Sworn to Silence

by Linda Castillo

  Nothing burns up the phone lines like a murder, I think darkly. “Any messages?”

  “Lots of folks calling about the murder.”

  I remember I was supposed to type a statement this afternoon. I’m running out of time. I wish I could stop the clock. “Tell anyone who asks I’ll have a statement later today.”

  “Norm Johnston has called three times. He sounds pissed.”

  “Tell him I’ll touch base with him later. I’m pretty tied up right now.”

  “Will do.”

  I disconnect, knowing I won’t be able to put off Norm much longer.

  The clock on my dash tells me it’s three P.M. when I park outside the diner. Though it’s well after the lunch rush, the place is packed. The heart of the Painters Mill grapevine.

  The smells of old grease and burned toast assail me when I enter. Dishes clatter over the din of conversation. From a radio next to the cash register, George Strait laments about desperation. I feel the stares as I walk to the counter. A woman in a pink waitress uniform and big hair smiles as I approach. “Hiya, Chief. Can I get ya a cuppa joe?”

  I’ve met her before, but only to say hello. “That’d be great.”

  “Wanna menu or you gonna have the special?”

  I’m starved, but I know if I eat here these people will descend on me like hyenas on a fresh kill. “Just coffee.”

  I slide onto a stool and watch her pour, hoping the coffee is fresh. “Is Connie Spencer around?”

  She slides the cup in front of me. “She’s on her break. Poor thing’s been a basket case all morning. Amanda’s murder really freaked her out. You guys know who did it yet?”

  I shake my head. “Where is she?”

  “Out back. Been smoking like a chimney all day.”

  “Thanks.” Leaving the coffee, I head into the kitchen area. The cook looks at me through the steam coming off his grill. A boy with a bad case of acne eyes me from his place in front of the industrial-size dishwasher, then glances quickly away. I spy the door at the back and start toward it.

  I find Connie Spencer sitting on a concrete step outside. She’s a thin woman with narrow shoulders and small, quick hands. Her eyes are the color of barn muck and rimmed with blue liner. Pink blush streaks nonexistent cheekbones. Her mouth is bare of lipstick, revealing a cold sore in the corner. Huddled in a faux fur coat, she sucks on a long brown cigarette.

  The door slams behind me. Turning, she gives me the evil eye, her expression defiant. A tactic I’ve seen more than once, usually when some tough guy is trying to cover nerves. I wonder what she’s nervous about.

  “I was wondering when you were going to show up.” She glances at her watch. “Took you a while.”

  Already I don’t like her attitude. “What made you think I would want to talk to you?”

  “Because I was with Amanda Saturday night and now she’s dead.”

  “You don’t seem too broken up about it.”

  She tongues the cold sore. “I guess I’m still in shock. Amanda was so . . . alive, you know? I can’t believe it.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Saturday night. We went out. Had a few drinks.”

  “Where?”

  “The Brass Rail.”

  “Anyplace else?”

  “No.”

  “Anything unusual happen while you were there?”

  “Unusual like what?”

  “A guy showing too much interest in her. Someone she didn’t know buying her a drink. Did she have an argument with anyone?”

  “Not that I remember.” She gives me a hard laugh. “But I was pretty wasted.”

  “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Amanda? Did she have any enemies?”

  For the first time she gives me her full attention. Some of the attitude drops away and I get a glimpse of the young woman beneath all the trashy brawn. “That’s what I don’t get,” she says. “Everyone liked Amanda. She was like . . . a nice person, always up. Laughed a lot, you know?” A smile that’s much too worldly for a twenty-one-year-old twists her mouth. “I’m the one people usually don’t like.”

  I consider telling her she might contemplate an attitude adjustment, but I’m not here to enlighten some smart-assed punk. I’m here to find out who killed Amanda Horner. “What about a boyfriend?”

  She lifts a shoulder, lets it fall. “She went out with Donny Beck some, but they broke up a couple of months ago.”

