Sworn to Silence kb-1

by Linda Castillo

  “As a member of the town council, and I’m entitled to some answers,” she huffs.

  “You’re entitled to a lot of things, but you are not entitled to embellishing upon information you overhear. That includes misquoting me. Are we clear?”

  Her mouth tightens into a thin, unpleasant line. Pink spreads up her neck all the way to her cheeks. “It would benefit you greatly, Chief Burkholder, if you were more cooperative with the people who sign your paycheck.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” Pulling myself back from a place I don’t want to go, I glance toward my office. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

  I push past her and don’t stop until I reach dispatch. “Messages?”

  Lois shoves a stack of pink slips at me and puts her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Nicely done, Chief,” she whispers in a conspiratorial tone.

  “If she tries to get into my office, shoot her.”

  Snorting, Lois returns to her phone call.

  I start toward my office.

  “Chief Burkholder!”

  I turn to see Steve Ressler, publisher of the Advocate, jog up to me. He is tall and wiry with a ruddy complexion and a head full of bright red hair.

  I stop because he’s probably the only friendly media I’ll see in the coming days. “Make it quick, Steve.”

  “You promised a press release this afternoon.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  He glances at his watch. “Presses start at five.”

  The Advocate usually comes out on Friday. Today is Monday, which tells me a special edition is going to press. “Give me an hour, will you?”

  His grimace tells me he’s not happy about the delay, but he’s perceptive enough to realize I’m not going to put the case on hold to accommodate his schedule. Steve might look like an older version of Opie from the Andy Griffith Show, but he’s a type A personality from the word go.

  He checks his watch again. “Can you fax it to me? Say by six?”

  It will be fully dark by six. I find myself dreading the darkness. “I have some safety tips for citizens I want printed, too.”

  “That’s good.” I can tell by his expression he’s going to ask about the murder, but I turn away before he can.

  An odd sense of relief flutters through me when I enter my office and turn on the light. The familiarity of this cramped little space comforts me. Working off my coat, I hang it on the hook and close the door. I need a few minutes to regroup. The energy that’s been driving me since the wee hours of the morning drains from my muscles, and I collapse into my chair. Closing my eyes, I put my face in my hands and massage my temples. I want coffee and food. For a few precious minutes, I want a reprieve from questions I have no idea how to answer, and the nightmare of this case.

  But when I close my eyes, I see Amanda Horner’s brutalized body. I see the bruises at her ankles. The black gleam of blood in the snow. Ligature marks that cut all the way to the bone. I see the anguish in her parents’ eyes. I feel a different kind of anguish in my own heart.

  Turning on my computer, I pull the “Slaughterhouse Murders” file from my drawer and set it in front of me. I grab a legal pad and as the computer boots, I jot the things I want to review with my officers.

  Assignments. T.J.—condoms? Glock—footwear imprints? Tire-tread imprints? Mona—abandoned properties. Me—similar crimes. Background checks—Connie Spencer. Donny Beck. People at the bar. Suspect list.

  My hand pauses. I think of the killer. I ponder his mind-set, and I write.

  Motive. Means. Opportunity. Why does he kill? Sexual gratification. Sexual sadist. Where does he kill? A place he feels safe—remote, i.e., no gag. Not worried about victim’s screams. Basement? Soundproof room? Abandoned property?

  I think of opportunity and wonder if he has a job, and I write:

  Does he work?

  A knock interrupts my thoughts. “It’s open.”

  The door opens a few inches and a hand clutching a paper bag from Ellis’s Burger Palace appears.

  “I come bearing gifts.”

  “In that case come in.”

  T.J. enters and approaches my desk. “Hamburger with pickles, hold the onions. Large fries and a Diet Coke.”

  The aroma elicits a grumble from my stomach. I smile as I reach for the bag. “If you weren’t already engaged, I’d ask you to marry me.”

  “Sustenance, Chief. You gotta eat.” But he blushes.

