Sworn to Silence kb-1

by Linda Castillo

  “You nervous about something, Chief?”

  “Just cold.”

  “You’re in an awful big hurry to cover that hole.”

  “I just want to get home.”

  He pauses. “Kate, what the fuck are you really doing?”

  I don’t look at him. I can’t. I’m too close to some precipitous edge. Once I go over the brink, I may not be able to drag myself out. “Look, this is the second complaint I’ve taken about dumping here,” I snap. “I didn’t feel like going home, so I’m following up.”

  “Is that why you’re shaking?”

  I finish with the hook and straighten, meeting his gaze. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s cold.”

  “You’re fucking sweating. Covered with dirt. Look at you. Now what the fuck is going on?”

  “I don’t know what you think you know, but I don’t appreciate you following me around, spying on me. Whatever it is you’re doing, I want it to stop. You got it?”

  “You’re lying to me and I want to know why.”

  I laugh. “You need to talk to someone about all that paranoia, Tomasetti.”

  “You didn’t go into that pit because you were following up on a complaint.”

  “Like you know.”

  Abruptly, he strides toward me, shines the light in my eyes. “You want to know what I know, Chief? I know that someone in this town believes you know who the killer is. I think you’re hiding something.” He thrusts a finger at the pit. “And I know you didn’t go into that goddamn hole because of some anonymous tip.” He circles the boot pit, shining his light into the darkness. “If I go down there, what am I going to find?”

  “What do you want from me? Did Detrick tell you to follow me? Or was it the town council? Are you their new lapdog?”

  One side of his mouth lifts. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or snarling. “You know better than that.”

  “Do I?” I start toward the Explorer. I’m close to pulling this off. All I have to do is slide the grate back into place and leave. I don’t think he’ll go to the trouble of moving it again.

  I climb behind the wheel and twist the key. The engine turns over. I reach for the shifter. The next thing I know the door flies open. I gasp when Tomasetti reaches in, turns off the ignition and takes my keys.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jumping out, I make a wild grab for the keys.

  He drops them into his pocket. “Let’s just say I’m following up on a hunch.”

  “This is ridiculous. Give me my keys. Now.”

  Removing the cable from the grate, he tosses one end into the pit.

  Panic ignites in my chest. I can’t let him find those bones. “You’re overstepping.”

  “Not the first time I’ve been accused of that.”

  “I swear to God I’ll have your job for this.”

  Taking hold of the cable, he braces his legs against the side and drops into the hole like a rock climber.

  “Tomasetti, damn it, stop playing games. I want to leave.”

  No answer.

  “Damn it! There’s nothing there!” I look around wildly. For a crazy instant I actually consider pulling out the cable and stranding him. Of course, I can’t do that. I’m going to have to deal with this. With what I’ve done. The secrets I’ve covered up all these years.

  My entire life flashes before my eyes. My career will be ruined. My parents’ memory, their reputations, will be dragged through the mud right along with the rest of the Amish community. My brother and sister and nephews will suffer. I could find myself facing a grand jury. Worse case scenario, I could be tried and sent to prison for murder . . .

  I rush to the pit and look down to see Tomasetti shove a piece of plywood out of the way with his foot. I can see the skull from where I stand. Dizziness descends. I feel sick and terrified. I can’t believe this is happening.

  “What the fuck?”

  Turning away, I press my hand to my stomach. I can’t cover this up. It’s over. The secrets end here. Nausea seesaws in my gut. I make it ten feet before I throw up. The thud of my knees hitting the ground surprises me. I’ve been knocked unconscious before, but I’ve never fainted. The swirl of confusion tells me I’m close now. Somehow I lose time, seconds or maybe even minutes, because the next thing I know Tomasetti is kneeling beside me.

  I jolt when his hand touches my shoulder. I’m embarrassed and humiliated, but I’m not sure I’m finished puking so I don’t move. I don’t acknowledge him. I look down at my gloves in the dirt and I feel like crying.

