Sworn to Silence

by Linda Castillo

  The quick change of topic throws me, but only for an instant. “Just trying to buck the system, I guess.”

  “Anything in particular inspire you?”

  I’m saved from having to answer when my phone chirps. “I gotta take this,” I say and hit the Talk button.

  “We-got-another-body!” Lois’s voice blasts over the line like a foghorn.

  I stand so abruptly, I bump the table and knock over a glass. “Where?”

  “Miller’s Pond. Petra Srinvassen’s girl was skating out there and found it.”

  I’m out of the booth and running toward the door. I hear Tomasetti behind me, his boots heavy against the floor.

  “Are they still at the pond?” I hit the door with both hands. I barely notice the dark sky or the cold as I run toward the Tahoe.

  “I think so.”

  “Tell them to be careful. Tell them not to touch anything or disturb any tracks. I’m on my way.”

  CHAPTER 22

  John had always been a suspicious son of a bitch. Once upon a time that was one of the traits that made him a good cop. He didn’t give a damn where those suspicions took him. He’d arrest his own grandmother if she crossed the line. He supposed that was why it came as a shock to realize he didn’t like the suspicions creeping over him when it came to Kate Burkholder.

  Experience had taught him that people let you see only what they wanted you to. Whether they succeeded in that all too human art of deception depended on a couple of things. How good an actor they were. And how good you were at judging character. John had always considered himself a damn good judge of character.

  By all accounts, Kate Burkholder seemed like a straight shooter with just enough edge to make the hard choices when the chips were down. But John sensed a thin layer of ambiguity beneath that girl-next-door exterior. She might project an air of moral resolve, but his gut was telling him there was more to the formerly Amish chief than met the eye. If it hadn’t been for the note, he might have let it go. Now, he couldn’t. He was pretty sure she was hiding something. But what? The question rolled around inside his head like a lone die as he jacked the speedometer to eighty.

  “Right at the stop sign,” she said.

  He braked hard and made the turn, tossing a sidelong glance at Kate. “You might want to get on the horn and get some of your guys out there,” he said. “Our man might still be in the vicinity.”

  Shaking herself as if from a dream, she hit her lapel mike and quickly set up a perimeter. “Turn left.” She directed him to a narrow back road that had yet to see a snowplow. John drove too fast and the Tahoe obliged by fishtailing around a curve.

  “Slow down.”

  “I got it.”

  “I don’t want to end up in the ditch,” she said testily.

  “I don’t do ditches.” The Tahoe bumped over a snowdrift. John slowed for a turn, caught sight of the Dead End sign ahead and let off the gas.

  “Here. Stop.”

  The Tahoe skidded to a halt two feet from the weathered wood guardrail. Tomasetti scanned the area. No cars. No tracks. “How far to the scene?”

  “Quarter mile.” She pointed. “There’s a path through the woods.”

  “We’ve got to hoof it?”

  “Shortest route.”

  “Shit.”

  They disembarked, both pausing to look for tire tracks. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here,” he said.

  “There’s another road on the other side of the field.” She fumbled the radio on her lapel. “Glock. I’m 10-23. Hogpath Road. Use Folkerth. If this guy’s still around you might be able to cut him off there. Watch for tracks.”

  Kate led him to the mouth of a path cut into the trees.

  “There’s another way in?” he asked.

  “If you have a snowmobile and wire-cutters, you could go in from any direction and not be seen.”

  With Kate in the lead, they set off at a jog. At one time in his life, John had been in good physical condition. He’d lifted weights and run ten miles a week. But the self-destructive lifestyle he’d indulged in for the last two years had taken a toll. A hundred yards in, he was breathing hard. Another fifty and he got a stitch in his side that felt more like a heart attack. Kate, on the other hand, seemed to be in her element. Long strides. Good form. Arms pumping in perfect cadence with her feet. A runner, he thought. He noticed something else about her, too. The tempo of her footfalls actually increased the closer they got to the scene.

