“He’s a field agent drawing a paycheck every week.”
“With all due respect to John, he’s a fucking train wreck.”
“This isn’t a day care. We’ve offered him a sweet retirement deal and he turned it down. If he’s going to continue working here, he’s going to have to pull his weight.”
“To be perfectly honest, I have some concerns about his emotional stability.”
“He’s been given a clean bill of health.”
Denny wondered if he should point out the drug use issue or, more importantly, John Tomasetti’s reputation. The Cuyahoga County grand jury might have given him a free pass, but Denny had been a cop long enough to know how to read between the lines. He’d heard the rumors about what Tomasetti did in Cleveland. Nothing had been proven, but it was the general consensus within the Division of Police that after the murder of his partner and family, Tomasetti had taken the law into his own hands and gone rogue.
“He spent two weeks in a psycho ward,” Denny said. “I don’t think you want to turn him loose on the public.”
Rummel got up and closed the door. “John Tomasetti is dead weight. He’s a liability to the agency. A liability to this office. A liability to me. The only reason he’s still around is because of the threat of litigation if I fire him.”
Denny was starting to connect the dots. He didn’t like the picture they made. “Tomasetti can’t handle a case right now.”
Rummel leaned forward. “I’m speaking to you off the record here, Denny. If any of what I’m about to say leaves this room, I’ll have your ass in a bag. Are you clear on that?”
Heat crept up Denny’s neck. “I understand.”
Rummel gave Ruth Bogart a pointed look. “Ruth?”
Crossing her legs, she glanced down at her notes. “We’re well aware of what John went through,” she began. “Our hearts go out to him. As you know, we offered him a deal, including full medical benefits. He turned it down. If we terminate him, he’ll sue us, and he’ll probably win.”
Rummel cut in. “We want him gone, Denny. We’ve tried reasoning with him. We’ve been more than fair. This is the only way.”
Denny almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Almost. But he’d known Rummel for three years now. He knew the man played dirty to get what he wanted. If you were on Rummel’s hit list, you may as well hang it up because you were going down.
“If you play it this way, there’s a chance you’re going to have collateral damage.” Denny looked from Rummel to Ruth Bogart. “Tomasetti isn’t going to be much help to this town. If there’s a serial murderer operating there, I don’t have to tell you more people could die.”
Bogart spoke up. “Best-case scenario, the RFA alone will compel him to reconsider the retirement deal. On the outside chance he accepts the assignment, he won’t last. We’ll get complaints from local law enforcement. That will give us grounds to terminate him with no repercussions.”
“Everyone wins,” Rummel added.
Everyone but John Tomasetti and the citizens of Painters Mill, Denny thought.
“I want you to get him dispatched ASAP,” Rummel said. “I want everything done by the book. You understand?”
Denny couldn’t imagine assigning John Tomasetti a major case. The man was teetering on a precipitous edge. One shove and he’d tumble into an abyss he might not be able to climb out of. “If we assign Tomasetti this case, it’ll push him right over the edge.”
Bogart looked down at her notes.
Stone-faced, Rummel held his gaze. “We’re counting on it.”
Full darkness has fallen by the time I leave the police station. The night sky is so clear I can see the Big Dipper. The weatherman promised temperatures would plummet to below zero by morning. Not a good night to be prowling an old grain elevator looking for a corpse.
I finished the press release and handed it off to Lois on my way out. She was gracious enough to stay late for some final editing, and agreed to fax it to Steve Ressler before heading home to her husband and children and the kind of normal life I can only imagine.
I need a shower and a few hours of sleep. I should have already questioned Donny Beck. Those things are going to have to wait until Jacob and I search the grain elevator fifteen miles away in Coshocton County. If we find Daniel Lapp’s remains, I’ll know without a doubt I’ve got a copycat on my hands. If we do not find any remains, I’ll know Lapp survived. The focus of my investigation will shift, and I’ll begin working the case from that perspective.
