Pray for Silence kb-2

by Linda Castillo

  “She was alive when he did this?”

  “Her heart was still beating. She may have been unconscious due to shock and blood loss. She could have been drugged, so I’ll run a tox.” He motions to her face. “She isn’t gagged; believe me, she would have screamed.”

  I imagine I can hear those screams now. “Why?” is all I can manage.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he was trying to retrieve a bullet,” the doctor suggests.

  “Maybe.” But the theory doesn’t ring true. It takes a special kind of cold-blooded to cut open a human body. “Seems like it would have been easier to dispose of the body.”

  He heaves the sigh of a heavily burdened man. “I don’t know if it’s significant, but this wound is very close to her uterus.”

  A shudder runs the length of my body. Unwanted images scroll through my brain. “I wonder if that’s somehow symbolic.”

  “Could be.”

  “Or maybe he’s a sadist and hates women.”

  The doc shrugs. “That’s your area of expertise, not mine.”

  I motion toward the second victim. “What about the other girl?”

  The doc moves to the second victim. Annie Plank. She was sixteen years old. Slightly heavier. Not as pretty as her sister. It breaks my heart to see these two young lives cut short.

  With the same gentle deference he used with the sibling, the doc sets his gloved hand against her abdomen. The area has been wiped clean, and I spot the stab wounds immediately. These wounds are higher, just below her rib cage.

  “She was stabbed. Three times, it looks like. I’m guessing, but I would venture to say at least two of those penetrated the stomach.”

  “Same weapon?”

  “That would be my guess.” He grimaces. “But I’m not convinced that’s what killed her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Reaching up with a gloved hand, he gently rolls back an eyelid. It goes against every primal instinct I possess, but I force myself to look. The eyeball is milky and sticky-looking. The outside corner is bloodred. My perspective is not clinical, but one of outrage, sadness and disbelief that something this unspeakable could happen in my town, a place where people should be safe. I can feel my emotions knocking at the gate. My heart beating in my face. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, but I’m cold to the bone.

  “The red area on the conjunctival surface is called petechial hemorrhages,” the doctor explains.

  It’s not the first time I’ve heard that term. “She was strangled?”

  He shakes his head. “There are no visible ligature marks on her neck. No bruising.” He indicates a thin white line just to the right of her mouth, across her nose and on her left cheek. “I’m guessing here, Kate, but I would say this is some type of adhesive.”

  “They taped her mouth?”

  “And nose, evidently.”

  “They smothered her?”

  “I can’t say that definitively at this point, but asphyxiation would be my best guess.”

  “They tied her up. They stabbed her multiple times. And then smothered her to death.” The words are so twisted, so ugly, it hurts me to say them. All too easily, I can put myself in this young woman’s place. I can imagine her terror and panic with a clarity that scares me. All I can think is, How could somebody do this to another human being? The part of my mind that clings to some semblance of innocence poses the question. Another side of my brain that will never be innocent again knows the answer. There are monsters living among us. People who look no different than you and me. But they lack a fundamental component of the human species: a conscience.

  “Did you get a temp, Doc?” I ask.

  “I did.” To prevent biohazard contamination of his notebook, he snaps off a glove and tugs the small pad from an inside pocket. “Ninety-four point six degrees.”

  I do the math. “These two girls were the last to die.”

  “An hour, maybe two, after he killed the people inside the house.” He sighs. “It’s possible the younger girl may have lingered a while, Kate. Particularly if the COD is exsanguination. She would have fallen unconscious.” He shrugs.

  I try to look at this through the eyes of a killer, but the perspective makes me feel dirty and guilty and decayed. “Why did he kill these two girls differently than the others?” I say, thinking aloud.

  The doc arches a brow as if to say, Don’t ask me.

  Glock comes up beside me. “Maybe this guy’s a sexual sadist. Came here for the girls, killed the rest of the family because they were potential witnesses or they were in the way.”

