Sworn to Silence

by Linda Castillo

  McNinch sighed. “You didn’t pass the drug test, John.”

  “I’m on medication. You know that.” It was the truth; he had prescriptions. Several, in fact. Too goddamn many if he wanted to be honest about it. He didn’t feel inclined to be honest.

  Ruth Bogart spoke for the first time. “Why didn’t you write it down on the form when you gave your urine sample?”

  John shot her a dark look. “Because the drugs I take are nobody’s goddamn business.”

  Bogart’s face reddened through her Estée Lauder makeup.

  McNinch shifted uncomfortably. “Look, John, can your doctor verify the script?” he asked reasonably. The peacekeeper. The man in the middle. The man who used to be just like John until too much paperwork turned him into another fat guy in a suit who didn’t count for shit.

  “I’m sure he can.” Another lie, but it would buy him some time. John figured it was the best he could hope for at this juncture.

  Bogart piped up again, angry now because John had embarrassed her in front of her colleagues. “I’ll need the name and number of your physician.”

  “Which one? I have several.”

  “The one who prescribed the pills.”

  “They’ve all prescribed pills.”

  Bogart shook her head. “Give me the names, John.”

  He could tell by her expression she’d wanted to call him asshole, but she didn’t have the balls. Ruth Bogart was far too politically correct to say what she really thought. She’d wait until your back was turned, then sink the knife in good and deep.

  John recited the names of three doctors and gave her the phone numbers. There were more doctors—he’d done quite a bit of shopping around—but he stopped there since prescription shopping was illegal in most states.

  John leaned back in his chair. “If you guys are after my ass, you should have called me in here about my performance or attendance instead of this drug test thing. Considering my history with BCI and the Cleveland Division of Police, termination based on a urinalysis could be tricky.” He lowered his voice. “People hate it when the good guy gets the shaft. I don’t think you need that kind of negative PR. Hell, if this were to go to litigation . . .” He shrugged.

  McNinch looked alarmed. “John, no one’s after your ass.”

  “We don’t expect this to go to litigation,” Bogart added.

  John didn’t believe either of them.

  Rummel set a leather-bound notebook on the table and sat. “Is there a correlation between the drugs and your attendance?”

  John couldn’t help it; he laughed. But with his career in the toilet, his life already down the drain, there wasn’t anything remotely funny about any of this. Except for maybe Rummel’s ridiculous mustache.

  The deputy superintendent shot Bogart a look. She passed him a sheet of paper. Rummel set the papers down without looking at them. “You’ve missed ten days of work this year and it’s only January.”

  “I had the flu.”

  “For ten days?”

  “It was bad.”

  In his peripheral vision, John saw Bogart roll her eyes.

  Rummel frowned. “John, you’re bound by the employee handbook just like everyone else.”

  Bogart chimed in. “You’ll need to provide us with a note from your doctor.”

  “I went to a clinic.”

  “An invoice will do,” she said. “For documentation.”

  John scanned their faces, his heart rate kicking up. Two years ago he’d had high hopes for the field agent position with BCI. He’d hoped a new job in a new city would provide him a fresh start. He’d hoped it would save him from the black hole that had sucked him down since the fiasco in Cleveland. Or maybe save him from himself. BCI was a top-notch agency. The field agent position was a far cry from working narcotics. His duties were more diverse. He spent less time on the street. There was less stress. The people were decent. Well, except for Rummel.

  But like a hiker with a backpack full of stones, John had brought his problems to Columbus with him. The rage. The grief. The outrage at the unfairness of life. His reputation and the stigma. Once in Columbus, cut off from what few friends he had left, he became even more isolated. The fresh start he’d hoped for became a whole new nightmare rife with all the trimmings. Different doctors. Same problems. Same drugs. Same bottle of Chivas. The new job became a new failure. The names had changed, but the move hadn’t changed a thing.

  Now, the brass at BCI wanted him gone, and at the age of forty-two, John was facing early retirement. Or maybe a security officer position at the local Kroger. But John wasn’t ready to call it quits. The sad truth was there wasn’t much out there for a former detective with a psych sheet, a reputation as a rogue cop, and the work record of a stoned college student. The grand jury in Cleveland might have returned a no bill, but the stigma would follow him the rest of his life.

  Rummel gazed steadily at John. “Have you considered early retirement? Taking into account your service with the Cleveland Division of Police, we could wrangle you a deal.”

  John knew he should jump at the opportunity. Shoot the horse and put it out of its misery. But God, he didn’t want to give up on his career. If he did that he might as well be dead. Even that option had crossed his mind a time or two, but he didn’t have the guts.

  “What kind of deal?” he asked.

  Rummel came forward in his chair, his rodent eyes gleaming. “In case you’re not reading between the lines here, John, this is not a request.”

  “Take the deal,” McNinch said quietly.

  “It’s more than fair,” Bogart put in. “Full bennies. Company car.”

  John’s temper writhed. Contempt for these people was like a serpent beneath his skin, twisting, ready to slither out and strike. “Fair probably isn’t quite the right word, is it?”

  “We know what you’ve been through,” Bogart soothed.