  Around them, the trees and snow cast them into a weird black-and-white twilight. John tried to listen for their quarry, but all he heard was the roar of blood in his ears and his own labored breathing. Just when he thought he was going to have to stop, the trees opened to a clearing. Beyond, a large frozen pond reflected a slate sky. Three people huddled a few feet from the bank. A man in a denim jacket, a woman in a down coat and a girl wearing ice skates.

  Kate pointed. “That’s them.”

  “Any reason we should be suspicious of them?”

  Shaking her head, she started toward them. “They’re a nice family.”

  John knew even nice families kept secrets.

  Kate reached them first. Though everyone seemed to know everyone in this town, she showed them her ID and identified herself. The woman and girl were crying, their cheeks red from the cold. The man stood stone-faced. Despite the temperature, John saw sweat on his forehead.

  “Where’s the body?” Kate asked.

  The girl raised a mittened hand and pointed. “By the c-creek.”

  “Did you see anyone?” John asked.

  “A m-man. On a s-snowmobile.”

  “Where?”

  “Down by the creek. In the trees.”

  “Can you tell me what he looked like?” Kate asked.

  The girl’s teeth chattered uncontrollably. “He was too far away.”

  “Was he wearing a jacket or coat? Do you remember what color it was? Or maybe his helmet? The snowmobile?”

  “Blue, maybe. I d-don’t know. I only saw him for a second.”

  Kate’s attention went to the girl’s parents. “Stay here.” Touching the radio at her lapel, she started across the ice. “Be advised the suspect may be on a snowmobile.”

  Her voice and demeanor were outwardly calm, but John sensed an emotion he couldn’t quite put his finger on beneath all that control. Because another body had shown up on her watch? Or was there something else going on? Was he just being paranoid? Or was Kate Burkholder holding out on him?

  “Why would he dump the body way out here?” she asked.

  “People use this place much? For skating?”

  Her gaze met his. “It gets crowded on the weekend this time of year.”

  “Maximum shock value.”

  They crested the earthen dam. John saw the knife-slash of skate blades in the snow left by the girl as she’d walked down the embankment.

  “There.” Kate pointed. “Down by the creek. In those trees.”

  John saw what looked like a garbage bag that had been dumped and ripped open by wild dogs.

  Kate started down the hill, her arms flailing as she skidded over the frozen peaks of earth. John followed, but he never took his eyes off the object in the snow.

  “Watch for tracks,” he warned.

  They trudged through a deep snowdrift. Then, as if blocked by some invisible force field, they stopped. John had seen a lot of crime scenes in the years he’d been a cop. He’d seen death from natural causes and murders so bloody and horrific that even veteran cops dropped to their knees and vomited. He’d seen the neat and brutal execution-style murders common to drug dealers eager to make their mark. He’d seen innocent children cut down in the crossfire of gangland wars. He’d seen babies murdered and dumped like trash. None of that prepared him for the sight that accosted him now.

  The body lay next to a garbage bag. John saw pale flesh streaked with blood. A thatch of brown hair. The dead stare of a taxidermist’s glass. A mouth stretched into a silent scream.
There was a lot of blood, and it made for a shocking contrast against pristine snow. Several pink objects lay a few feet from the body. At first glance, he thought they were scraps of fabric, and his cop’s mind jumped at the thought of possible evidence. Upon closer inspection, he realized these objects were organs that had been removed from the victim’s abdominal cavity.

  Pieces had been cut from her body. He saw part of what had once been a breast. A finger lay ten feet from her outstretched arm. A length of pink-gray intestine leaked a red-green substance into the snow like a macabre snow cone. She’d been eviscerated.

  “Oh my God.”

  Vaguely, he was aware of Kate beside him, breathing as if she’d run a marathon. A sound that was part gasp, part groan escaped her. John felt that same sound echo inside him. An expression of outrage and shock rolled into a single, awful emotion. He clung to his clinical perspective. But it was a thready clutch, and before he could stop it, his mind took him back to the day he’d found Nancy and the girls. He saw charred, blackened bodies with grotesque, clutching hands. The smell of cooked meat and singed hair . . .