  Behind him, Glock appears holding four biggie coffees in a cardboard carrying tray. “I got the caffeine.”

  I unpack my lunch as Skid drags in a folding chair. I steal a few bites of the hamburger as the men take their seats. “We’ve gotta catch this guy,” I begin.

  Glock sets his coffee on the edge of my desk. “So is it the same guy from before or not?”

  I shake my head. “We can’t operate under that assumption.”

  “Why not?”

  “We don’t want to limit ourselves.” I don’t believe that. But I can’t reveal that the murderer from the early nineties is dead—if that is the case. I hate it, but I have no choice but to lie to my team. “We could have a copycat.”

  “That’d be pretty fuckin’ strange,” Skid says between bites.

  “The one thing we can assume is that we probably have a serial murderer on our hands. This was no crime of passion. He was organized. Deliberate.”

  The room goes so quiet I hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.

  “So you think he’s going to kill again?” T.J. asks.

  “That’s what he does. He kills. He’s good at it. He likes it.” I sip my Coke. “And it’ll happen right here in Painters Mill unless he moves on to another town.”

  “Or we get him first,” Glock adds.

  I set my drink on my desk. “We’ve got to pull out all the stops, guys. That means mandatory overtime.”

  Three heads nod, and it’s reassuring to know I have the support of my small force. I look down at my hastily scratched notes. “I’ve got Mona working on a list of abandoned properties in the two-county area. T.J., where are you on the condoms?”

  “Manager of the Super Value gave me the names of the two guys who paid with checks.” He glances at his palm-size notebook. “Justin Myers and Greg Milhauser. As soon as we finish up here I’m going to talk to them.”

  “Good. What about the cash guy?”

  “Manager is going to get me copies of video first thing in the morning.”

  “We need it now.”

  T.J.’s expression turns sheepish. “His daughter is having some kind of birthday party tonight.”

  “Call him. Tell him you need that tape yesterday. If he balks, tell him we’ll get a search warrant and he’ll be scraping produce off the floor for a month.”

  “Got it.”

  “Once you get the tape, I need the cash guy identified. This is a small town. It shouldn’t be too hard.” I turn my attention to Glock. “What about the tire tread and footwear imprints?”

  “I had them couriered to BCI. I’m still working on getting imprints of city vehicles and footwear. Probably be another courier fee, Chief.”

  “Don’t worry about the budget. How soon can you finish?”

  “Today. If you guys give me a shoe imprint before you leave this meeting, that would be great.”

  “You got a kit?”

  “I’ll just use an ink roller and put them on paper if that’s all right.”

  “Should be good enough for a comparison analysis.” I think about that for a moment. “Did BCI give you a time frame?”

  “Two days. Three max.”

  “Tell them we want priority or I’ll call the attorney general and have him light a fire.”

  Glock nods. “Okay.”

  My mind jumps to the next subject. “You getting background checks on those people at the bar?”

  “A few have come back.” Glock opens a tattered folder. “Aside from Connie Spencer, the only other hit that came back is
for a guy by the name of Scott Brower.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Thirty-two years old. High school dropout. Worked at the oil filter factory down in Millersburg, but he got into some kind of altercation with his boss, threatened to cut her throat.”

  “Nice guy,” T.J. says.

  “I bet he didn’t get the raise,” Skid comments.

  Glock meets my gaze. “Boss was female. Anyway, he’s been working as a mechanic over at the Mr. Lube.”

  “Did the factory press charges for the threats?” I ask.

  “Fired him, but there were no charges filed.”

  “Any arrests?”

  “Four. Two were domestics. One for slugging a guy in a bar in Columbus. The other he pulled a knife on a guy in a bar in Kingsport, Tennessee.”

  “Sounds like Mr. Brower has a penchant for knives.”

  “And bars,” Skid interjects.

  “Not to mention a problem with women,” Glock adds.

  I nod. “You got a current address?”

