The Silent Wife: From the No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author comes a gripping new crime thriller (Will Trent Series, Book 10)

by Karin Slaughter

  Faith took a breath before jumping back in, because she would never leave the house if she let this kind of shit get to her. “I skimmed the crime/evidence stuff. The guy likes his adverbs. There’s a lot of wild conjecture and conspiracy theory bullshit, but not much in the way of concrete facts. Mostly, his focus is on how the police suck and that they should all be put on death row for not doing their jobs. It comes off like Peppa Pig trying to do John Grisham.”

  “Death row?”

  “Yep.”

  There was another moment of silence.

  Will said, “So, is he an acolyte? Copycat? Nutjob? Murderer?”

  He was asking the questions they’d volleyed around this morning in the prison chapel.

  “I think he’s a devastated father whose daughter was brutally attacked, and he blames the police for ruining both of their lives. If anything, he comes off as a cop-hating Don Quixote.”

  “You said that Caterino started this online stuff five years ago. Beckey was attacked eight years ago. He waited three years before he got into it. What set him off?”

  “Let’s see if he’ll tell us.”

  Faith put the car in gear. She had already entered the address into the navigation system. Lena had done them at least one favor by dragging them down into the belly button of the state. Gerald Caterino lived in Milledgeville, about half an hour outside of Macon. Faith had called his office pretending to need an estimate on landscaping. They had told her that Gerald was working from home today. She had pulled up the county tax records and located Caterino’s $240,000 house in an older part of town.

  Will opened the bag of Doritos. “We need to know more about the Leslie Truong case. From what Amanda told us, Sara found the same type of puncture wound in Alexandra McAllister’s spinal cord that Beckey Caterino had. What about Truong?”

  “I bet you Lena drew a diagram in her notebook,” Faith said. “Fucking bitch.”

  “The information will be in the files.”

  Faith listened to him chew.

  The files meant Jeffrey’s files. Sara was going to get them out of storage, a detail Amanda had relayed among a long list of tasks the team was expected to complete by the end of the day. Fortunately, Emma was staying with her father this week. The time was already creeping up on three o’clock. Faith had been awake since three this morning. All she could think about right now was walking through her front door, taking off her bra and reading escalator fatality stories until it was dark enough to go to bed.

  Will said, “It takes three murders to make a serial.”

  “We could have a lot more than that if we can get the bodies from the articles exhumed.” Faith hoped to God she wasn’t the person who had to ask the families for permission to dig up their dead children. “Let’s say Gerald Caterino agrees to talk to us. Do we tell him about McAllister’s death being ruled a homicide?”

  “If we have to,” Will said. “We should hold back the bulk of the details, though.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  Faith still couldn’t wrap her head around what Amanda had told them. Attacking a woman, raping her, terrifying her, murdering her, were all bad enough. To torture her in that way, to paralyze her so she couldn’t fight back—was a whole new level of terror.

  She said, “Sara found knife wounds around the abdomen and around the armpits. The killer must know something about animal behavior, right? He sliced open McAllister’s skin to draw blood so that the predators would eat the evidence.”

  Will shoved a handful of chips into his mouth. He was staying away from the Sara part of the discussion. Or maybe he was still processing the grisly details, the same as Faith. Most killers were not caught because they left at the crime scene a grain of sand from a remote island that only they could’ve visited. They got caught because they were sloppy and stupid.

  This killer was neither of those things.

  “Brad Stephens.” Will opened the bag of Cheetos. “He’s missing from the list of cops in the COVER-UP section.”

  “He must’ve been fresh out of the academy when this happened.” Faith knew exactly what that looked like. “He would’ve been doing the scut work, gathering all the reports, filing, canvassing, door knocking, talking to secondary witnesses.”

  “He would’ve seen everything.”

  Faith glanced at her partner. He was brushing crumbs off his tie. The more they talked about the case, the better Will sounded. She asked, “Take me through your thinking. How do you draw the line between Gerald Caterino and Brad Stephens?”