  “Any sign of the suspect?”

  Kate’s voice brought him back. She was speaking into her lapel mike. She looked at Tomasetti, but her eyes seemed slightly unfocused. “Call the sheriff’s office. Tell them we need every man they can spare. I want this place surrounded. And get Coblentz. Tell him to drop everything and get out here.”

  She dropped her hand from the lapel mike and briefly closed her eyes. “Goddamnit.”

  “Do you recognize her?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “My God, it’s hard to tell.”

  He took that first, dangerous step toward the body. The stench of blood hung in the air. The victim had been cut from sternum to pubis. Several organs bulged from the opening. Steam rose from its bloody depths, and John knew that just a short time ago this woman had been alive.

  “This is a huge escalation.” He could feel his heart pounding, the rush of blood through his veins. He wanted to think it was from the run. But he recognized the primal fear of death coursing through his body. Until this moment, he hadn’t known he even possessed such a strong will to live.

  Outdoor crime scenes were difficult. The cold and snow and sheer size of this one would make it a nightmare.

  “Chief!”

  John looked toward the dam twenty yards away to see T.J. sliding down the embankment. In his peripheral vision, he saw Kate physically gather herself. She met the young officer at the base of the dam.

  “He got another one,” she said.

  T.J.’s eyes flicked toward the body, then quickly away. “Aw, man. Aw, Jesus.”

  John addressed T.J. “I’m going to follow the tracks. I need you two to stay here, secure the scene until I can get a couple of techs out—”

  “I’m going with you,” Kate cut in, her voice fierce.

  “I’d rather—”

  “You’re wasting time.” Drawing her weapon, she started toward the woods.

  “Shit.” Shaking his head, John gave T.J. a nod and started after her at a jog.

  They followed the snowmobile tracks into the woods, careful not to disturb them. The path the killer had taken was narrow with trees on either side. Kate jogged on the right side of the tracks. John took the left, keeping an eye out for anything the killer might have dropped in his haste.

  For several minutes the only sounds came from their muffled footfalls against the snow and the rustle of fabric as their arms pumped. The woods seemed hushed. A crow cawed and took flight. In the instant that followed, a distant sound snagged John’s attention. Too close to be coming from the road. Too high-pitched for a plane or jet.

  He stopped, motioned for Kate to do the same. “Do you hear that?”

  She cocked her head. “West of here. There’s an open cornfield.” She hit the mike. “I’m a mile north of Miller’s Pond. Suspect is west of us. See if you can intercept.”

  She took off running. John followed. He was beyond pain now. The stitch had moved to the center of his chest. It would be just his luck to have a fucking heart attack out in the middle of nowhere.

  They ran for what seemed like an eternity. Through deep drifts and the jagged peaks of a plowed field. Kate stopped on the steep bank of a creek, raised her hand in a request for silence. John’s breathing was far from silent, but he tried. Putting his hands on his knees, he sucked in air.

  “Son of a bitch is gone,” she said.

  “Yeah, but to where?”

  Close fucking call.

  He hit the garage door opener from fifteen yards away and punched the throttle. He barreled in fast, skis skidding, cleats scraping concrete. Squeezing the brake, he set his foot against the floor, jammed his ankle. The big machine came to a rest an inch from his workbench. Unfastening the chinstrap, he removed the helmet and tossed it onto the seat. He shook from head to toe. Euphoria and exhilaration pumped through him like some illicit narcotic. The need to ride that razor edge fed something ravenous inside him, reminded him that he was alive and life was good.

  He dismounted and stood. His crotch was wet, his underwear sticking uncomfortably. He’d worn the cock ring. In hindsight, it had been a stupid thing to do. Reckless. Indulgent. He’d been so aroused while carrying her from the snowmobile to the place where he’d left her, he’d climaxed in his pants. If he hadn’t been so rushed, he would have fucked her cold dead body and not felt a damn thing but gratification.

