve to try to admit me for observation in case I had a concussion, but I assured him I had someone to keep an eye on me for the next twenty-four hours.

  I’m on my second cup of vending machine coffee when I hear the chime of the elevator. I look down the hall to see Glock, Skid, and Mona shuffle out and start toward me. My chest tightens at the sight of them, and for the second time, I fight tears. They are my adopted family, my children and parents and siblings rolled into one, and I’ve never been so glad to see them in my life.

  “How’s the old curmudgeon doing?” Glock asks.

  “Stable.” I tell them everything I know, which isn’t much. “They took him in to surgery. Doc said bullet went low and damaged his spleen.”

  “You don’t need your spleen,” Skid says quickly.

  “My grandmother had hers taken out two years ago,” Glock says, “and she’s doing fine.”

  “I thought your grandmother was in prison,” Skid says.

  Our laughter feels a little forced, but I think all of us appreciate it because we’re worried and scared and no one can think of a better way to deal with it.

  Mona touches my arm. “Clarice okay?” she asks.

  “She’s waiting for him outside recovery,” Glock replies.

  I turn my attention to Glock. “T.J. holding down the fort?”

  “He wanted to be here, but there was no one else.”

  “Where’s Ruth Weaver?” I ask.

  “Holmes County transported her and booked her in.”

  “I need to go talk to her.”

  “Figured you would. We’ve got it covered here if you want to go.”

  I had no business leaving my suspect or the scene of a shooting. But there’s an unwritten rule in law enforcement whether you’re the chief or a beat cop: When one of your own gets hurt, you drop everything and you go.

  “Call me,” I tell him.

  “The instant I hear anything.”

  I’ve just started toward the elevator when the door swishes open and Tomasetti steps into the hall. My steps falter at the sight of him. His eyes take in the length of me, a grim, determined look on his face. His eyes narrow on the bandage at my temple, and he starts toward me.

  “Kate…” He tries to frown, but only manages to look worried. “For God’s sake, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He reaches me, and his arms engulf me without hesitation. He squeezes too hard for too long, then sets me back and sighs. “I guess you’re going to make me ask what’s underneath that bandage.”

  “You mean besides a mullet?”

  He lets out a laugh.

  I can’t help it; I smile. I’m happy to see him, relieved that he’s here. “It’s only seven stitches.”

  “Only seven?” He leans close and kisses the top of my head. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

  Of all the things I expected him to do, that wasn’t it. “Driver’s-side window wasn’t that hard, I guess.”

  “Not as hard as your head, evidently.” He smiles back at me. “Do you have a concussion?”

  “No.”

  He eases me to arm’s length, his hands grasping my biceps with a little too much force, and looks down at me. “You didn’t call.”

  “I was about to.” The words sound automatic, so I add, “I didn’t want you to make a fuss.”

  He looks past me at the rest of my team, who are standing in a group just outside the waiting area. “How’s Pickles?”

  “Stable.”

  “That’s a good sign.”

  “I hope so. Seeing him … like that scared me, Tomasetti.”

  “I’m familiar with that particular emotion.”

  I move away from him and press the elevator down button. I know I should be more focused on him and what I just put him through, but I’ve got tunnel vision when it comes to this case. If anyone understands, I know Tomasetti does.

  “Who called you, anyway?” I ask.

  “Glock.” He comes up beside me, and we watch the lights as the elevator car makes it way to our floor. “I wish it had been you.”

  “I was a little busy.”

  “So where are we going?”

  Only then do I remember I left my vehicle back at the Hochstetler farm. I look at him, trying not to feel like an idiot. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have good timing?”

  The door swishes open, and he ushers me inside. “All the time.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Sheriff Mike Rasmussen, Detective Jessup Price with the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, and I are sitting in an interview room at the sheriff’s office in Holmesville, Ohio, which is about fifteen minutes north of Painters Mill.

  “How’s your officer?” Rasmussen asks as we wait for the corrections officer to bring in Ruth Weaver.

  “Stable,” I tell him. “He was still in surgery when I left the hospital.”

  He taps his temple. “You get that tattoo there in the wreck?”

  I nod. “That’s two counts of attempted murder of a police officer.”

  “The more the merrier.” He sighs. “She’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”

  “Has anyone talked to her yet?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Just ID info. She has not been Mirandized. We basically put her in a holding cell and waited for you.” He motions toward the small audio recorder. “When you’re ready, just hit the On button there, and you’re good to go.”