  Glock rattles off the address of a downtrodden apartment complex on the west side of town.

  “He ever work at the slaughterhouse?” I ask.

  “HR says no.”

  “See if he’s got a juvie rec. I’ll pay him a visit.”

  Glock looks mildly concerned. “Alone?”

  “We don’t have the manpower to work in teams.”

  “Chief, with all due respect, this guy seems to have problems with women in places of authority.”

  “Yeah, well, I have my .38 to back me up in case he mistakes me for the weaker sex.”

  Skid gives a raucous laugh.

  Impatient, I tap my pen against my notes. “What about Donny Beck?” I ask Glock.

  “Squeaky clean.”

  “Go talk to his friends and family. I’ll rattle his cage a little. See if he has an alibi.”

  He gives me a thumbs-up.

  I transfer my attention to Skid, who’s slumped in his chair like a sleepdeprived tenth grader in study hall. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair looks like it hasn’t been washed for a couple of days. He hasn’t shaved. He straightens when I address him. “I want you to finish interviewing the rest of the people at the bar. And I want background reports on the Horners.”

  “You think they—”

  “No,” I cut in. “But we leave no stone unturned.”

  Skid nods.

  “Lois and Mona can help you guys type up your reports,” I say. “Document everything.”

  I contemplate my team. All three men are good cops, but only two are experienced. I have a good bit of experience myself. But mine is mostly limited to patrol. I worked a total of four homicides during my stint in Columbus. God help us is all I can think.

  “Recap.” I lean back in my chair. “People of interest?”

  “Scott Brower,” Glock says.

  “The three condom guys,” Skid adds.

  “Donny Beck,” I say.

  T.J. pipes up. “The Slaughterhouse Killer.”

  If I totally dismiss the old case, I risk appearing incompetent. “I pulled the file,” I say. “Doc Coblentz is sending the complete autopsy reports. I’d like for each of you to familiarize yourself with the details of the case.”

  Glock nibbles the cap of his pen. “Let’s say it is the Slaughterhouse guy. What’s up with the lapse in activity? And wasn’t the Roman numeral IX carved into the last victim?”

  “So what happened to ten through twenty-two?” Skid asks no one in particular.

  “Maybe he’s been a busy boy somewhere else,” Glock surmises.

  “Or he wants the cops to think that,” T.J. offers.

  I cut in before the conversation takes a turn I don’t want it to take. “I’ve got some database queries going for similar crimes. If he changed locales and used the same signature, we’ll get a hit.”

  “He could have been arrested on some unrelated charge,” Skid puts in. “Went to jail, did his time, and was recently released.”

  I meet his gaze. “Follow up on that. Check with DRC.” DRC is the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections. I hate wasting his time on a ruse, but I have no choice. “Get a list of names for all male inmates released in the last six months, between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five years of age.”

  Skid looks like a gas pain hit him. “That’s a lot of names.”

  “Ask DRC to narrow it down for you. They keep statistical information on parolees. Check males with two or more violent offenses, especially sex crimes and stalking. Start with the five surrounding counties, then expand from there. Include Columbus, Cleveland and Wheeling, West Virginia. I’ll call Sheriff Detrick about getting you some help. In the interim, I’ll okay Mona and Lois for overtime.”

  He nods, but looks overwhelmed by the task I’ve put before him.

  I scan the room. “The victim’s clothes were not found at the scene. That means he either discarded them, left them at the murder scene or he’s keeping them.”

  “You mean like a trophy?” T.J. asks.

  “Maybe,” I reply. “Something to keep in mind.”

  I glance at my notes, realize I’ve covered everything I wrote down. “Mona and Lois are working on getting the old file room set up as our command center. It might be a while before all of us are here at the same time again. We may have to do most of our communicating via phone. As always, mine will be on 24/7. Until we catch this son of a bitch, I expect the same from you.”

  All nod in agreement.