  My cop’s radar goes on alert. This is the second time Beck’s name has come up. “How bad was the breakup?”

  “Amanda didn’t put up with any of that me-Tarzan-you-Jane shit. She laid down the law and he listened.”

  “Tell me about Donny Beck.”

  “Not much to tell. He’s a clerk at Quality Implement. Likes Copenhagen and Bud and blondes with big tits. His biggest goal in life is to manage the store. Amanda’s too smart to get tangled up with someone like that. She knows there’s more to life than cow shit and corn.”

  I notice she’s speaking of Amanda in the present tense. “Any messy breakups in the past?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might be holding a grudge for some reason?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  I’m chasing my tail and we both know it. A gust of wind snakes around the building, bringing with it a swirl of snow. “What time did you last see Amanda?”

  Her overplucked brows knit. “Eleven-thirty. Maybe twelve.”

  “Did you leave the bar together?”

  Exhaling smoke, she shakes her head. “Separate cars. I don’t like having to rely on other people for transportation, you know? If I want to leave and they want to stay . . .” Shrugging, she lets the words hang. “Could be a pain in the ass.”

  Her lack of emotion bothers me. Amanda was allegedly a good friend. Why isn’t this young woman more upset?

  She rises and brushes at the back of her coat. “I gotta get back to work.”

  “I’m not finished.”

  “You going to pay me for this, or what?” She motions toward the door. “They’re sure as hell not if I don’t get back in there.”

  “We can do this here and now or we can do it at the police station,” I say. “Your call.”

  She frowns like a petulant teenager, then plops down hard. “This is a bunch of shit.”

  “I need you to tell me everything that happened Saturday night. Don’t leave anything out.”

  Sarcasm laces her voice as she recaps a night of drinking, dancing and flirting. “We ordered a pizza and pitcher of beer and talked.” She sucks hard on the cigarette and I notice her hand shaking. “After that we played some eight ball and talked to some people we know. A few guys hit on us. I wanted to get laid, but they were a bunch of fuckin’ losers.”

  “What do you mean ‘losers’?” I picture a group of hard-drinking, drug-dealing types looking for trouble.

  She looks at me as if I’m dense. “Farmers. A bunch of go-nowhere, I’m-going-to-live-in-bum-fuck-the-rest-of-my-life good ole boys. I could practically smell the pig shit on their boots.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I left.”

  “I need the names of everyone you and Amanda talked to.”

  Sighing, she recites several names.

  I pull out my notebook and jot them down. “What time did you leave?”

  “I told you. Eleven-thirty or twelve.” Her smile is hard-edged. “What are you trying to do? Trip me up?”

  “The only time people trip up is when they’re lying. Are you lying about something, Connie?”

  “I don’t have any reason to lie.”

  “Then stop being an asshole and answer my questions.”

  She rolls her eyes. “For an Amish chick you sure can cuss.”

  Under different circumstances I might have laughed, but I don’t like this young woman. I’m cold and tired and desperately want something, anything that will put me on the trail of the kill
er. “Was Amanda still at the bar when you left?”

  “I looked for her to tell her I was leaving, but couldn’t find her. I figured she was in the shitter or talking to someone outside. The pizza didn’t agree with me so I went home early.”

  “Did you see her with anyone before you left?”

  “Last time I saw her she was at the pool table, playing with a chick and two guys.”

  “They on the list?”

  “Yup.” She rattles off three names.

  I circle them with fingers stiff from the cold. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might be important?”

  She shakes her head. “It was just a regular, boring night, like always.” Taking a drag off the cigarette, she flicks it onto the step and crushes it beneath her shoe. “How did she die?”

  Ignoring the question, I shove the notebook into my jacket pocket and give Connie Spencer a hard look. “Don’t leave town.”

  “Why? I told you everything I know.” For the first time, she looks upset. I don’t like her and she knows it. She rises as I turn toward the door. “I’m not a suspect, am I?” she calls out to my back.

  I slam the door without answering.