I turn into the gravel lane of Jacob’s farm to find the windows dark. Parking in the same spot I did earlier in the day, I start toward the door. I’m midway there when I see Jacob striding toward me, holding a lantern of all things.
“I’ve got flashlights,” I say.
“Quiet,” he snaps in Pennsylvania Dutch, then douses the lantern and sets it in the snow.
I wonder if he’s sneaking out of the house. “You didn’t tell Irene?”
His head jerks toward me, and I realize he’s not sure of the meaning behind my question. “She knows nothing about this.”
I ruminate on that as we start toward the Explorer. I’ve always wondered if he told her what happened all those years ago. The way she looks at me sometimes . . .
We climb into the Explorer. Tension fills the cab as I start the engine and head down the driveway. I sense an array of emotions radiating from my brother, the most powerful being resentment. He shouldn’t be riding in the car with me, especially since I’m under the bann. But I sense that isn’t the main source of his discontent. He doesn’t want to help and begrudges me asking him for it. I don’t understand that. Once upon a time we were close. He was loving and protective and would have done anything for me. All of that changed the day I shot Daniel Lapp.
“I saw Sarah today,” he says after a moment.
Sarah is our sister, the middle child. Married with a baby on the way, she lives on a farm a few miles away. “How is she?” I ask.
“Frightened.” He gives me a pointed look.
“You told her about Lapp?”
“She heard the talk in town. She is afraid, Katie. She believes Lapp is alive and angry with us for what we did.”
I’d wanted to be the one to tell her. I knew the murders would frighten Sarah. But I haven’t had time to pay her a visit. “I’ll talk to her.”
“She is afraid he will harm us. She is afraid for her unborn child.” He grimaces. “For you.”
I’d known she would worry about me. Sixteen years ago, she watched me come very close to unraveling. “You know I’m fine,” I say.
Jacob nods. “She wants you to tell your English police what happened.”
I nearly drive into the ditch. “No.”
“They do not need to know all of it. Just that Lapp could be alive and killing.”
“No, Jacob. We don’t tell anyone.”
“She is frightened, Katie.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
He looks out the window, then back at me. “I do not believe Daniel is alive. But if he is . . .” Shrugging, he lets the words trail. “Maybe Sarah is right.”
“I’ll handle this,” I snap.
“How can you when you do not know where he is?”
“Hopefully, in a few hours we’ll know exactly where he is.”
Half an hour later I stop on a desolate stretch of road where railroad tracks bisect the snow-covered asphalt. Fifty yards to my left, the massive grain elevator juts from the earth like some primordial rock formation. I see triple concrete silos. A water tower tilts at a precarious angle. The original wooden structure flanks the rear and is slowly being devoured by the encroachment of the skeletal forest beyond. Front and center, the corrugated steel main building stands three stories tall, impossibly narrow at the top. The lack of proportion gives it the gangly appearance of some ugly waterfowl.
The Wilbur Seed Company elevator and silos were built in 1926, but fell to ruin in the early seventies when the ne
w railroad came through Painters Mill. A few years later a more modern grain elevator was built on the west side of town and the Wilbur Seed Company closed its doors. The old structure is a landmark, an eyesore of historical significance, a favorite place for people to dump trash, and an attractive spot for teenagers to drink beer and make out. It is also the perfect place to hide a body . . .
For a moment, the only sound comes from the hum of the engine and the hiss of the heater. I glance at my brother to find him staring out the passenger window. I should thank him for agreeing to do this, but something inside me won’t allow it. After a lot of years of blaming myself, I finally realized I wasn’t the only one who did something wrong that day. My parents’ refusal to report the crime—my siblings’ tacit assent—tainted me for life, drove me in directions I never would have imagined. As far as I’m concerned, Jacob owes me.
Jamming the Explorer into four-wheel drive, I turn in to the entrance, using the telephone poles to guide me toward the rear.
Jacob grips the armrest. “You will get stuck in the snow.”
