He refills our glasses. I don’t want any more; the vodka is fuzzing up my head. But I pick up the glass anyway. “I don’t understand why the murders stopped after that day.”
“Maybe what Lapp did to you is completely separate from the murders.”
I know sixty to seventy percent of sexual assaults go unreported. I suspect that percentage is higher in the Amish community. For the first time, I wonder if I was Lapp’s only victim.
“Kate, this leaves us with a big fucking problem.”
“You mean me, don’t you?”
John leans forward. “Your fate as a cop aside, let’s say we get this guy and the case goes to trial. If someone finds out you were involved in a crime that was covered up, some hotshot defense attorney could use that to discredit both of us and blow the case to hell and back. Maybe even put this guy back on the street.”
“No one has to find out about Lapp,” I say.
He gives a harsh laugh. “Who else knows?”
“My brother, Jacob. My sister, Sarah.”
“What if they decide to talk?”
“They’re Amish. They won’t.”
“Who sent the note to the bishop?”
“My sister.” My laugh is dry. “She thought I should share that with my counterparts.”
“How are you going to explain it?”
“An obvious hoax.”
He picks up his glass and downs the drink. I do the same, and we set our glasses down simultaneously. He gives me a grim, unhappy look. “I don’t know you very well, but I think you’re a good cop. I think you care. That alone makes you a better cop than me. But you know as well as I do secrets have a way of getting exposed.”
“Kind of like old bones.” I stare hard at him. “Unless you bury them really deep.”
“If I found out, someone else can.”
“I don’t want my family brought into this. I don’t want the Amish community to pay for something I did.”
“Look, Kate, you’ve got a few things going for you on this. There were extenuating circumstances. There’s the self-defense angle. Your age at the time of the shooting.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding. I want to know if he’s going to turn me in, but I’m afraid to ask. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I hold them at bay. The last thing I want to do is break down in front of the man who’s probably going to destroy my life.
“I have to go.” His chair scrapes across the floor as he rises. “Try to get some sleep.”
He leaves the kitchen. A little voice inside my head screams for me to go after him, plead with him to keep his mouth shut, at least until this case is solved. But I can’t make myself move. The slamming of the door is like a death knell in my ears. As I reach for the bottle, I know there’s not a damn thing I can do but wait for the hammer to fall.
CHAPTER 27
I arrive at the police station a few minutes before seven. Mona sits at the switchboard, her feet on the desk, eating an apple and reading her usual fare.
“Hey, Chief.” Her feet hit the floor. Her eyes widen slightly when she looks at me. “Tough night?”
I didn’t sleep much after Tomasetti left, and I wonder if I look as wrung out as I feel. “Nothing a cup of whatever you’re brewing won’t cure.”
“It’s cinnamon hazelnut.” She passes messages to me. “Doc Coblentz probably won’t get to the autopsy until midmorning.”
The news suits me just fine. Now that I know for a fact Daniel Lapp isn’t the killer, I plan to spend the morning working the relocation angle.
“Weatherman says we got more snow coming,” she says.
“He’s been saying that for a week.”
“I think he’s right this time.”
I snag coffee on the way to my office. Sliding behind my desk, I pull out the Slaughterhouse Killer file and a fresh legal pad. While my computer boots, I hit Skid’s cell number. “Did DRC give you anyone besides Starkey?”
“He was the only one.”
“Did you check with hospitals?” I ask. “Institutions?”
“I struck out, Chief. Sorry.”
“It was worth a shot.”
“You got anything new?”
“I’m working on it. See you in a few.”
I disconnect and spend a few minutes Googling moving companies within a thirty-mile radius of Painters Mill. There are none with a Painters Mill address, but a Web site pops up for a moving company in Millersburg along with a U-Haul franchise. Grabbing the legal pad, I jot contact information. I know the angle I’m pursuing is a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got. I dial Great Midwest Movers, where I’m put on hold and transferred.
“This is Jerry Golan, how can I help you?”
I identify myself and get right to the point. “I’m working on a case and need the names of people who moved out of the area from 1993 to 1995. Do you guys keep records that long?”
“This about them murders up there?”
“I’m not at liberty to get into details.” I lower my voice. “But just between you and me it could be related. I’d appreciate if you’d keep it under your hat.”
“My lips are sealed.” He lowers his voice as if we now share a secret, and I hear the tap of a keyboard on the other end of the line. “The good news is we’ve kept all our records since we opened in 1989. The bad news is, they’re all over the place. We moved back in ’04. Everything got boxed up. Some of it’s in storage and some’s here at the office.”
“All I need is the names and contact information.”
Another whistle sails through fiber optic cable. “Might take a while.”
“Any way you can expedite that for the chief of police?”
“Well, jeez, I guess I could call in a temp.”
“Would it help if I told you to send the bill to me?”
He brightens. “Yes, ma’am. That’d help a lot.”
A temp isn’t in the budget, but I’ll cover it somehow. After hanging up, I go to the Coshocton County Auditor Web site. I stumble through a few pages before finding what I’m looking for. The site offers public access to tax records for real estate sales and transfers. I click on the link and go to the Advanced Search. “Bingo,” I whisper and enter the dates I’m looking for.