  “You okay?” he asks after a moment.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  I dry heave and spit.

  He waits a moment before speaking. “Those remains. Do you know who it is?”

  I close my eyes, squeeze them tight. “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Daniel Lapp.”

  “Who’s Daniel Lapp?”

  “An Amish man.”

  “How long has he been dead?”

  “Sixteen years.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Shotgun blast.”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  He pauses. “Who?”

  “Me,” I say and the tears come in a rush.

  CHAPTER 26

  John had experienced a lot of bizarre moments in his years as a cop. He’d even partaken in a few he didn’t like to spend too much time dwelling on. This one took the cake. An admission of murder was the last thing he expected when he followed Kate Burkholder here tonight.

  He had pretty good instincts when it came to people. Perhaps to a lesser degree when it came to women, but then who the hell knew. He was too jaded to be shocked by much of anything. Still, this shocked him. Worse, he didn’t know what to do about it.

  Setting his hands beneath her shoulders, he helped Kate to her feet. “Come on. Up and at ’em.”

  She seemed almost weightless, and for the first time, he realized there wasn’t much to her; most of her bulk was coat and a perception of largeness he attributed to the force of her personality. She hadn’t struck him as a crier. Up until this moment, she’d handled the stress like a pro. She’d been tough and focused despite the ugliness of the case. But he knew the dam was breaking. There was no wailing or theatrics, but the look of misery on her face was so profound John could feel it creeping into his own psyche.

  Taking her shoulders, he turned her to him. “Kate, what the hell is going on?”

  “Johnston was right,” she choked. “I . . . blew th-the c-case. Because of . . . this.”

  He wished he’d never followed her here. He didn’t need this. Didn’t want to deal with it. Wasn’t even sure he cared. His life was complicated enough without throwing a dead body into the mix.

  “Pull yourself together,” he snapped.

  She met his gaze, jerked her head.

  “We need to talk about this.”

  “I know.” She wiped frantically at her cheeks, and he wondered how long it took for tears to freeze on skin.

  “Is there someplace warm we can go?” he asked.

  “The bar. My place.” She shrugged. “Or you could just speed things along and take me right to jail.”

  “Your place.” He looked around, wishing he were anywhere but here. “I have a feeling we’re going to need some privacy for this.”

  “You have no idea.”

  As he handed her the keys, the possibility that she might make a run for it crossed his mind. “You wouldn’t do anything stupid, would you?”

  She gave him a sage look. “I’ve already used up my quota for stupid,” she said and started toward the Explorer.

  She lived in a modest brick ranch on the edge of town. There was no glowing porch light to welcome her. The driveway had yet to be shoveled. He parked curbside and watched Kate pull into the driveway. She started toward the front door without waiting for him.

&nb
sp; The thought that his being here could get the tongues wagging drifted through his mind, but John didn’t have a better idea. Besides, it wasn’t as if the chief of police and the investigating field agent didn’t have anything to talk about while they were in the midst of a serial murder case.

  He got out and cut across the yard. She’d left the door open, so he stepped inside and closed it behind him. The living room was furnished with an eclectic mix of furniture. A brown contemporary sofa contrasted nicely with a cream-colored chair. An antique cabinet in need of refinishing held an assortment of vases and bowls. The house smelled faintly of candle wax and coffee.

  Kate stood at the coat closet and hung her parka. She wore a navy police uniform that was badly wrinkled from wear, as opposed to a lack of pressing. Bending, she began unlacing her boots with small, competent hands. The uniform wasn’t tight, but he could see enough of her to know she was put together nicely. He guessed her to be about five feet six inches tall. Athletic. Maybe a hundred and fifteen pounds. She was wide at the hip, but it was the kind of wide that made his male interest flare.

  Crossing to the closet, he hung his own coat, but his focus was on Kate. Her dark brown hair was tousled, as if she’d gone the entire day without brushing it. Her complexion was splotched from crying and pale against the dark curtain of hair.

