Breaking Silence kb-3

by Linda Castillo

  “Mose did it! He did all of it! Not me!”

  “You told him you were being raped every night. Every night. That drove him crazy, didn’t it? You manipulated him. Used him.”

  “I didn’t. Mose did it. He killed them.”

  “When you could no longer control your little brothers, you pushed them into the manure pit, too, didn’t you? You promised them you’d come back. You had no intention of saving them, did you? You were going to let them die.”

  “No!”

  “It was Mose who tossed the ball into the pit. He knew you were going to try to kill them and he couldn’t handle it.”

  “He couldn’t handle anything! He was stupid and weak—”

  “Stop this right now!” Thornsberry shouts at Tomasetti. “She’s badgering this juvenile!” He turns his attention back to Salome, trying to drag her from the room. “Miss Slabaugh, let’s go.”

  Salome shakes him off. “I would have pulled my brothers out of that pit if you hadn’t shown up! You bitch, this is your fault! Yours!”

  “Earlier, you said you didn’t even know they were in the pit,” I say. “Which is it?”

  The attorney grabs her arm. “Let’s go.”

  The girl spins and strikes him on the shoulder with her fist. “Get off me!” Her eyes never leave mine. “Mose panicked when he saw you! He dragged me to the shed and forced me into the car. He might have killed me, too!”

  “He’s not here to defend himself, is he?” I say.

  “Mose did all of it. All of it! I’m innocent.”

  “You never loved him. He was a means to an end.”

  “I did. I loved him. I would have married him!”

  But I see the lie and push harder. “Did you think you and Mose were going to just ride into the sunset? After murdering three people?”

  “We were going to live here … and take care of our brothers—”

  “Your brothers hate you, Salome.”

  “No, they don’t!” she screams.

  “In fact, they chose me over you. Me. A stranger. And now they’re going to testify against you. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison—”

  “You fucking bitch! I wish I’d killed you, too!”

  The next thing I know, she’s across the table, coming at me with claws and teeth. An instant too late, I push back, but she’s already got me. Her nails sear down my face. Her left hand fists in my hair. As if in slow motion, I see Tomasetti rounding the table, rushing at us. Adam Slabaugh makes a wild grab for his niece as she goes over the tabletop. Thornsberry reels back, his mouth opening and closing like that of a beached catfish.

  And then I’m falling backward in my chair, with Salome on top of me, like a cougar intent on mauling its prey.

  CHAPTER 21

  My chair goes over backward and I slam into the floor so hard, my head bounces off the tile. Stars fly before my eyes. I try to kick away the chair and get my legs under me, but my feet are tangled in the rungs. Before I can move, Salome is on top of me, hair flying, nails slashing at my face.

  “You bitch!” She lands a blow to my left cheekbone, sending another scatter of stars to my eyes. “You ruined everything!”

  When I look into her eyes, I see a total disconnect from reality. Animalistic screeches tear from her throat. “Why couldn’t you just go away! I wish you were dead! Dead!”

  Vaguely, I’m aware of movement all around me—chairs scudding across the floor, the shuffle of feet. In my peripheral vision, I catch sight of Tomasetti kicking aside the chair. “Get off her!”

  I hear the attorney’s ineffective “Hey!”

  Salome’s fingernails rake across my left temple, dangerously close to my eye. “I hate you! I fucking hate you!”

  I raise my hands to shove her away, but she’s too close. I can’t get any leverage. My training kicks in. I bring my elbow up hard, striking her beneath the chin. I hear her teeth click together. Her head snaps back. Stiff-armed, I jam the heel of my hand against her chest as hard as I can. A strangled scream tears from her throat as she reels back. I hear her head strike the table. Twisting, I wriggle out from beneath her, roll, bring up my feet to mule-kick her away.

  Before I can, Tomasetti yanks her back. She twists and goes after him like a wild animal. He curses. Her attorney’s shouting in a tinny, alarmed voice. All of it is punctuated by Salome’s strangled screams. “She’s lying! I hate her! She killed Mose!” Her eyes are wild when they find mine. “Murderer!”

  As abruptly as the ruckus began, the room goes silent and still. I use the fallen chair to get to my feet. I’m aware of the blood roaring in my ears, the drumbeat thud of my heart, the burn of a cut on my face. A few feet away, Tomasetti has Salome bent over, face against the table, while he cuffs her hands behind her back. A visibly shaken Adam Slabaugh stands to my right, shaking, breathing as if he just ran the Boston Marathon.

  Tomasetti pulls Salome back from the table by the scruff of her neck and looks at me. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I say automatically.

  “You’re bleeding.” Slabaugh pulls a couple of tissues from the box on the table and hands them to me.

  “Thanks.” I blot at the burning sensation at my left temple, and the tissue comes away red.

  “She’s obviously going to need psychiatric evaluation.”

  All heads turn toward Colin Thornsberry, Salome’s attorney. He looks like he just survived a tornado—barely—and I wonder if this is his first brush with a violent offender. He’s looking at Salome as if he doesn’t want to get too close.

  The door swings open and I see Glock standing there at the ready. His eyes sweep the room, lingering on me a moment and then going to Salome and Tomasetti. “Everything okay in here?” he asks.

  “It is now,” I say, and start toward the door.

  * * *

  There’s a universal truth in law enforcement. It’s one I’ve struggled with for years and probably will for more years to come. Some cases turn out badly no matter how good the police work. Even though you make the arrest, get the bad guy off the street, and make the world a safer place, there is no justice done. The end result can be as sad and troubling as the crime itself.

  In the case of the Slabaugh family, two Amish parents are still dead, along with an uncle who was trying to help. Two little boys will grow up without their mother and father and siblings. A seventeen-year-old boy is dead. And a fifteen-year-old Amish girl is probably going to prison, where an innocent baby will be born into a system that is far from perfect.