  “I’m Gerald Caterino,” Will said. “My daughter has been gravely injured. I’ve got to deal with that in the immediate, right? Her recovery, physical therapy, whatever. And all that time, I’m thinking the guy who hurt her is behind bars. The guy goes through two appeals that he loses. Three years pass. I’m rocking along with my life, but then the guy I think is guilty writes to me and tells me he didn’t do it.”

  Faith nodded, because that seemed like the most likely turn of events. “You wouldn’t believe that guy.”

  “I would not.” Will dumped the rest of the Cheetos into his mouth. He chewed, then swallowed, then said, “I’m a dad, though. I can’t let it go. I’ve got this guy who I think hurt my daughter, but he’s telling me it was somebody else who’s still out there, possibly hurting other women. What do I do next?”

  “You’re a middle-class white man, so you assume the police will help you.” Faith handed him her Diet Coke to open. “Five years ago, Matt Hogan was gone. So was Tolliver. Frank Wallace was the interim chief. Lena was chief detective. Brad was a senior patrolman.”

  Will passed back the open soda. “Frank would be zero help. Lena might try to help, but not in a meaningful way.”

  Faith could imagine Lena trying to control the situation and watching it blow up like a roadside IED. “The civil suit wouldn’t get Nesbitt access to the Truong and Caterino files. Nesbitt was only the assumed perpetrator. His conviction was based on the child porn.”

  “Right, but there’s only a few ways you can personally sue a cop. Excessive force. A fourth amendment violation for unreasonable search and seizure. A charge of discrimination and/or harassment.” Will explained, “You can’t base your case off of one bad act. You need to show a pattern of behavior. That’s how they get access to the Caterino and Truong files. They tell the judge they need to look at previous investigations to establish a pattern.”

  Faith took a sip of cola. As legal strategies went, it was a good one. “Gerald Caterino must’ve been pissed off when Daryl Nesbitt dropped his suit in exchange for medium security.”

  “He still kept in touch,” Will said. “He sent the articles to Nesbitt in prison.”

  “Just the articles,” Faith said, reminding him of the detail Amanda had passed on. “There were no letters, no Post-it notes. Just the clippings in an envelope with a PO box for the return address.”

  “GDOC only keeps mail records for three years. We don’t know if they corresponded before that.”

  Faith figured Gerald Caterino was the only person who could fill in the details. If he agreed to talk to them. “You still haven’t connected this to Brad Stephens.”

  “Easy. Frank and Lena aren’t going to help. So, I start looking for weak points on the Grant County force. Someone who was there when it happened. Someone who isn’t invested in being right. Brad Stephens is my only choice.”

  Faith didn’t buy it. “You’re saying he would turn on Jeffrey?”

  “Never, but he would flip on Lena like a pancake.”

  “I thought Brad and Lena were partners?”

  “They were,” Will said. “But he’s a Dudley-Do-Right.”

  Faith got his meaning. Brad saw things in black and white, which could make you a good cop, but not necessarily a good partner. No one wanted to work with a tattletale.

  Will said, “We need to talk to Brad.”

  “Put it on the list behind talking to every detective, coroner and next of kin involved in
every case from Daryl Nesbitt’s articles.”

  Will tipped the bag of Bugles into his mouth and finished the last of the crumbs. Then he took a handful of Jolly Ranchers out of his pocket for dessert and Faith couldn’t watch anymore.

  The satnav said to take a right.

  Faith drove through an older residential area. Tall dogwoods lined the streets. Large shrubs and ornamental trees filled the front yards. The design reminded Faith of her own in-town neighborhood, where hundreds of split-level ranch-style houses had been built for returning World War II veterans. Hers was one of the few remaining homes that hadn’t been Frankensteined into a McMansion. Faith’s government salary barely covered a broken water heater. If not for her grandmother leaving her the house, she would’ve been forced to live with her mother. Neither one of them would’ve made it out alive.

  She slowed down to read the mailbox numbers. “We’re looking for 8472.”

  “There.” Will pointed across the street.