“I know what I’m doing.” I muscle the truck through deep drifts. The tires spin and grab alternately. The engine revs as we bounce past the steel building. I cut the wheel and we slide around to the rear where the vehicle will be out of sight from the road. The last thing I need is for some well-meaning cop—one of my own or a deputy from the sheriff’s office—driving by and finding us. A logical explanation would be hard to fabricate.
Cutting the engine, I pull on my gloves and get out. The frigid air stings my face, slithers down my collar as I pass beneath the massive overhead door. Inside the behemoth structure, the wind whines like an injured dog. A stained mattress and two fifty-gallon drums riddled with jagged holes from a shotgun lay scattered haphazardly. Half a dozen trash bags have been piled against the far wall of the truck aisle, several torn open by roaming dogs or raccoons.
A few yards away a padlock hangs on the office door. The concrete walkway is cracked as if by some massive earthquake. Winter-brown grass juts from between the crumbling gaps, nature trying to reclaim what had once been hers. The weigh platform has sunk a foot into the ground. At the end of the truck aisle, a second overhead door, knocked off its track by vandals or the wind, hangs at a precarious angle. Beyond, steel piping that had once fed grain from the silos to waiting trucks transects the night sky.
The task before us is overwhelming and macabre. I don’t know where to start. I wonder what will be left of the corpse. Bones? Clothing? Will we even be able to find the makeshift grave? Looking down, I stomp the ground, find it frozen solid, and I’m glad I thought to bring the pickax.
Standing next to me, Jacob huddles more deeply into his coat. “I have not been to this place since that night.”
I’ve driven past the elevator a thousand times, but never stopped. Just driving by was enough to give me the creeps. Every time the PD received a call about activity out here, I dispatched someone else.
Hands on his hips, my brother looks around as if trying to get his bearings.
“Where do we dig?” I prompt.
“I am not certain.”
“What do you mean you’re not certain?”
“I stayed outside with the buggy that night. Datt dug the grave, not me.” Frustration churns inside me, but I hold my tongue. Leaving him, I walk to the Explorer. I open the rear door and pull out two shovels, bolt cutters and the pickax, and lean the tools against the quarter panel.
Jacob walks the length of the building, studying the ground, his head moving from side to side as if he’s lost something.
I leave the tools and cross to him. “We have to find the grave,” I say.
He shrugs. “Perhaps we can look for disturbed earth.”
I suspect any earth that was disturbed sixteen years ago has long since settled. Staving off a terrible sense of hopelessness, I look around, searching for anything that might offer a clue. “Where did you enter the building that night?”
Jacob motions toward the wrecked overhead door at the far end. “It was in working order back then. I stayed with the buggy. Datt dragged the body . . .” He lets the sentence dangle. “It was dark. Raining. The horse was skittish. We were soaked to the skin. Scared. For ourselves.” His eyes land on me. “For you. I’d never seen Datt so . . . distraught. He was muttering to himself. Praying for God to forgive us.”
I’ve never heard Jacob speak of that night. His words conjure memories I’ve spent half my life trying to forget. My sister on her knees in the kitchen, mopping blood off the floor. Mamm washing the curtains in water tinged pink. Me sitting in a bathtub filled with scalding water, my body scrubbed raw but not clean. A small, hated part of me wishing I was dead, too.
Shoving the past aside, I approach Jacob, reminding myself I’m a grown woman now. A cop with the resolve to see this through no matter how difficult. “Let’s spread out.”
I don’t wait for his response. I’ve already decided I can only give this grisly excursion a few hours. I need to work on the more pressing aspects of the case. If we can’t find the grave tonight, I’ll have to come back.
Jacob wanders toward the overhead door at the far end of the aisle. I look around, trying to put myself in my father’s head. It was summertime. Storming. Dark. He was upset. Horrified by what had happened to his daughter, perhaps even more horrified by what she had done. He had a body to dispose of. A family to protect. Where would he bury the evidence?
I find myself studying the weigh platform. The wood planks are covered with decades of dirt, oily grime and gravel. The smell of creosote mingles with the breathtaking cold. Setting down the Mag-Lite, I pick up one of the shovels and wedge the blade between the steel frame and the edge of the platform. I put my weight into it and lean. The platform emits a groan, but doesn’t budge.