Unfortunately, the database only goes back ten years. I click on the “Contact” button and request a listing of sales for the county between January 1, 1993 and December 31, 1995.
Next, I go to the Holmes County Auditor Web site. I’m pleased to find that the site offers a “sales search” by property district. There are dozens of districts, broken down by township and village.
My phone buzzes. I see Glock’s cell number on the display and pick up. “Hey.”
“Something’s going on,” he says without preamble. “Auggie Brock called a few minutes ago and asked me to meet him at the police station. Said it was urgent.”
“What?” Alarm shoots through me. “Did he say why?”
“No, but I thought you might want a heads-up. I’m on my way.”
The line goes dead.
Troubled, I stare at the phone. It surprises me by buzzing again. Mona’s number pops up on the display and I pick up. “Auggie and his entourage just walked in,” she whispers. “They’re coming your way.”
I look up to see Auggie Brock at my door. I hang up. Behind Auggie, I see Janine Fourman. A tremor of uneasiness goes through me when I see Detrick and John Tomasetti bringing up the rear.
My heart rolls into a hard staccato. “What’s wrong?”
No one answers. At first I think there’s been another murder. Then the truth hits me, like a fist rammed into my solar plexus. John told them about Lapp. About what I did. They’re here to fire me. Maybe even arrest me. The thought paralyzes me with fear. With shame and a keen sense of betrayal. With the knowledge that I’m in very big trouble.
I stare at John. He stares back with those cold cop’s eyes. Bastard
, I think. Bastard.
“We’d like a word with you,” Auggie begins.
I rise, my uneasiness growing into a wild and unwieldy panic. “What’s going on?”
Auggie clears his throat. “Chief Burkholder, effective immediately, based on just cause, we are terminating your employment contract with the Village of Painters Mill.”
I feel as if I’ve been Tased. I stare at him, speechless, my mind reeling. “On what grounds?”
Bristling with impatience, Janine speaks up. “We’ve received a complaint about the way you’re investigating these murders.”
“A complaint? From who?” But I already know.
“Finger-pointing isn’t important at this juncture,” she says.
“The hell it’s not.” I look at John. He returns my gaze levelly, and I wonder if he knew about this and didn’t tell me. I shift my attention to the mayor. “You had better start talking.”
“We held a closed-door session this morning,” says Auggie.
“Who?”
He motions toward the group. “All of us. It was decided.”
I see Glock standing behind John and feel the knife sink in a little deeper. Did he know about this?
Janine Fourman looks at me like a mother admonishing a badly behaved child. “This is not personal, Kate. We’re acting in the best interest of Painters Mill.”
Auggie produces a sheet of paper and hands it to me. “You’re being relieved of your duties for just cause. It is the opinion of the council that your lack of experience has prevented you from pursuing this case in the proper manner.”
I cut in. “Lack of experience?”
Ignoring me, Auggie continues. “That finding is based upon your delay in calling for assistance from other law enforcement agencies, namely the FBI, BCI and the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department. There was an official complaint filed. We reviewed it in depth. And it is the consensus of the council that you be removed from your position until all the facts are known. In the interim, Sheriff Detrick will be the acting chief until the situation is resolved.”
Relief flits though me that there was no mention of human remains. “Sounds like you stayed up all night rehearsing, Auggie.”
He has the audacity to blush. “This is not a reflection on you, but your lack of experience and the difficult circumstances of these murders.”
“I’m doing everything humanly possible to solve this case.” I hate the desperation ringing in my voice. “We’re working practically around the clock.”
Janine grimaces, the first show of anything but smug satisfaction. “We know you’ve worked hard. We know you care. That’s not in question here. It’s just that we don’t feel you have the experience to work on a case of this magnitude.”
“Don’t do this,” I say to Auggie.
The mayor averts his gaze. “The decision has been made.”
I look from face to face, but it’s like staring at a brick wall. They’ve made up their minds. I know it’s more political than personal, but that doesn’t keep it from hurting. I have a personal stake in this case. I want to see it through. “You’re making a mistake.”
Auggie nods at Glock. “Officer Maddox, if you could relieve the chief of her badge and sidearm. Kate, you can take a few minutes to pack your things if you want. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the Explorer here, since it’s a city vehicle. Officer Maddox will drop you off at your house.”
Glock gives him the best fuck-you look I’ve ever seen and holds his place at the door.
I look down at my desk. My computer screen still displays the Holmes County Auditor Web site. I can’t imagine packing my things and walking away. This job may be my life. But this case has become an obsession.
Shaking his head, Auggie leaves my office. Janine gives me a wolverine smile and follows him. I glance toward the hall, but Tomasetti is gone. I feel abandoned and betrayed by all of them.
I look at Glock. “Are you going to make sure I don’t steal any paper clips on my way out?”
He holds my gaze. “Fuckers waylaid me with this, Chief.”
The loyalty behind his words should console me, but they don’t. I sink into my chair, trying to put things into perspective.