  “I appreciate that,
Mike.”

  “This is your deal.”

  The door opens. Ruth Weaver steps into the interview room. The last time I saw her, she looked like a hundred other Amish women I’d met over the years. Now she dons blue scrubs that are at least two sizes too large and flip-flops, the kind you might pick up at the local dollar store. Her hair is down and still damp from the rain. I see the blond roots peeking out at her scalp. Her hands are cuffed in front of her, for comfort during the interview.

  Interestingly, she doesn’t look shaken; she hasn’t been crying. I don’t think she’s looking for anyone to feel sorry for her or help her. She was ready for this, she knows she’s on her own, and she’s completely at ease with both those things.

  A trim female corrections officer has a firm grip on her biceps and motions toward the only vacant chair, opposite the table from me. “Sit down.”

  When Weaver is settled into the chair, the corrections officer steps back and takes her place at the door. The sheriff and Detective Price scoot their chairs away from the table slightly, keeping their notebooks handy, and give me the floor. I lean forward, press the On button of the recorder, and recite the date and names and titles of everyone present.

  I focus my attention on Weaver and recite the Miranda rights from memory. “Do you understand those rights?”

  The detective tugs a laminated card from an inside pocket of his jacket and slides it across the table to her.

  She nods without taking the card. “Perfectly.”

  When I was a rookie patrol officer in Columbus, I was lucky enough to partner up with one of the best interrogators in the department. His name was Cooper aka “Coop” and he was a natural, charismatic and personable. Within minutes, he could have even the most hardened criminal believing they were destined to become best friends. But Coop was also the kind of cop who, once he had gained the trust of a suspect, could rip out his throat and never lose his smile in the process. During the short period of time we worked together, Coop gave me the best advice I’d ever received on interviewing: A suspect will never tell you anything they don’t want to. The key, he said, is to make them want to. I never forgot that gem of advice. And while I’ll never be the interrogator Coop was, because of him, I became a better cop.

  “I don’t know whether to call you Hannah or Ruth,” I begin.

  “You can call me Ruth.”

  I look at her, searching for some semblance of Hannah Yoder, loving and supportive wife of Hoch Yoder. The Amish woman who’d comforted her husband and brought us cider and cookies. Tonight, there’s no trace of her. It’s as if in the last hours, she’s become another person. The familiar stranger I’ve never met. A stone-cold killer capable of marrying her own brother in order to carry out some twisted agenda.

  “I know you murdered Dale Michaels,” I tell her. “I know you murdered the others, too. Jerrold McCullough and Jules Rutledge.”

  She accepts my statement with a chilling calm and without defending herself. I hold her stare, and I realize that while she’s not foaming-at-the-mouth crazy, she is insane—and a sociopath. The lives she took—the suffering she caused—mean nothing to her. A mission to be achieved. An errand to be checked off her to-do list. There’s a vital part of her missing. The part that makes us human and sets us apart from the animals. Ruth Weaver isn’t human, at least not in any meaningful way. She’s an animal—the kind that kills and eats its young.

  “We’ve got your DNA, Ruth. All the evidence we need to put you away for the rest of your life,” I tell her. “We’ve got you dead to rights on multiple charges. Do you understand that?”

  I give the words time to sink in, but she doesn’t argue or deny or defend. She doesn’t try to make excuses. Her expression doesn’t alter. She doesn’t seem too concerned about any of it. “I understand.”

  “Did you kill William, too?” I ask after a moment.

  Her only reply is a cold stare and a slight curve of her mouth, and I can’t help but think that she’s enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame. This game that’s finally reached its climax. A lifetime of hatred come to fruition. Like a serial killer whose overriding desire is to get caught so she can confess her sins to the people who fully appreciate her special skill set.

  “Why now?” I ask. “After all these years?”

  “Because she died. It was time.”

  “Your mother? Becky Weaver?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you find them?”

  “I kept tabs on them.” She shrugs. “I used the computer at the library. There were photos over the years. In the newspaper and such. The art gallery. The housing development. The church. It wasn’t easy, but I’m a patient woman and I had plenty of time.”

  I nod. “Why did you kill them, Ruth? I’m trying to understand.”