  Once her boots were off, she went through the living room and disappeared down a hall. John wandered into the kitchen. It was surprisingly homey, with light ash cupboards and a contrasting Corian countertop. A stack of bills lay on the built-in desk. A half-burned candle sat in the center of the small dining room table. A normal kitchen except for the fact that its owner had just confessed to murder . . .

  Kate emerged a few minutes later. She’d changed into jeans and an oversized gray sweatshirt with Columbus Police Department emblazoned on the front. She’d washed the dirt smudges from her face and run a comb through her hair.

  “Nice place,” he commented.

  She brushed past him without responding. Walking to the refrigerator, she stood on her tiptoes and retrieved a bottle from the cabinet above. “The cabinets need updating.”

  “Unless you’re going for some quaint country look.” He frowned at the bottle of Absolut in her hand.

  “I hate country.” She gave him a sagacious look. “Don’t bother telling me alcohol isn’t going to help.”

  “That would be hypocritical of me.”

  “By the time I finish telling you about those remains, you’re going to need it.”

  Setting two glasses and the bottle on the table, she went to the back door and opened it. A ratty-looking orange tabby darted in, hissed at John, and then disappeared to the living room.

  “He likes me,” he said.

  She choked out a sound that was part laugh, part sob, pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. “You’re not going to like this, John.”

  “I figured that out when I saw the skull.” He took the chair across from her.

  She uncapped the vodka and poured. For a moment they stared at the glasses, unspeaking. Then she reached for hers, drank it down without stopping and poured another. That was when John knew she was a hell of a lot more cop than she was Amish.

  He asked the question that had been pounding at his brain since he’d spotted the bones. “Does the body have anything to do with the serial killer operating in Painters Mill?”

  “I’ve been operating under that assumption.” She looked into her glass and shrugged. “Until tonight.”

  “Maybe you ought to start at the beginning.”

  I feel as if my life has been building to this moment. Still, I’m not prepared for it. How in the name of God does one prepare for complete and utter ruination? Worst-case scenario, Tomasetti walks out of here, goes straight to the suits at BCI who will proceed to destroy my life. If that happens, I’ve already resolved to protect Jacob and Sarah. Not because they’re any less guilty than me, but because they have children; I don’t want my nephews or Sarah’s unborn child dragged into this. I don’t want the Amish community tarnished; they don’t deserve that.

  I look at Tomasetti, taking in the cold eyes and harsh mouth. He might walk a thin line, but I have a terrible feeling that ambiguity won’t help me tonight. “Regardless of what I tell you, I want to see this case through. You have to promise me.”

  “You know I can’t promise that.”

  I take another drink, force it down. Alcohol, the temporary cure for misery. The words I need to say tumble inside my head, a tangle of memories and secrets and the dead weight of my own conscience.

  “Kate,” he presses. “Talk to me.”

  “Daniel Lapp lived on a farm down the road from us,” I begin. “He came over sometimes to help with baling hay and chores. He was eighteen years old.”

  Tomasetti listens, his cop’s eyes watchful and assessing. “What happened?”

  “I was fourteen years old that summer.” I barely remember the young Amish girl I’d been, and I wonder how I had ever been that innocent. “Mamm and Datt went to a funeral in Coshocton County. My brother, Jacob, was in the field cutting hay. Sarah was delivering quilts in town. I stayed home to bake bread.”

  I pause, but Tomasetti doesn’t give me respite. “Go on.”

  “Daniel came to the door. He’d been helping Jacob in the field and cut his hand.” Even now, a lifetime later, recalling that day disturbs me so profoundly my chest goes tight. “He attacked me from behind. Took me to the floor. I screamed when I saw the knife, but he hit me and he kept hitting me.” I feel breathless and lightheaded. Vaguely, I’m aware of my breaths coming too quick, too shallow. “He raped me.”