  I look at Doc Coblentz. “Were the girls raped?”

  The doc nods. “There’s some chafing visible, but the lighting is too bad for me to draw any kind of definitive conclusion. I really don’t want to rule on that until I get them to the morgue.”

  I study the two dead girls. “There’s a definite sexual element to this,” I say. “But I think there’s something else. Something obscure we’re missing.”

  “Like what?” Glock asks.

  “I’m not sure. There’s something about way the bodies are displayed. The fact that they’re nude. The torture aspect.” I’m thinking aloud now. Brainstorming. Throwing out theories and ideas. “It’s visual. Almost a theatrical element to it.”

  Glock is good at this and we play off of each other. “Was this premeditated?” he asks.

  “If he stalked them, he would have known the rest of the family would be here,” I say. “He would have known he’d have to kill them, too.”

  “Maybe his compulsion is so strong, collateral damage didn’t matter.”

  Doc Coblentz cuts in. “This killer spent a good deal of time torturing these two young women.” He tugs a fresh glove from his crime scene kit and works his fingers into it. “Look at this.”

  Glock and I follow him back to Mary Plank’s body. Using a fresh swab, the doctor indicates a series of bright red abrasion-like marks on her buttocks, thighs and breasts. “Those are burns.”

  “From a cigarette?” My mind is already jumping ahead to the possibility of DNA on a butt.

  “Propane torch.”

  “Sick motherfucker,” Glock mutters.

  Nodding grimly, the doc directs my attention to several stripe-like bruises about the buttocks and back. “I believe these bruises were caused by that small bat.”

  “He burned them. He beat them. Raped them.” I feel that quivery sensation again, as if my stomach is slowly climbing into my throat. “And then he killed them.”

  For a moment the only sound comes from the chug, chug, chug of the generator.

  Turning away from the girls, I address Glock. “Bag all of those tools and courier them to BCI. I want it there by the time the lab opens for business.”

  Glock is already reaching for the crime scene kit where the bags and labels are stored. “I’m on it.”

  “I’m going to make the call.” I sigh, knowing that as bad as this day has been, it’s probably going to get worse.

  Pulling out my phone, I leave the tack room. Skid and Pickles are standing outside the door. Both still wear gloves and shoe covers. In an effort to preserve the scene and prevent the contamination of evidence, I’ve limited the number of people allowed in the barn and house to me, Glock, Skid, Pickles and Doc Coblentz. It will be up to us to deal with the dead.

  “The doc is going to need some help getting those bodies down,” I say.

  The men aren’t happy about the assignment; I recognize their green-around-the-gills expressions. But they’re far too professional to complain.

  “I want you fully geared, including hair caps. I want the victims’ hands bagged.”

  Without waiting for a response, I walk briskly down the aisle. My boots thud with a little too much force against the packed dirt floor. I’m shaking by the time I reach the door. Once outside, I can breathe again, and I stand there, gulping air. After a moment I’m feeling calmer, and I notice that the eastern horizon is awash with color. Beyond, th
e leaves of the maple tree rattle in a cool breeze. In the driveway, three ambulances wait to transport the dead. All of these things remind me that I’m still alive, and that even in the face of death, life prevails.

  I dial John Tomasetti’s home number from memory. We’ve had an on-again, off-again relationship for about ten months now, but neither of us is very good at the relationship thing. Probably has to do with the amount of baggage we’re toting around. Of course that didn’t keep him from trying to get me into bed. It didn’t keep me from succumbing when I probably shouldn’t have.

  To say we both have issues would be an understatement. Most of Tomasetti’s stem from the murders of his wife and two children two and a half years ago in a horrific act of revenge by a career criminal. The parallels to this case don’t elude me, and I realize that’s why I’ve been putting off the call. He’s a strong man, but even the strong have a breaking point.

  But I need his help. His expertise. His instincts. His support. If I’ve learned anything in my years in law enforcement, it’s that the living come first. We can always deal with the dead in our nightmares.