  “Does anyone have anything they want to discuss before we adjourn?”

  T.J. is the first to speak. “Do you think at some point you’ll call BCI or FBI for help, Chief?” All eyes land on him, and he flushes. “I’m not saying we aren’t capable of doing this on our own, but our resources are limited here in Painters Mill.”

  “Yeah, who’s going to round up all those loose fuckin’ cows while we work the case?” Skid offers with a smirk.

  T.J. holds his ground. “There are only four of us.”

  The last thing I want to do is involve another agency. But law enforcement protocol dictates I do. My team expects it. I must have their respect to be effective. My credibility depends on my doing the smart thing.

  But I can’t ask for help at this stage. As much as I despise lying to them, I can’t risk some deputy or field agent figuring out that sixteen years ago I shot and killed a man, that my family hid the crime from the police and swept the entire sordid mess under the rug.

  “I’ll make some calls,” I say, being purposefully vague. “In the interim, I’ve activated auxiliary officer Roland Shumaker.”

  “Ain’t seen Pickles since he shot that rooster,” Glock says.

  “He still dye his hair Cocoa-Puff brown?” Skid wonders aloud.

  “I expect you to treat Officer Shumaker with respect,” I say. “We need him.”

  The men’s expressions indicate that for now they’re satisfied with the way I’m handling the case. Two years ago that wouldn’t have happened. I’m Painters Mill’s first female chief of police. Initially, not everyone was happy about it. The first few months were tough, but we’ve come a long way since then. I’ve earned their respect.

  I know from experience cops tend to be territorial. These men do not want some other agency horning in on the investigation. On the other hand, if the killer strikes again, I’ll have another death on my conscience because I didn’t do my job the way I should have. It’s an unbearable dilemma.

  I think of the press release I’m about to write and fight a slow rise of dread. Steve Ressler isn’t the only media I’ll be dealing with in the coming days. As soon as word of this murder hits the airwaves, I’ll have reporters from as far away as Columbus skulking around town, looking for photo ops.

  “Let’s go get this animal,” I say.

  As the men file from my office, I can only hope none of them look hard enough to find the whole truth.

  CHAPTER 9

  Denny McNinch en
tered the deputy superintendent’s office to find Jason Rummel leaning back in his leather executive chair like a king presiding over his adoring court. Human Resources Director Ruth Bogart sat adjacent his desk. Denny hoped this wouldn’t take long; he was supposed to meet his wife for dinner in fifteen minutes.

  “Denny.” Rummel motioned toward the vacant visitor chair. “Sorry for the short notice.”

  Short notice was a stretch. Car keys in hand, Denny had been on his way out the door when Rummel called. “No problem.”

  “We received an RFA this afternoon from the town of Painters Mill,” Rummel said. RFA was BCI-speak for “Request for Assistance.”

  Denny shifted, glanced at his watch, waited.

  “The town council believes they have a serial murderer on their hands.”

  Denny stopped fidgeting. “Serial murder?”

  “Apparently, there’s a history of a killer working the area. It’s been a while, fifteen or sixteen years. The councilwoman I spoke with said the general consensus is that the killer is back.”

  Dinner forgotten, Denny leaned forward.

  Rummel continued. “Painters Mill is mostly rural with a population just over five thousand. Amish country, I’m told. The small police force is overwhelmed. The chief is small town. Female. Inexperienced.”

  Usually, it was Denny who was contacted by local law enforcement. It was, after all, his responsibility to assign RFAs to agents. On the outside chance the RFA found its way to Rummel’s desk, he would normally reroute it back to Denny. He wondered why Rummel was handling this one. He wondered why Ruth Bogart was there, since field cases didn’t fall within her realm of responsibility. He wondered why the hell he was here when this could have been handled over the phone.

  “I’m assigning the case to John Tomasetti,” Rummel said.

  That was the last thing Denny expected him to say. “Tomasetti’s not ready for field work.”