“I am not laying blame. But I cannot change what I saw.”
“For God’s sake, Jacob, I was a kid.”
My brother’s expression closes, and I realize he doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to hear my explanations. That I feel the need to defend myself shames me. I did what I had to do that day to save my life. But ingrained beliefs are difficult to exorcise no matter how valiant the attempt. I’ve always considered myself an enlightened woman. But I was raised Amish and some of those old values will always be a part of me.
I look around, fighting my way back to the present and the situation at hand. Once again I remind myself that I’m a police officer, that I have a murder to solve. Slowly, the dark emotions slink back into their hidey-hole.
Bowing my head, I rub at the ache between my eyes. “I can’t talk about this right now. I need to find Lapp’s body.”
He stares at me for a long while, saying nothing, then turns and walks away.
My feet throb with cold. My fingers are numb. I’m not sure if the tremors ripping through me are from the temperature or the emotions freezing me from the inside out. The one thing I am certain of is that I’ve lost my brother. Another shattering truth piled on top of a dozen others. I feel like crying, but I pick up the shovel instead. Propping my flashlight against a broken cinder block, I set the blade to the frozen earth and dig.
CHAPTER 10
John knew better than to go to the bar. He knew if he did he’d end up getting shitfaced. He’d lose track of time and the bartender would end up pushing him out the door when they closed at two A.M. But like all the other nights he’d ended up at the Avalon Bar and Grill, it was better than drinking alone.
The place was a dive. The bartender was a rude asshole. The glasses weren’t quite clean. The management watered down the booze. But the burgers were decent. And even drunk out of his mind, John could always find his way home. He’d learned to appreciate the little things in life.
He ordered a double shot of Chivas and a dark beer, then played a game of eight ball. One game led to six. One double led to too many to count. John Tomasetti, drunk again. What was the world coming to?
Standing at the bar, he watched the bartender pour another shot. He downed it in a single gulp. The alcohol scalded his esophagus and landed like a fireball in his belly. He’d never developed a taste for even the top-shelf whiskies, but this wasn’t about pleasure. It was about getting through another day without blowing his brains out.
At some point he’d lost track of the man he’d been playing pool with. A couple of college kids had taken over the pool table. Time to kick it up a notch, John thought, and headed toward the men’s room. Locking himself in a stall, he fished a Xanax from his pocket, chewed it and swallowed. He savored the bitter chalkiness of the pill, then washed the taste from his mouth with beer.
He knew mixing prescription drugs with alcohol was stupid and pathetic and that some day Fate would make him pay. Sooner or later, she always got her due. But he didn’t think that cruel bitch could do anything worse than what she’d already done. In some sick way, it was a comforting thought.
Two years ago, he would have laughed his ass off if someone had predicted this future for him. That his family would be taken from him and he would be left alone to mourn them. That he would kill a man in cold blood and feel nothing more than a fleeting sense of satisfaction. That he would use his law enforcement know-how to frame another man for the crime. That he would have to rely on booze and a cocktail of pills just to make it through the day.
For the thousandth time John wished it had been him instead of his family. He would have given his own life a thousand times over to save them. But that was another quirky thing about Fate; she never bargained, and she never gave second chances.
Back at the bar, he ordered another double and watched some weird game show he didn’t understand on the TV above the bar. He drank the beer and tried not to think about anything but the alcohol running like nitro through his veins. The Xanax just starting to kick in . . .
“John.”
The familiarity of the voice yanked him from his mental fog. Turning, he was surprised to see Denny McNinch beside him, looking like he’d just come from a funeral.
“Nice suit.”
“Nordstrom’s,” Denny said. “Had ’em on sale.”
Around him, the room dipped and curved, but John maintained eye contact, hoping he didn’t look as fucked up as he felt. “I’d ask if this is a social call, but judging from the look on your face, it isn’t.”
“It’s not.” The bartender set a beer on the bar and Denny took a long drink.
“You here to fire me or what?”
“Worse.”
John couldn’t help it; he laughed.
Denny reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and laid the RFA on the bar. “Rummel wants you on it.”
“You’re kidding?” John slid the RFA closer and skimmed the particulars.
DESCRIPTION OF CRIME:
Possible serial murder. Local law enforcement overwhelmed.
LOCATION:
Painters Mill, Ohio.
CONTACT:
Janine Fourman, town councilwoman. Norm Johnston. Mayor Auggie Brock.
“Not exactly my area of expertise,” John said.
“Like you have an area of expertise these days.”
“I’m pretty good at fucking up.”
Denny raised his glass. “That doesn’t count.”
John squinted at the form, unable to believe they were assigning him a case. He wasn’t exactly in the running for agent of the year. “Why me?”
“Maybe you drew the short straw.”
They both knew Rummel never did anything without a reason. He was a man with an agenda, and that agenda never served anyone but himself.
Denny shrugged. “Maybe he thinks it’s time you got off your ass and earned your keep.”
“Or maybe that sneaky little fucker wants to watch me unravel.”
“So prove him wrong. You were a cop. You’ve got the mojo.”