  Gerald Caterino lived in a fairly modest two-story brick Colonial. The lawn was neatly trimmed zoysia that had yet to go dormant from the change in season. Flowers Faith could not name spilled from terracotta pots. Pavers lined the crushed stone driveway. She pulled in front of a closed wrought-iron gate that blocked the motor court. She saw a kid playing with a basketball on the other side. He looked around eight or nine years old. Faith remembered Caterino’s bio from his company website. She assumed this was the son that Caterino liked to read with.

  “Up top.” Will nodded toward a security camera.

  Faith scanned the front of the house. There were two cameras covering each corner.

  Will said, “That’s not something you get on Amazon.”

  Faith agreed. They looked professional, what you’d find in a bank.

  The gate took on a different meaning. Faith had lived in Atlanta all of her life. She had seen the gate as just another gate. She reminded herself they were in Milledgeville, where the annual murder rate was zero and every other house on this bucolic, tree-lined street probably had unlocked front doors.

  She said, “His daughter was brutally attacked eight years ago.”

  “He blames us for what happened after.”

  “Not us personally. He blames Grant County.”

  Will didn’t respond, but then he didn’t have to. Gerald Caterino’s online activity made it clear that he didn’t see the difference.

  Faith allotted herself exactly two seconds to think about the gunshot wound that had been carefully placed between Jeffrey Tolliver’s eyes.

  She asked, “Ready?”

  Will got out of the car.

  Faith found her purse in the backseat. She joined Will at the gate. His elbows rested along the top. He watched the kid chunk the ball toward the basket. It missed by a mile, but the boy still looked to Will for approval.

  “Wow, that was so close.” Will gave Faith a slight nod toward the back of the house. “Can you do that again?”

  The kid happily chased after the bouncing ball.

  Faith had to go up on her tiptoes so she could see the house. There was a screened porch off the back. The shadows provided cover for the man sitting at the table. He leaned forward into the sunlight. What was left of his dark hair was streaked gray. His push-broom mustache was neatly trimmed. His wire-rimmed glasses were on top of his head.

  “What do you want?” Gerald Caterino’s angry tone made the hairs go up on the back of Faith’s neck.

  “Mr. Caterino.” She already had her ID ready. She held it up over the gate. “I’m Special Agent Mitchell. This is Special Agent Trent. We’re with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. We wondered if we could talk to you.”

  He remained seated at the table, telling the kid, “Heath, go check on your sister.”

  Heath let the basketball bounce away as he darted inside.

  Faith heard a click, then the gate slowly opened.

  She made herself go first, walking across the driveway, open to anything that might come. The back yard was as huge as it was well-protected. She saw a six-feet-tall chain-link fence around the perimeter. More cameras were mounted under the eaves. A wrought-iron fence that matched the gate circled a beautiful swimming pool. A lift chair was mounted to the stone deck. The screened porch was accessed via a ramp instead of steps. There was a large wheelchair van parked in the garage alongside a pick-up truck with landscaping tools in the back.

  The screened door was made of wrought iron that matched the rest. Odd, since the screen could be easily sliced apart, but Faith wasn’t here to do a security evaluation. Heath hadn’t closed the door all the way. There was no way in hell she was going to step foot on that porch without being invited.

  The security cameras. The gate. The tall fence. The targets on the Grant County mugshots. The bullet wound in Jeffrey Tolliver’s head.

  Rebecca Caterino had been attacked almost a decade ago. That was a lot of time to be on high alert. Faith had seen what grief could do to a family, particularly fathers. For all the security, Gerald hadn’t stood up to inspect their IDs before opening the gate. The man’s online presence was riddled with anti-law enforcement propaganda. She wondered if he wasn’t standing up because he had a gun taped to the underside of the table. Then she wondered if she was being paranoid. Then she reminded herself that paranoia was the thing that got her home safe to her baby girl every day.

  She realized they were already at a stand-off. “Mr. Caterino, I need your verbal authorization to enter your residence.”

  His beefy arms were crossed over his chest. He offered a curt nod. “Granted.”