  “I seriously doubt it.” John said the words through teeth clenched so tightly his jaws ached.

  “We sympathize with your . . . situation.” This from Rummel.

  John looked at him, wondering how many times the man had said those hollow words to other agents who’d lost partners or loved ones. Insincere son of a bitch; he was probably enjoying this. He envisioned himself lunging over the table, grabbing the other man’s collar and slamming his face into the rosewood surface until his nose was a bloody pulp. He could feel his pulse throbbing at his temples. The blood roaring in his ears.

  Silently, he counted to ten, the way Doc Pop-a-pill had instructed. It didn’t help. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he ground out.

  Denny groaned aloud. “John, for chrissake . . .”

  Shoving away from the table, John rose abruptly. “If you people want me gone, I suggest you get your cards in order and grow some balls.” Not waiting for a reply, he started toward the door.

  “John!” McNinch called out.

  John didn’t stop. He didn’t look back.

  “Let him go,” Rummel said quietly.

  John hit the door with both hands, sent it flying open. It banged against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed picture of the attorney general in the hall. Keyboards fell silent. Heads swung his way. Pretty administrative assistants. A field agent holding a Krispy Kreme doughnut. The mail guy with his cart piled high with envelopes. Their expressions were wary, as if they expected John to pull out his sidearm and go postal. A little afternoon entertainment to go with their lattes and Diet Cokes. High drama on the fourteenth floor. Break out the fucking popcorn.

  John felt the eyes burning into him as he strode toward his office and yanked open the door. Inside, he looked around, wondering what the hell he was doing. He should have taken the offer. He should have stayed calm. Now, if Rummel had his way, they were going to fire him. God knows he’d given them cause. Liquid lunches. Lost afternoons. That was when he bothered to show up at all. His penchant for prescription drugs was just the icing on the cake.

  But God help
him, he didn’t know what he’d do without the drugs. Didn’t know how he’d get through the day or God forbid a whole goddamn night. Talk about a clusterfuck.

  He crossed to the window behind his desk and stared out at the traffic on Broad Street fourteen stories below. Not for the first time, the thought of ending it all flitted through his mind. He could go home. Have a couple of drinks. Work up the courage. Be done with it. But while John was squarely at the bottom of the barrel, he wasn’t so far gone that he could blow his brains out.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Sighing, he turned from the window and slid into the chair behind his desk. He thought about Nancy and Donna and Kelly, and shame for what he’d become cut him. The urge to pull out the photos was strong, but he resisted. Seeing their faces didn’t make him feel any better. He couldn’t remember them the way they’d been. When he thought of his wife and two little girls, he saw them the way they’d been on the dreadful night he’d found them . . .

  A soft rap on the door drew him from dark thoughts. “It’s open.”

  McNinch stepped into his office, his expression contrite. “Sorry about what happened in there.”

  “Par for the course.”

  “Rummel knows you’re a good agent.”

  “Rummel doesn’t know shit about me.”

  McNinch slid into the visitor chair and pretended to be interested in the plaques, commendations and framed diploma on the wall. “It was a good deal,” he said after a moment.

  “I’m not ready to retire.”

  “There are a lot of things you could do, John. Things with less stress.”

  The smile felt brittle on his face. “You mean like a rent-a-cop?”

  McNinch frowned. “Hell, I don’t know. Private detective. Friend of mine from Houston, a former cop, went into corporate security for a major pizza company chain. Draws a decent salary. Another guy I know is now a Justice of the Peace.”

  “Good for them.”

  “You gotta do something, man. Rummel wants you gone. He’s like a dog and you’re the fucking bone. At the moment, you have a choice as to how you walk out that door. In six months, you may not have that luxury.”

  John gave him a hard look. “I wouldn’t call any of this a luxury.”

  “Hey, man, I know you got a tough break—”

  “I didn’t have a tough break,” he snapped. “For chrissake, just say it. Stop with the fucking euphemisms.”

  Grimacing, Denny looked down at his hands. “I’m on your side.”

  “You’re on whatever side is convenient. But I get it, Denny. I’ve been around long enough to know how it works.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  Rising, the other man started toward the door.

  John leaned back in his chair and watched him go. When the door clicked shut, he opened his pencil drawer and pulled out the flask, the silver finish tarnished from use. The irony that it had been a gift from his wife never ceased to give him pause every time he took a drink.

  Snagging his briefcase, he set it on his lap and snapped it open. He dug into the side pocket. Relief swept through him when his fingers closed around the prescription bottle. John hated what he’d become. A sick parody of the man he’d once been. A fucking junkie. Everything he despised. Weak. Dependent. Pathetic. He wanted to blame it on the doctors. After all, it was they who’d so eagerly prescribed. But two years ago, John had been a basket case. A man truly at the end of his rope. Flirting with thoughts of suicide. Going so far as to put the gun in his mouth. He’d tasted the gun oil and his own fear, felt the cold steel rattle against his teeth.

  Popping the cap, he tapped out two Xanax and one Valium. He wasn’t supposed to take them together, but he’d experimented and discovered through trial and error a cocktail of pills that provided what he needed to get through the day.