Even through the lavender haze of inebriation, John noticed the other man’s misery, and he thought he knew why. Denny might be just another figurehead in an ocean of figureheads. But he was a straight shooter. Something wasn’t right about this, and they both knew it.
“You could retire,” Denny offered.
John folded the RFA and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“I’ll take the case.”
“You sure?”
John nodded. “Just do one thing for me, will you?”
“You got it.”
“Tell Rummel he can kiss my ass.”
Laughing, Denny picked up his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
CHAPTER 11
Midnight descends with the cold stealth of a nocturnal predator. Freezing and discouraged, I pack our tools into the rear of the Explorer. In five hours time, we dug eight holes at various positions, but found no trace of human remains. I’m left not knowing if the man I shot survived to haunt this town again, or if we were simply unable to find the grave.
Jacob and I don’t speak during the drive to his farm. He offers no apology for his inability to find the remains—or his accusation—but I don’t expect one. I want to ask him to help me again tomorrow, but I don’t. Finding Lapp’s body is on my shoulders and mine alone.
The case is almost twenty-four hours old. I’ve raced against the clock all day, but accomplished little. My back and shoulders ache from the physical exertion of digging. The confrontation with my brother has drained the last traces of optimism from my psyche. Still, the need to hunt down this killer consumes me.
After dropping Jacob, I head for home. Around me, Painters Mill sleeps with the sweet innocence of a child. The shops are closed, their pretty storefronts dark and locked down tight. An expectant hush has fallen over the town. I think of Amanda Horner’s death, and I cannot reconcile such utter brutality with this postcard-perf
ect place I’ve come to love.
I stop the Explorer in front of my house, but I don’t turn in. I should call it a night and get some rest. Tomorrow promises to be even longer than today. But though my body is beyond exhaustion, my mind is wound tight. If Daniel Lapp survived all those years ago, where would he go for help?
In a time of need, an Amish man would turn to family.
Cutting the wheel, I hit the gas and head out of town. I know better than to approach Benjamin Lapp at this hour. Cops have protocol and rules of conduct they are bound to follow, one of them being you don’t knock on doors at one o’clock in the morning. But if anyone knows the whereabouts of Daniel Lapp, it’s his brother. Because he’s Amish, I feel reasonably certain he won’t run screaming “police brutality” to the town council in the morning.
East of town I turn onto Miller-Grove Road. The Lapp place is midway to the dead end and down a long and winding lane. Unlike most Amish farms, this one is unkempt. The moon illuminates a barn with a swayback roof. Grass as high as a man’s hips pokes out through the snow. I park adjacent to the workshop, remove my Mag-Lite and head toward the front door.
I don’t feel as if I’m in danger, but I thumb the snap off my holster. A cop can never be too cautious, even among pacifists. I open the storm door, knock loudly and wait. When that doesn’t rouse Lapp, I use the flashlight against the wood. The sound is thunderous in the stark silence.
A few minutes later, a yellow light flickers inside. I step back and aside, my hand resting on my .38. The door swings open. Holding a lantern, Benjamin Lapp squints at me as if I just beamed down from another planet.
“Katie Burkholder?”
Even in the dim light, the likeness of the two brothers gives me pause. A chill chases gooseflesh down my arms. I see light blue eyes. Brown hair shorn into a jagged cut. The same thin mouth and jutting chin. A flash of memory almost sends me back a step, but I will away the slow rise of revulsion.
“I need to ask you some questions, Benjamin.”
Because he is unmarried, Benjamin is clean-shaven. He wears trousers with suspenders hanging down and a shirt that’s only partially tucked. Wool socks cover his feet.
“Is there a problem? It is very late.”
I shove my badge at him. He stares at it as if he’s suddenly lost his ability to read. “This won’t wait.”
He blinks at me. “What is this about?”
“Your brother.”
“Daniel?” His eyes widen. “Do you have news of him?”
“Do you?” I push past him.
Stepping back, he watches me as if I’m some dangerous animal that’s ventured out of the woods. The house smells of wet dog and cow shit. The darkened kitchen is straight ahead. A shadowy hall beckons to my right. Beyond, stairs lead to the second floor.
“When’s the last time you saw Daniel?” I ask.
Another blink, owlish and sleepy. “A very long time.”
“How long?”
“I haven’t seen him since the summer he disappeared. Over fifteen years, I think.”
I stare hard at him. “You sure about that? He hasn’t been here or in town?”
“I am certain of it.”
“Has he contacted you?”
“No.”
“Have you sent him money?”
His brows knit.
“Don’t lie to me, Benjamin. I can check.”
“Why do you ask these things? Do you have news of Daniel?”
Ignoring his question, I step closer, letting some attitude slip into my voice.
“You know better than to lie to the police, don’t you?”
“I do not lie.”
“Where’s your brother?”
“I do not know.”
“Tell me about the last time you saw him.”
“I told the English police—”
“Tell it again,” I snap.
He scratches his temple with two fingers. “He did work for your datt that summer. He helped Dwayne Bargerhauser put up a fence for his cattle. He left in the morning and never came back.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“I do not. Datt and I talked to everyone Daniel worked for, but no one saw him after that day. We do not know where he went or why he left.”