“Katie! Over here.”
I look up to see my brother standing near the rear door, looking down at a small mound of earth. “I found something.”
Snagging the pickax, I approach and hand it to him. “Dig.”
Without looking at me, Jacob sets down his flashlight, raises the pickax above his head and begins to whack away at the frozen ground, grunting with every swing.
I shine the beam of my Mag-Lite on the deepening hole and watch frozen chunks fly.
“Mein gott.” Jacob falls to his knees, digging with his gloved hands. “This must be it.”
Hope jumps through me. I go to my knees beside him and dig like a dog. My stomach lurches when I see a thatch of dark hair.
He sits back on his heels, his brows knit. “This is very shallow.”
“Gotta be it.” I continue digging, too caught up in the moment to consider his words. “Ground could have shifted. There sure as hell aren’t two bodies buried here.”
“Katie . . .”
Only then do I realize we’ve unearthed a dead animal. I see matted fur. The dull white of old bone. The glint of a choke collar tells me it’s a dog. Disappointment spreads through me. I stare at the carcass, denial rising. I look at my brother and choke back angry words. “Damn it, Jacob, we’ve got to find those remains.”
“Do not speak to me with your English tongue.”
I grapple for patience that has long since worn thin. “Can you stop thinking about Amish versus English? This killer makes no distinction! It could just as easily be an Amish girl next!”
“I am trying.”
“Try harder!” In some small corner of my mind I’m aware that I’m not helping the situation by losing my temper, but I can’t stop myself. “Damn it, Jacob, you owe me this.”
My brother blinks, his eyes owlish in the dim light from my flashlight. “I have no debt to you.”
“Oh, come on! A crime was committed that day! Datt swept the entire, sordid mess under the rug. That wasn’t the way it should have been handled, and you know it.”
“Datt did what he thought was right.”
“Right for whom?”
“The family.”
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“What about justice for me?” I smack my chest with my open hand. “I had to go the rest of my life unable to speak of it because Datt decided everyone in our family should pretend it never happened! What do you think that did to me?”
His eyes blaze. “You were not the only one affected by the sin we committed that night.”
“I was the only one who was raped and nearly killed! I was the only one who was forced to take a life!” The rage behind my words shocks me. A voice I don’t recognize echoes within the confines of the building, harmonizing weirdly with the howl of the wind.
“All of us have blood on our hands!” Jacob hisses. “We share the same sin.”
“It was different for me! You haven’t looked at me the same since.” I run out of breath. I don’t know where this is coming from. Some emotional pressure cooker that’s been simmering unacknowledged inside me. I try to stop the words, but they gush like blood from a wound. “You didn’t stand by me. You didn’t support me when I made the decision to leave the church.”
“I still do not condone your decision.” He stares at me, his complexion strangely pale against his full beard. “But I will tell you this. If I had held the gun in my hand that day I would have killed for you. I would have gone against God’s will and taken a life because it would have been worse to not have you in this world. This is my sin, too, Katie.”
Tears threaten, but I fight them back. My own breaths billow before my face as I grapple for control. “Then why do you hate me?”
“I do not hate you.”
“You blame me. How can you hold what happened against me?”
My brother says nothing.
“Why?” I shout.
His gaze burns into mine. “I saw you smile at Daniel Lapp.”
My blood freezes in my veins. I feel myself go still as my mind tries to comprehend the meaning behind his words. “What?”
“We were in the pasture. Daniel and I were digging postholes for the fence. It was hot. You brought us lemonade. He looked at you the way a man looks at a woman. Katie, you smiled at him.”
My reaction is physical, like a fist slamming into my gut. Staring into my brother’s eyes, knowing what he is thinking—what he has believed about me all these years—and I feel sick. The old shame churns inside me, a cauldron of acid eating away at my very foundation. “How dare you insinuate what happened was my fault.”
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