  Will reached ahead of her to open the door. Faith kept her purse close to her side. Her bad vibe had crested into a tsunami of red flags. Everything about Gerald Caterino felt charged, ready to explode. He was sitting on the edge of his chair. His arms were still crossed. His laptop was closed. Timecards were stacked beside it. He was wearing black cargo shorts and a black polo shirt. Bright white skin showed between the V of the unbuttoned collar. He had a landscaper’s tan that stopped with his work shirt.

  Faith glanced around. There was another camera, a bubble-type, mounted on the ceiling by the kitchen door. The porch was wide and narrow. The table Caterino was sitting at had three chairs and an opening for a wheelchair.

  Faith offered her credentials. Several seconds passed before he took them. He put on his glasses. He studied the ID, comparing the photo to Faith. Will handed over his wallet and received the same scrutiny.

  Caterino asked, “Why are you here?”

  Faith shifted on her feet. He hadn’t told them to sit down. “Daryl Nesbitt.”

  Caterino’s body grew exponentially more tense. Instead of volunteering that he’d been sending Nesbitt articles for the last five years, he looked out at the back yard. Sunlight bounced off the surface of the pool, turning it into a mirror. “What’s he trying to get this time?”

  “Ultimately, we think he wants to be moved to a lower security facility.”

  Caterino nodded, as if that made sense. And it probably did. The last time Nesbitt had made a deal, he’d been transferred from maximum. The move had probably cost Caterino around one hundred grand in legal fees.

  Faith said, “Mr. Cateri—”

  “My daughter was left out in those woods for half an hour before somebody realized she was alive.” He looked at Faith, then Will. “Do you know what that thirty minutes would’ve meant to her recovery? To her life?”

  Faith didn’t think that question could ever be answered, but it was clearly something he was holding on to.

  “Thirty minutes,” Caterino said. “My little girl was paralyzed, traumatized, unable to speak or even blink, and not one of those filthy, fucking cops thought to check to see if she was still alive. To even touch her face or hold her hand. If that pediatrician hadn’t just wandered by …”

  Faith tried to keep her tone light as a contrast to the bitterness in his voice. “What else did Brad Stephens tell you about that day?”
>
  Caterino shook his head. “Worthless little punk did what they all do. The second you ask a cop to go on the record, they clam up. That thin blue line is like a fucking noose around my neck.”

  “Mr. Caterino, we’re here to get the truth,” Faith said. “The only line we care about is the one that separates right from wrong.”

  “Bullshit. You dirtbags always cover for each other.”

  Faith thought about Nick grabbing Daryl Nesbitt and throwing him into the wall.

  “Worthless fuckers.” Caterino hissed out a long stream of air between his teeth. “I should’ve never let you in here. I know my rights. I don’t have to talk to you.”

  Faith tried to deflect with the parent card. “I’ve got a son, too. How old is Heath?”

  “Six.” Caterino straightened his laptop on the table. “My ex-girlfriend, his mother, couldn’t handle it when Beckey got hurt. We didn’t part on good terms. I was really angry back then.”

  Faith thought he was really angry right now. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Sorry?” he repeated. “What the hell are you sorry for?”

  Faith knew she wasn’t responsible, but she felt responsible anyway. The Justice for Rebecca website had dozens of photographs that showed Beckey before and after the attack. She was a beautiful young woman who had suffered lifelong damage as a consequence of that day in the woods. Below-the-waist paralysis. Speech impairment. Vision impairment. Traumatic brain injury. According to the site, the attack had left her intellectually disabled to the point that she required round-the-clock care.

  That thirty minutes in the forest had likely been the last thirty minutes that Rebecca Caterino had ever been left completely alone for the rest of her life.

  Gerald Caterino pushed his glasses back onto the top of his head. He looked out at the pool again. He had to clear his throat before he could speak.

  “Twelve years ago, I truly believed that the worst thing that would ever happen to me was losing my wife. Then eight years ago, my daughter goes off to college and she comes back like …” His voice trailed off. “Do you know what’s worse than both of those things, Special Agent Faith Mitchell?”