Glock drops into the visitor chair. “Fuckin’ Johnston.”
I rub my eyes. “Was Tomasetti involved?”
“I don’t know.”
I scan the papers spread out on my desk. My notes and theories and reports. The Slaughterhouse Killer file. The crime scene photos. Dozens of calls that need to be returned. How can I walk away when things are so damn unfinished?
“Chief, if it wasn’t for the baby coming I would have walked,” he says. “Fuckin’ health insurance.”
I can’t imagine never sitting behind this desk again. In some small corner of my mind I think if I do walk out that door, I’ll just keep on going and never come back. But I know better than most that you can’t run from your past.
“I guess I need to pack.”
Glock looks miserable.
I hit the speaker button on my phone and dial Mona. “Can you bring me a box?”
A cautious pause. “Why?”
“Just do it, Mona, okay?”
I hang up. A moment later she appears at the door with an empty copy paper box. Her eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. “What’d they do?”
I don’t answer, but I see the knowledge in her eyes. “Chief? Did they . . .” She lets the words trail.
“Yeah,” I say.
“They can’t do that.” She looks from me to Glock and back to me. “Can they do that?”
“It’s in my contract.”
“But you’re the best police chief this town ever had.”
“It’s politics,” Glock growls.
Blindly, I begin tossing items into the box. A couple of framed photos. A brass paperweight Mona gave me for Christmas. My diploma and certificates hanging on the wall. What I really want I’m pretty sure I won’t be walking out with: my goddamn case.
For several minutes both Glock and Mona watch me pack. The switchboard rings and Mona shakes her head. “I don’t believe this,” she says and rushes out to grab the call.
Humiliation sets in when Detrick enters. He looks from me to Glock to the box on my desk, his eyes finally landing on me. “I’m sorry things worked out this way.”
I want to vent some of the anger pumping through me. I want to call him an ass-kissing, limelight-grabbing, case-stealing son of a bitch. Instead, I toss a scented candle into the box and frown at him. “You call in the feds?”
“SAC’ll be here tomorrow,” Detrick answers.
I nod, wondering if John knew and didn’t see fit to tell me. “Good luck with the case.”
Detrick says nothing.
I pick up the box and walk out the door.
CHAPTER 28
I feel like a wounded animal that’s gone to its cave to lick fatal wounds as I carry my box of belongings through the door. Around me, the house is silent and cold and reminds me of how empty my life will be without my job. The repercussions of my termination have started to sink in.
When I was eighteen years old and announced I would not be joining the church, the Amish bishop put me under the bann. My family wouldn’t take meals with me. It wasn’t done to injure, but in the hope I would come to my senses and live the life God had planned for me. I felt banished and alone. Neither of those things were enough to sway my decision to leave, but it had hurt.
Today, I feel much the same way. Abandoned. Betrayed. I should be worried about more practical matters like the loss of income and health insurance. I should be concerned by the fact that my career has taken a major hit and there are no job prospects within fifty miles. I’ll be forced to sell the house and move. All of these concerns are dwarfed by my growing obsession with this case.
I set the box on the kitchen table. I spot my legal pad lying on top and resist the urge to pull it out. I want to continue working the relocation angle, but it’s going to
be tough without resources.
A scratch at the window above the sink interrupts my thoughts. I look up to see the orange tabby glaring at me from the sill. I try not to think about the parallels between the unwanted stray and myself as I cross to the door and open it. The cat bursts in with a waft of cold air and a confetti swirl of snow. I go to the refrigerator, pour milk into a bowl and pop it in the microwave. “I know.” I set the bowl on the floor. “We’re fucked.”
I consider having my first drink of the day, but I know getting shitfaced before noon will only make things worse. Instead I walk to the bedroom, exchange my uniform for jeans and a sweatshirt, and grab my laptop off the dresser. Settling at the kitchen table, I fire up the computer and start with the Holmes County Auditor Web site. It’s tedious work that will probably net nothing more than eyestrain and a stiff neck. But at least it will keep me occupied. The last thing I want to do is sit around and wallow in self-pity or, God forbid, go into full self-destruct mode.
By noon I’m frothing at the mouth with frustration. When I can stand the silence of the house no longer, I turn on the television to some mindless afternoon fare and return to my computer. At one o’clock, I pour myself a double shot of Absolut and drink it down like lemonade on a hot day.
I call Skid, but get voice mail. I had assigned him the task of checking snowmobile registrations for the two-county area. I wonder if he’s gotten wind of my termination and decided he doesn’t have to answer my calls. I’m in the process of dialing his home number when Pickles calls.
“I can’t believe those goddamn pencil-pushers,” he begins without preface.
“What’s going on there?”
“Detrick is making hisself right at home in your office. Mona says if he starts bringing in those fuckin’ animal heads from the taxidermist and mounting them on the walls, she’s going to quit.”
“FBI there?”
“SAC arrived a few minutes ago. Some wet-behind-the-ears dipshit with a master’s degree in ass-kissing and the common sense of a beagle. Detrick is practically sucking his dick.”
I get a good belly laugh out of that despite my dark mood.
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