  I can’t look at Tomasetti, but I hear the scrape of whiskers as he runs his hand over his jaw. “The Amish like to believe we’re a separate society,” I say, “but that’s not always the case. We knew about the murders that had occurred in the last few months. Datt told us it was an English matter, the deaths were of no concern to us. But we were scared. We kept our doors locked. We prayed for the families. Mamm took food to them.” I shrug. “We didn’t get the newspaper, but I’d been to the tourist shops in town and read the stories. I knew the victims had been raped. I thought Daniel Lapp was going to kill me.”

  “What did you do, Kate?”

  “I grabbed Datt’s shotgun and shot him in the chest.”

  He stares at me, unblinking. “Did you call the police?”

  “I might have if we’d had a phone. But we didn’t. I was hysterical. There was blood everywhere.” A breath shudders out of me. “My sister came home. She saw the body on the floor and ran out screaming. She ran for over a mile and got Jacob.”

  “No one called the police?”

  I shake my head.

  “What about your parents?”

  “It was dark by the time they got home. Jacob explained to Datt what happened. I think if Lapp had been English, Datt would have called the police. But Daniel was one of us. My father told us this was an Amish matter and would be dealt with his way.” I take another breath, but I can’t get enough air. “He and Jacob wrapped the body in burlap feed bags and put it in the buggy. They drove to the grain elevator and buried it.” I look at Tomasetti. “When they came home, Datt told us never to speak of it.”

  “Didn’t people wonder what happened to Lapp?” he asks.

  “His parents spent weeks looking for him. But after a while most of the Amish came to believe he’d fled because he could not abide by the Ordnung. Eventually, his parents believed it, too.”

  “So the crime was never reported,” he says.

  “No.”

  “Tough thing for a fourteen-year-old kid to handle.”

  “You mean the rape or the fact that I killed a man?”

  “Both.” He grimaces. “And the fact that you could never talk about it.”

  “I started acting out after that. I hooked up with some English kids. I started smoking, drinking. Got into trouble a few times. I suppose it was my way of dealing with i
t. The murders stopped after that. Until tonight, I thought Lapp might be the killer.”

  “So when the first body showed up, you thought what? That he’d survived?”

  I stare down at my hands, find them shaking, so I clasp them together. “Yes.”

  Silence ensues. My mind scrolls through the repercussions of what I’ve done. I have no idea how Tomasetti will react. One thing I’m certain of is that my law enforcement career is over. But that’s a best-case scenario. If the media gets wind of this, they’ll descend like vultures and rip me apart as if I were carrion.

  “Evidently, Lapp isn’t our man,” he says after a moment.

  “I killed the wrong man.”

  “He was a rapist,” he says.

  “But not a serial murderer.”

  “He had a weapon. You acted in self-defense.”

  “Taking a life is against God’s laws.”

  “So is raping a minor child.”

  “Covering up a murder is against our laws.”

  “You were fourteen years old. You trusted your father to do the right thing.”

  “I was old enough to know killing a man is wrong.” I force myself to look at him. The house is so quiet I hear snow pinging against the window. The hum of the refrigerator. The hiss of heated air through the vents. “Now that you know my deep, dark secret, what are you going to do about it?”

  “If you confess publicly, you can kiss it all good-bye. Your career. Your reputation. Whatever financial security you’ve got. Not to mention peace of mind.”

  “Haven’t had much of that, anyway.”

  “Look, Kate, I’ve done some things that aren’t exactly aboveboard.” He shrugs. “I’m in no position to judge you.”

  “Aside from my family, you’re the only one who knows.”

  He refills our glasses. I don’t want any more; the vodka is fuzzing up my head. But I pick up the glass anyway. “I don’t understand why the murders stopped after that day.”

  “Maybe what Lapp did to you is completely separate from the murders.”

  I know sixty to seventy percent of sexual assaults go unreported. I suspect that percentage is higher in the Amish community. For the first time, I wonder if I was Lapp’s only victim.