  He thought of all the things he’d done to her and another wave of exhilaration washed over him. She’d been courageous. Challenging. Strong. She’d had attitude and endurance and dignity. The best one yet. He’d done things to her he’d dreamed of for years, but never had the guts. His level of satisfaction had been high. He respected and admired her in a way he hadn’t the others.

  Over the years, he’d experimented and discovered what he liked. He’d learned how to get the most from the women he took. He knew what type of woman he liked, what to look for. Before, there’d always been an underlying panic that made him jumpy and frightened. That fear had nearly ruined the rush. He was risking a lot to live out his fantasies; he wanted the experience to be worth it. This woman had lived up to his wildest expectations. He’d taken his time and savored every moment.

  Already he missed her. He wished he’d kept her longer. The letdown was already encroaching on his high. The descent into disappointment that left him feeling deflated and empty. He’d once been told he had an addictive personality. He was too disciplined to indulge in vices as stupid and self-destructive as cigarettes or booze. But killing, having that ultimate power over another human being, was something else altogether. An addiction more powerful than any narcotic. A high he could not live without.

  Bending, he unlaced his snow boots. Working the suspenders of the bib snow pants over his shoulders, he stepped out of them and tossed them over the seat of the snowmobile. Next, he unzipped his fly, removed the cock ring and wiped the semen from his skin. He would have liked to change underwear, but there was no time.

  He snagged his keys from the workbench and slid into his vehicle. Opening the garage door, he backed out. By the time he pulled onto the street he was already anticipating his next kill.

  CHAPTER 23

  “Aw God! Aw Jesus no! No!”

  I hear the screams from two hundred yards away. It’s a terrible sound in the silence of the woods. I glance at Tomasetti. He looks back at me, his expression asking, Now what?

  A new and terrible fear throws me into a run. A dozen scenarios rush through my mind. Did one of the victim’s family members arrive? Did the killer return? I pick up speed and crash over a low-growing bush. I hear Tomasetti behind me, cursing, warning me to be cautious.

  I burst into the clearing. To my utter shock, I see Norm Johnston kneeling beside the body. T.J. stands over him, his hands on the councilman’s shoulders. I know immediately something’s wrong with Norm. He’s on his knees, rocking like an autistic child, his head
bowed. I approach slowly. “What’s Norm doing here?”

  “Mrs. Srinvassen called him.” T.J. looks at me, his face ashen. “She recognized the vic. It’s his daughter.”

  The words nearly drop me to my knees. Brenda Johnston is twenty years old. Smart. Sweet. And beautiful. A young woman with a bright future. Norm and I aren’t exactly friends, but I’ve heard him speak of his daughter. It’s the only time I even came close to liking him because I knew he had at least one redeeming feature: He was a good father. He was crazy about his only child. The knowledge that she is dead makes me feel sick inside.

  I turn my attention to Norm. He’s looking at me as if this is somehow my fault. His face holds unfathomable pain. Tears stream from his eyes. His cheeks are nearly as red as the bloodstained snow. “It’s my little girl,” he sobs.

  “Norm.” I set my hand on his shoulder. It trembles violently beneath my palm. “I’m so sorry.”

  He remains hunched over the body. Blood stains his coat and slacks, his hands. A smear of crimson streaks his left cheek. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s so distraught, he doesn’t realize he’s contaminating the scene.

  “Norm,” I say gently. “I need you to come with me.”

  “I can’t leave her like this. Look at her. He . . . gutted her. My little girl. How could someone do that? She was so beautiful.”

  Tomasetti comes up beside me. I glance sideways at him. His jaw is clamped tight, the muscles working. “Mr. Johnston,” he says. “Go with Chief Burkholder. We’ll take good care of your daughter for you.”

  “Can’t leave her like this.” He rocks back and forth. “Look at what he did to her.”

  “She’s gone, sir.”

  “Please don’t make me leave her.”

  “You need to let us do our jobs. We’ve got to protect the scene.”

  Norm looks at him, his face screwed up. “Why her?”

  “I don’t know.” Tomasetti nudges me aside, and I let him. “But you can bet we’re going to get him.”