  For the first time, emotion flickers in her eyes. Hatred? Satisfaction? “I killed them because they deserved it. Because they got to live their lives. They were happy, with spouses and families. They got to have all the things they took away from her.” She tilts her head, her eyes gleaming with a cunning that raises the hairs on my arms. “Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

  “You could have gone to the police.” I nod toward Rasmussen and Jessup. “Myself and these other police officers would have worked around the clock to find them and bring them to justice. We would have done it for you. And for your mother.”

  “The Englischer police?” Her laugh is a musical sound that defies any emotion. “Do you know what they did to her, Chief Burkholder? That night? After they killed her husband and children?”

  “I want you to tell me.”

  She leans forward, the cuffs at her wrists clanging softly against the tabletop, her eyes intent on mine. “There are no words to describe the things she endured. No words to convey the horror and agony and unbearable grief of that night.” Her voice falters. “She wasn’t a person to them. She was nothing. A rag to be used and tossed aside. Those men—those boys who had everything—they used her. For hours. They did things that broke her mind. Her body. Her faith. The spirit that lived inside her. They made her want to die.”

  “Your mother told you this?”

  “She told me everything. Every sordid, violent detail of how they used her. On the ground. In the mud. They beat her and kicked her. Spit on her. Urinated on her. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?” She tosses her head to get the hair out of her eyes. “They put her in the trunk and drove her to Pennsylvania. They strangled her. She played dead. But she was still conscious when they threw her into the well.”

  Despite my efforts not to, I feel something for this woman. I feel more for Wanetta Hochstetler. Compassion. Pity. Empathy. A sense of outrage at what had been done.

  I think of Blue Branson sitting in the jail cell, and I loathe him. “Why did you kill Jules Rutledge?” I ask. “The woman?”

  “You think because she was a woman she isn’t guilty? Really, Chief Burkholder? Are you that naïve? Let me tell you about Jules Rutledge. She stood by, watching and laughing as the men took turns brutalizing my mother. She was no different, no better. Worse, perhaps, because she was a woman.” Her gaze meets mine with such intensity that I have the sense of being sucked down into a bottomless black pit, a vortex, and I know something terrible awaits me at the end of it. “They deserved what I did to them. All of them. I have no regrets. My mother always said God would mete out their punishment and that punishment would be just. But she was Amish. I listened to her, but I never believed it. I knew that one day, I would be the one to make things right.”

  I think of my own past—the things that happened to me and the things I did about it—and I struggle not to draw parallels, however thin.

  “The fall into the well broke her spine,” she tells me. “She had no idea how long she lay there, hours or days. But it wasn’t her day to die. Eventually a local Swartzentruber family came by.” Her mouth curves again. “Sent by God, according to her.” But she waves off the notion. “The Amish fami
ly heard her cries and pulled her out. They took her to the midwife. Of course, word got around. Eventually the Englischer police were called, but my mother couldn’t remember who she was or what happened to her. She couldn’t even remember her name. The police assumed she was a local and eventually forgot about her.

  “The Swartzentruber family—the Weavers—took her in. Gave her food and clothing and a place to sleep. But there was no love lost between them. You see, my mother…” She lowers her voice as if she’s about to utter words best not spoken too loudly. “Sie is weenich ad.” She was off in the head.

  “Six weeks later, she found out she was with child.” The twisting of her lips is a grotesque mask in the glare of the fluorescent lights. She’s an attractive woman, but there’s something ugly beneath the surface of that pretty face, like a hideous scar camouflaged by makeup. “A few years after she gave birth to me, the Swartzentrubers began moving to New York. They were having some trouble with the government. Mamm didn’t go with them.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “By then she’d started to remember things.” Absently she raises her cuffed hands and touches her head. “Like who she was. Her family. What happened to her that night. She went to the bishop and told him everything. He’d heard about an Amish family in Ohio, the missing wife, the dead husband and children that perished in a fire. He called the bishop in Ohio. That was when she found out they were all dead. That … changed something inside her. And it wasn’t for the better. She left the Amish, became bitter and full of hate. I was only five years old—an innocent—but I knew she hated me, too. And I knew my life would never be the same.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Over the months and weeks, as her memories returned, she told me everything. The bedtime stories I heard at night weren’t about bunnies or bears or horses. They were about violent men and children burned alive. Every day I learned something new and terrible. About my datt. About my brothers and sisters. And about William. Especially William. The one who, because he was so very prideful, brought evil into their home.”