  He answers on the third ring with a curt utterance of his last name. He’s cranky upon waking. I wish I didn’t know that about him.

  “It’s Kate.”

  A beat of silence ensues, and I wonder if he thinks the call is personal. I can practically feel his walls going up. Maybe he’s afraid I’m lonely and drunk and calling him in the middle of the night to scream and rant, though I’ve never fallen to that particular low. “This is an official call,” I clarify.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a major crime scene here in Painters Mill. Seven vics. All DOA. No sign of the perpetrator. I need a CSU.”

  I hear rustling on the other end of the line, and I can’t help but remember what he looks like in bed. Boxer shorts. Tousled hair. Beard stubble thick enough to chafe my skin . . .

  “Tell me about the vics,” he says.

  “Amish family. Five kids. Two teenaged girls were tortured.”

  “Sexual assault?”

  “I don’t know yet. Probably.”

  “Damn.” More rustling. I can tell he’s getting dressed. Stepping into creased trousers. Shrugging into a crisp shirt—an expensive one because John Tomasetti knows how to dress. He’ll take his tie with him and put it on at the office. Stop at Stauf’s for a cranberry muffin and double espresso. He likes his coffee strong.

  “Do you know them?” he asks.

  “No. They’re from Lancaster. Moved here about a year ago.”

  “Premeditated?”

  “Probably.”

  “What about motive?”

  “I don’t know. Looks . . . thought out. Killer spent some time with the two girls.” I relay details of the torture aspect of the case.

  “You have a suspect?”

  “No.”

  The telephone line hisses, reminding me of the miles between us, both figuratively and literally.

  “I’ll get a CSU out there pronto to give you guys a hand with the scene.” He pauses. “You want me to come down?”

  I hesitate a moment too long. He knows what I’m thinking, and he snaps at me. “For God’s sake, Kate. I can handle it.”

  “You don’t have to come for this one, John. There were kids. A baby . . .”

  “Let me get it cleared,” he growls. “Give me a day or two to tie some things up.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “See you then.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The closest neighbor to the Planks is a pig farm owned by William Zook, who is also Amish. It’s nearly nine A.M. when Glock and I pull into the driveway and park between the barn and house. About nine hours have passed since the Plank family was murdered, and I feel every tick of the clock like the jab of an ice pick. Having worked for two years as a detective in Columbus, I’m well aware that the first forty-eight hours are the most vital in terms of solving a crime. After that, the case goes cold and the chances of a good outcome decrease substantially. I don’t plan on letting that happen.

  The farmhouse is plain with badly weathered siding. The barn is octagonal with dirty white paint and tin shingles that have been peeled up by the wind. A tall silo with a rusty dome juts into a low, cloudy sky. A hundred years ago the farm had probably been a showplace. This morning, everything looks as old and tired as I feel.

  In the side yard a dozen or more work shirts and trousers hang from a clothesline, flapping like flags in the morning breeze. To my right, pampas grass with spires that shoot ten feet into the air sways to and fro. Beyond, cornstalks rattle in a well-tended garden, and I know the woman of the house fills her days with pulling weeds and canning vegetables.

  We exit the Explorer and start toward the front door. The smell of manure is overpowering. Most Amish farms are neat and well managed. The muck is scooped up several times a week and dumped into a manure pit, where it composts and is later used for fertilizer. Evidently, Zook doesn’t exercise good manure management.

  Next to me, Glock sighs. “I’ll take you up on the mentholated jelly offer, now.”

  “Left it at the scene.”

  “Figures.”

  Having just left the Plank farmhouse, I can think of more disturbing smells than pig shit, but I don’t comment.

  We pass a small ramshackle barn surrounded by a rail fence and an ocean of oozing muck. Dozens of pink pig snouts poke out from between the rails, and I know they’re watching us, hoping for a snack.