I stride to the kitchen and shine my light around the room. I see one cup on the counter. One flat-brimmed hat on the wood dowel. One coat on the rack. The place is a mess, but there’s no sign more than one person has been here. I walk down the hall, do a quick search of the bathroom and downstairs bedroom, checking the closet and under the bed.
Benjamin follows me to the foot of the stairs as I take them two at a time to the top. “Why are you doing this?” he calls out.
Using my flashlight, I quickly clear the top level of the house. The first bedroom I pass is totally vacant. No clothes in the closet. No suitcases. The second bedroom is almost as sparse, with a single twin bed, a night table and dresser. The closet holds plain clothes for a single man. In the bathroom the single towel is damp. One toothbrush sits on the sink.
I descend the stairs to find Benjamin holding the lantern up and squinting into the semidarkness. “What are you looking for?”
I shine my flashlight in his face. I’m so close I see his pupils contract. “If I find out you’re lying, it won’t matter that you’re Amish. I’ll come down on you so hard you’ll wish you were in prison.”
“I have no reason to lie.” He looks offended. “Then tell me about your brother! Why did he leave? Where did he go?” My rapid-fire tactics work. For the first time Benjamin’s composure falters. “Perhaps Daniel wanted to leave the simple life.”
“Why would he do that?”
His gaze drops. “Perhaps he could not abide by Gelassenheit.”
Gelassenheit is a German word that encompasses the Amish spirit and ideals: yielding to God, putting others before yourself, and leading a content and modest life.
I don’t want to believe him; nothing would please me more than for Daniel Lapp to jump out of a closet so I could pump a round into his forehead. But my instincts tell me this man is telling the truth. Another dead end.
I knew coming here was a long shot, but my disappointment is keen. “If Daniel was in trouble, is there somewhere else he would go?” I ask. “Did he have other friends or family he trusted?”
Benjamin shakes his head, his gaze meeting mine. “Why are you asking these questions?”
“I’m following up on some information I received.”
He doesn’t believe me. I see suspicion in his eyes. There’s nothing I can do about it. “If he shows up, Benjamin, you come get me. Day or night. It’s important.”
He nods.
I start toward the door.
“Is my brother in trouble?” he calls out.
Yanking open the door, I step onto the porch. “We’re all in trouble,” I whisper, and start toward the Explorer.
The scents of vanilla potpourri and yesterday’s garbage greet me when I arrive home. I’m not the world’s greatest housekeeper, but my place is clean and comfortable. After enduring the day from hell I’m unduly glad to be home.
Flipping on the living room light, I toe off my boots and leave them by the door. I shed my coat and toss it on the sofa as I head toward my bedroom. In the hall I unbuckle my holster, setting it and my .38 on the console table. In the bedroom, I kick off my uniform trousers and unbutton my shirt, letting both drop to the floor. The bra comes next and I fling it onto the bed as I pass.
Shrugging into my robe, I shove my feet into slippers and head toward the second bedroom, which is my office. My laptop is ancient, the dial-up painfully slow, but it will get me to OHLEG, the Ohio Law Enforcement Gateway system. Created by the Ohio attorney general, OHLEG is an information network that provides local police agencies access to nine law enforcement databases.
While the computer boots, I go to the kitchen. I should eat something, but food isn’t what I crave. I find the bottle of Absolut
in the cabinet above the refrigerator and set it on the table. I toss ice into a tumbler and pour. I know better than to drink alone when my mood is so dark, but I take that first dangerous sip anyway.
The alcohol burns all the way down, but I drain the glass and pour again. The things I saw today hover in the forefront of my mind. Amanda Horner’s savaged body. The agony in her mother’s eyes. Jacob and I digging for the remains of a man I spent half of my life believing I’d killed. I know alcohol won’t solve my problems, but if I’m lucky, it will get me through the night.
Back in my office, I log in to OHLEG. I’m not familiar with the system, but I stumble around until I find what I’m looking for. The search engine is capable of querying numerous data sources from a single interface. I type in the name: Lapp, Daniel, enter the county and hit Return. I know it’s a long shot, but if he’s been arrested, convicted, fingerprinted or added to a sexual predator list anywhere in the state, I’ll get a hit by morning.
I’m in the kitchen topping off my glass when a scratch at the window startles me. Spinning, I reach for my sidearm only to realize I left it on the console table. A laugh escapes me when I see the orange tabby on the brick sill. I’m no fan of cats, particularly scraggly-looking strays. But this particular cat has skillfully appropriated my compassion. He’s pushy, vocal and has no idea he’s the ugliest thing to hit Painters Mill since Norm Johnston’s mug shot. The cat has been coming around since Christmas. Because he was so damn skinny, I began putting out the occasional bowl of milk. That, of course, led to the occasional bowl of cat food. Tonight, with the temperature hovering around zero, I’m no doubt obligated to bring him inside.
I pad to the back door and open it. The tabby darts in with a burst of cold and looks at me as if to ask “what took you so long?”
Sworn to Silence kb-1 Page 11