  Snow greets me when I walk out of the diner. The sky is dark and low, a parallel to my mood. I know better than to let Spencer’s lack of concern annoy me, but my temper is pumping as I head toward the Explorer. I don’t think she’s involved, but I want to wipe that sneer off her face.

  I work my cell phone from my pocket as I climb behind the wheel and call Lois at the station. “I need a favor,” I begin, knowing I’ll get a higher level of cooperation if I ask nicely. Lois isn’t the most obliging person working for me, but she’s got a good work ethic, strong organizational skills, and she can type like a bat out of hell.

  “Glock just handed me a year’s worth of typing and these phones just won’t shut up.” Her sigh hisses through the line. “What’s up?”

  “I need a central meeting room where I can meet with my officers while we’re working this case. I thought that file room next to my office might work. What do you think?”

  “It’s cluttered and kinda small.” But I can tell by her tone she’s pleased to be in on the decision-making.

  “Do you think you could get someone to help you clear it out and put that folding table and chairs in there?” When she hesitates, I add, “Call Pickles. Tell him he’s on active duty effective immediately. He can help you with that old file cabinet.”

  Roland “Pickles” Shumaker is seventy-four years old and my only auxiliary officer. The town council tried to force me to fire him two years ago when he shot Mrs. Offenheimer’s prize bantam rooster after the thing attacked him. But Pickles has been a cop in Painters Mill for going on fifty years. Back in the eighties, he single-handedly busted one of the largest meth labs in the state. I couldn’t see ending his career over a dead chicken. So I asked him to accept auxiliary duty and, knowing the alternative, he agreed. He’s a grouchy old goat, smokes like a teenager on a binge, colors his hair a weird shade of brown, and lies incessantly about his age. But he’s a good cop. With a murder to solve and the clock ticking, I need him.

  “Pickles’ll be glad to get the call, Chief. He still checks in every day. Been driving Clarice nuts since he got the axe. She don’t like him hanging around the house all day.”

  “We’ll put him to good use.” I think of some of the things I need for the meeting room. “Order a dry-erase board, flip chart and corkboard, will you?”

  “Anything else?”

  I hear her phone ringing. “That’s it for now. I’ll be in to brief everyone in ten minutes. Hold down the fort, will you?”

  “Kinda like trying to hold down a leaf in a tornado, but I’ll try.”

  Next, I call Glock and ask him to run a background check on Connie Spencer. In typical Glock fashion, he’s already on it.

  “She got a DUI in Westerville last year and an arrest for possession of a controlled substance, but no conviction.”

  “What was the controlled substance?”

  “Hydrocodone. Her mom’s. Judge let her off.”

  “Keep digging, see what else you can find.” I tell him about Donny Beck and pass along the list of names Spencer gave me. “I want checks on all of them.”

  “Logging in now.”

  I disconnect and hit the speed dial for T.J. to see how he’s doing on the condom front. “How’s the search going?”

  “I feel like a frickin’ pervert.” He sounds as if his day is shaping up like mine.

  “You’re a cop with a badge working a murder case.”

  Assuaged, he gets down to business. “The cash register at Super Value Grocery uses SKU numbers for inventory. Manager went through the tape. They sold two boxes of lubricated condoms on Friday. Another on Saturday.”

  “Do they have the customers’ names?”

  “One guy paid with cash. The other two with checks, so I have two names. I’m on my way to talk to one of them now.”

  “Nice work.” I think about the guy who paid with cash. “Did any of the clerks recognize the cash guy?”

  “Nope.”

  “Does the store have security cameras?”

  “Grocery has two cams. One above the office inside and one in the parking lot. The one inside isn’t positioned to capture customer faces, but the one in the parking lot is worth a shot.”

  “Do we know when the cash guy bought the condoms?”

  Paper rustles through the line. “Eight P.M. Friday.”

  The timing is right; the murder happened Sunday. “Get the film. Let’s see if we can ID him.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’m on my way to the station. Can you swing by for a quick meeting?”