  At the back door, I knock and concentrate on the trace of mentholated jelly that remains beneath my nose. The door opens to reveal a plump Amish woman wearing a brown dress, a white apron and traditional kapp. We stare at each other for several seconds before I recognize her. Twenty years ago, Alma Gerig and I went to school together. She’s several years older than me, but our Amish school was so small, the older and younger children shared the same room.

  She’s gained thirty pounds since I last saw her. Her hair is more gray than red. It makes me wonder what my own life might have been like had I remained Amish. Though I see mistrust in her eyes, she offers a genuine smile. “Katie. Guder mariye.” Good morning.

  “Hello, Alma.” Giving her a passable smile, I flash my badge.

  Her smile falters. “Was der schinner is letz?” What’s wrong?

  “I need to ask you and your husband some questions about something that occurred last night.”

  Stepping back, she opens the door wider. She’s nervous now; I see it in the way her eyes flick away from mine. I don’t believe it has anything to do with me personally or the murders. Mistrust between the Amish and the English police has been a problem in this town for as long as I can remember. My being formerly Amish has helped dispel some of the friction, but it hasn’t eradicated it.

  “Of course,” Alma says. “Come in.”

  Glock and I enter a small living room. The plywood floor is covered with a blue and white braided rug that’s tracked with dirt. Against the far wall, a walnut bench is draped with a worn quilt and a couple of throw pillows. I smell kerosene and frying scrapple and for an instant I’m reminded of my own childhood home. A bittersweet memory best left in the past.

  “There was a problem at the Plank farm,” I begin. “A shooting.”

  She presses her hand against her breast. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “I’m afraid so.” I don’t elaborate. I want her husband there when I tell them about the murders. I don’t believe the Zooks are involved. Still, I want to see their unrehearsed reactions when I tell them the news.

  “Has something happened?”

  I turn at the male voice and see William Zook approach from the kitchen. He’s a tall, thin man with hunched shoulders and a salt-and-pepper beard badly in need of a trim. He wears a blue work shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a flat brimmed straw hat, trousers and suspenders. His eyes are sharp and suspicious when they land on me.

  Showing him my badge, I get right to the point. “Mr. Zook, there was a shootin
g last night at the Plank farm. I’d like to ask you and your wife a few questions.”

  “A shooting accident?” His eyes narrow. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Normally, I don’t release the names of the deceased until I’ve notified the next of kin. Since the Planks are from Lancaster County, I’m still working on obtaining NOK contact information, which could take a few hours. With the clock ticking and a killer on the loose, I can’t put my investigation on hold that long. If a member of the Zook family saw something, I need to know about it now.

  “The entire family was murdered,” I say.

  “Ach!” William presses his hand to his chest.

  Across the room, his wife gasps. “The children?”

  I glance over at her and shake my head. “There were no survivors.”

  Quickly, I shift my attention back to William. His complexion has gone pale. He stares at me as if I’ve just plunged a knife into his chest. “Dead?” he whispers. “All of them?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Oh, dear Lord.” Alma covers her mouth with both hands and looks at me over the tops of her fingers. “Who would do such an evil thing?”

  “Did you see or hear anything strange last night?” I ask.

  Both heads shake, but it is William who speaks. “The Plank house is over a mile away. Sometimes we do not see them for days at a time.”

  “When did you last see them?” Glock asks.

  William shifts his attention to Glock, his brows knitting. “I saw Amos yesterday morning. I was repairing the fence, near the road. He was in the buggy and stopped to say hello.”

  “How did he seem?” I ask.

  “Fine. We talked about the corn harvest. He wanted me to butcher a hog for him. I told him I would pick out a fat one for them.”

  “How did he seem to you? Normal? Nervous or upset?”

  He shrugs. “He seemed the same as always.”

  Alma wrings her hands. “Who did this terrible thing?”

  “We don’t know.” I turn my attention to her. “Were either of you close to the Planks?”

  William answers. “We see them at worship.”