  He pulled out the framed photograph and blew off the paper dust and pencil shavings. His late wife, Nancy, and his two little girls, Donna and Kelly, smiled at him as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Looking at them never got any easier. He should have been able to protect them.

  Propping the frame on his desk, he tossed the pills into his mouth and raised the flask. “Here’s to you, Nancy,” he whispered and washed them down with eighty-proof whiskey.

  CHAPTER 8

  I arrive at the station to find all six parking spaces taken, including mine. I’m tempted to ticket the driver, but luckily for them I have other priorities. A Crown Vic with all the trimmings tells me the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department has arrived on the scene. I need all the help I can get, but I don’t want to get into a pissing contest over jurisdiction because Sheriff Nathan Detrick has his mind set on winning reelection next fall.

  I park next to a fire hydrant and start for the front door. The noise level inside rivals a high school cafeteria at lunchtime. At the dispatch station, Lois looks as frazzled as her overprocessed hair. Hovering over her is a middle-aged woman in a pink parka and big pearl earrings. I silently groan when, upon closer scrutiny, I realize the woman is Janine Fourman.

  Janine is the president of the Painters Mill Ladies Club, owner of Carriage Stop Country Store on the traffic circle and the Tea and Candle Shop on Sixth Street. She’s a member of the town council, a founding member of the Historical Society, a professional busybody and instigator of all that is rumor.

  Glock and a muscle-bound Holmes County Sheriff’s deputy glance up from their conversation. Glock gives me a covert wink, and I know he’s relayed the message I want to the deputy: Help us, but don’t try to steal the show.

  The deputy gives me a once-over—as if expecting a plain woman in a kapp and practical shoes—and extends his hand as I approach. “I’m Deputy Hicks.”

  He’s a stout chap with beefy arms and a neck as thick as a telephone pole. I’ve met him at some point, but for the life of me I can’t remember the circumstance. I shake his hand, noticing the sweaty palm and overtight grip. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Sheriff Detrick wanted me to let you know we’re here to assist if you need us.”

  “I appreciate the offer.”

  He looks at Glock as if they’re best buds. “Officer Rupert was just filling me in on the case. Hell of a damn thing.”

  I think of Belinda Horner. “Tough on the family.”

  “You got a suspect yet?”

  “We’re running some background checks. Waiting for the autopsy and the lab results.”

  “Do you think it’s the same guy as before?”

  I look around, aware that the reception area has fallen silent. People are listening, watching, their eyes alight with the anticipation of news. Details to titillate the dark side of their imaginations. Reassurances to calm their fears so they can get on with their lives without worrying about a madman running amok in their town.

  I shake my head. “We don’t have anything concrete to substantiate that.”

  “Has to be, though, don’t it?” He looks genuinely curious, a cop who likes a good murder mystery with a twist. “I mean, what are the odds of two killers with the same MO in a town this size?”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I look him square in the eye, the way I might a suspect who’d ventured too close. Hicks gets my message and backs off.

  Not wanting to ruffle feathers just yet, I tell him about the briefing I’m about to hold. “You’re welcome to sit in on it.”

  His expression tells me this pleases him. He’s in the loop. One of the guys. “I gotta get back. Sheriff just wanted you to know we’re available if you need manpower.”

  If this had been any other case, I would have jumped on the offer. I would have formed a multi-jurisdictional task force and included not only the sheriff’s office, but the State Highway Patrol and the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation. I can’t do that with this case. The last thing I need is a half dozen overzealous cops breathing down my neck.

  I make a mental note to call Detrick
later to thank him personally and stave off any questions about my lack of action. “Let me see where we’re at on this thing and I’ll give you guys a call. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  “Good enough.” He jerks his head, then heads toward the door.

  I smile at Glock. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Briefing in two minutes.” I start toward dispatch to collect my messages. “My office. Let everyone know about it, will you?”

  Glock gives me a mock salute and hustles to his cubicle.

  I’m midway to the dispatch desk when Janine Fourman blocks my path. “Chief Burkholder, I’d like a word with you.”

  The urge to push past her is strong, but I don’t. She’s a substantial woman, both in physical stature and her standing in the community. I’ve been around long enough to know any mishandling on my part will come back to bite me. Janine ran for mayor last election and lost, but only because a few people figured out a clawed creature exists beneath that favorite-aunt façade. I’ve seen those claws extended a time or two myself, and I have no desire to get verbally mauled when I have a murder to solve.

  “Janine, I’m about to meet with my officers.”

  She is a woman of about fifty-five with dyed black hair, small brown eyes, and a body as short and round as a milk-fed beef cow. “Then I’ll get right to the point. This whole town is abuzz about the murder. The rumors are flying that it’s the serial killer from the early nineties. Is that true? Is it the same guy?”

  “I’m not going to speculate.”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “Not at this time.” It doesn’t elude me that she doesn’t ask about the victim.

  “Why on earth did you turn down Sheriff Detrick’s offer to help? You’re not going to try to handle this on your own, are you?”

  I’m usually pretty good at handling pushy numbskulls like Janine. But the things I’ve seen so far on this seemingly endless day, coupled with fatigue, the weight of my responsibility to this town—and my own secrets—have squashed my patience.