  “I can be there in ten minutes.”

  “See you then.” I hit End and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. The clock on my dash flicks to four P.M. The passage of time taunts me. Fourteen hours have passed since Amanda Horner’s body was found and I’m no closer to knowing who did it than I was at the start.

  As I speed toward the station, I try not to think about my brother and our plans for tonight. I honestly don’t know whether to hope that we find a body buried in that old grain elevator. Or pray that we don’t.

  CHAPTER 7

  John Tomasetti knew he was in serious shit the instant he walked into Special Agent Supervisor Denny McNinch’s office and saw Deputy Superintendent Jason Rummel standing at the window. The last time he’d seen Rummel was when Field Agent Bryan Gant was shot and killed while executing a search warrant in Toledo six months ago. Word among the agents was that Rummel only ventured from his corner office for hirings, firings or deaths. John didn’t have to wonder which of the three had warranted this personal visit.

  Seated at the conference table with her requisite Kasper suit and Starbucks mug, Human Resources Director Ruth Bogart paged through a brown expandable file. A file that was too thick from too many forms being shoved into it, and worn from too many bureaucratic fingers paging through. A file John was pretty sure had his name printed on the label.

  He should have been worried for his job. At the very least he should have been concerned that he was about to lose his salary and health insurance. Not to mention bear witness to the end of a law enforcement career that had taken him twenty years to build.

  The problem was, John didn’t give a damn. In fact, he didn’t give a good damn about a whole hell of a lot these days. Self-destructive, he knew; not a first for that, either. But at the moment all he felt was mild annoyance that he’d been pulled away from his cranberry muffin and dark roast.

  “You wanted to see me?” he said to no one in particular.

  “Have a seat.” Denny McNinch motioned toward one of four sleek leather chairs surrounding the table. He was a large man who wore his suits too tight and never removed his jacket, probably because his armpits were invariably wet with sweat. John wondered if he knew that the field agents and administrative assistants called him
Swamp Ass behind his back.

  Two years ago, when John had first come on board with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation, Denny had been a field agent. He’d been a weight lifter and could run a five-minute mile with a fifty-pound pack strapped to his back. He’d been a decent marksman and a black belt in karate. Nobody fucked with Denny McNinch. Back in the day, he’d been a real ass-kicker. Then he’d begun the arduous climb up the political ladder. Somewhere along the way he’d become more figurehead than principal. He stopped shooting. Stopped running. Too much deskwork turned brawn to flab, respect from his peers to mild disdain. John didn’t have any sympathy; Denny had made his choices. There were worse fates for a man.

  Rummel, on the other hand, was a paper-pusher from the word go. He was small in stature with a wiry build and a Hitleresque mustache that had made more than one field agent crack a smile at an inappropriate moment. But it was usually the last time they smiled at Jason Rummel. Rummel made up for his physical shortcomings by being a mean son of a bitch. A real corporate sociopath. The man with the hatchet. At fifty, he was at the top of the Bureau’s political food chain. He was a predator with big fangs and sharp claws and a proclivity for using both. He fucked up careers for the sheer entertainment value.

  As John pulled out a chair, he figured he was about to be on the receiving end of those claws. “What’s the occasion?” he asked. “Someone’s birthday?”

  McNinch took the chair beside him without speaking, without making eye contact. Not a good sign. None of this was.

  “Don’t be a smart-ass,” he muttered.

  Rummel chose to stand. The short man striving to be tall. He walked to the table and looked down at John. “Agent Tomasetti, you’ve had a remarkable law enforcement career.”

  “Remarkable isn’t the adjective most people use,” John said.

  “You came to BCI with the highest of recommendations.”

  “A day I’ll bet you’ve regretted ever since.”

  Rummel smiled. “That’s not true.”

  John scanned the three faces. “Look, I think everyone in this room knows you didn’t call me in here to slap me on the back and tell me how remarkable I am.”