  Justice took a pass on this one. I have no choice but to move on to the next, and hope for a better outcome. At least I have my hope. If that ever wanes, then I know it’s time for me to hang up my law-enforcement hat.

  McNarie’s Bar is the last place I should be on a night like this, when I’m disheartened and thinking about things like a lack of justice and the end of hope. It’s not exactly the kind of mind-set that’s conducive to responsible drinking. I haven’t forgotten about Tomasetti’s warning to be careful with the booze. He doesn’t broach a subject like that without serious forethought. Maybe I’ll heed his advice, maybe not.

  I’m into my second tonic and lime when movement at the door catches my attention. I look up and see Tomasetti and Rasmussen enter. The men saunter to the booth. Tomasetti slides in next to me. Rasmussen takes the seat across from us. I know they just came from the police station; there’s a certain kind of energy that comes with the end of a big case, especially one like this. They’ve gotten Salome handed off to the appropriate juvenile authorities and the immediate paperwork taken care of. For the first time in the course of my career, I’m glad I wasn’t there.

  “I think I owe you an apology,” Rasmussen says without preamble.

  I make eye contact with him. He’s talking about our exchange at the station. “You mean for telling me I was too emotionally involved in the case and that I was wrong about Salome?”

  “That would be it.” He offers
a white-flag smile, and I can actually see him swallowing his pride. “I was wrong about the girl, and I came down on you pretty hard. I was out of line.”

  The words quash my earlier ire, leaving me feeling strangely deflated, and I reluctantly decide I like him again. “I wasn’t one hundred percent certain myself,” I admit.

  Rasmussen’s eyes sharpen. “Are you saying the two boys didn’t confide and tell you they overheard Salome and Mose discussing the murders?”

  “They told me Salome had put them in the pit and promised to come back for them.” I sigh, wondering if I’m going to have to defend my actions. “The rest was guesswork.”

  “You didn’t have Mose’s prints on the ball,” Tomasetti says.

  I shake my head.

  “Big risk.”

  “Calculated risk,” I reply. “But one I had to take because I felt she was a danger to the two boys.”

  Rasmussen whistles. “Damn, Chief, that’s good.”

  Tomasetti isn’t so easily pleased. “Could have backfired if Salome had stuck to her story.”

  “I was counting on her losing her cool.”

  Tomasetti looks at the sheriff. “In case you haven’t noticed, Kate’s good at provoking people.”

  “I’ve noticed.” But he softens the words with a half smile and addresses me. “You’ll be happy to hear we cut Coulter loose.”

  “How was he?” I ask.

  “Relieved,” Tomasetti says.

  “Seems like a genuinely nice guy,” Rasmussen puts in.

  Tomasetti all but rolls his eyes. “Maybe he really is rehabilitated and we’re a bunch of cynical assholes.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Rasmussen chuckles.

  I smile, too, but I’m distracted, thinking about the case, about the kids, Salome and the baby.… “Any idea how the rifle got into Coulter’s closet?” I ask.

  “Salome denied any knowledge,” Rasmussen tells me.

  Tomasetti grimaces. “But she and Mose knew Coulter had done some work for their father. It’s common knowledge he’s an ex-con. All those kids had to do was plant it in Coulter’s house, and suddenly we have a suspect.”

  McNarie hustles over to the table holding a tray containing two Killian’s Irish Red, two shot glasses—and a lone highball glass. A pack of Marlboro Lights peeks out of the top of his apron pocket.

  I see Tomasetti eyeing the glass, wondering. “What are you drinking tonight, Chief?”

  “Just tonic.”

  He looks up at McNarie. “I’ll have the same,” Tomasetti says. “I’m driving. Kate’s on the wagon. And the sheriff was just leaving.”

  Across from me, Rasmussen arches a brow, and I know he just connected the dots, made the link between me and Tomasetti. McNarie doesn’t even look surprised. His eyes skate to mine. I give him a minute nod, and he carries the tray back to the bar.

  Noisily, Rasmussen clears his throat. “I just remembered I have something to do.”

  “You sure you won’t stay for a drink?” Tomasetti asks.

  “You asshole.” Grinning, the sheriff slides out of the booth.

  Tomasetti rises and the two men shake hands. “Agent Tomasetti, it was a pleasure meeting you. Can’t thank you enough for your help.”

  “The pleasure was all mine,” he says, and I wonder if Rasmussen knows he’s referring to me.

  The sheriff glances my way, and I think I see a smile in his eyes as he turns and heads toward the door.

  Tomasetti settles in across from me. “You think he got the message?”

  “Hmmm, I don’t know. You were pretty subtle.”

  We grin at each other across the table. I know he’s leaving tonight. And even though he’s so close that I can reach out and touch him, I already feel him slipping away. Already I miss him.

  “How are you?” he asks after a moment.

  “I’m okay.”

  McNarie interrupts, setting two icy highball glasses on the table between us. When the barkeep leaves, Tomasetti says, “I’ve got to be back in Cleveland tomorrow morning.”

  “I know.” My heart beats a little too fast. “I wish you could stay.”

  “Me, too.”

  We sip our tonic and listen to an old Chris Isaak song. Tomasetti breaks the silence. “If you’re not okay, I won’t leave. I’ll find a way to stay.”

  Before realizing I’m going to do it, I reach across the table and set my hand over his. I meet his gaze. “I’m okay. I mean it.” Sighing, I add, “This was just a really sad case.”

  “Salome played us all.” He shrugs. “We should have seen it coming.”

  That makes me feel better, because he has the best instincts of anyone I know. “Sometimes the most difficult things to see are the ones right in front of us.”

  “Hindsight sucks, doesn’t it?”

  I nod, let the silence ride a moment. “How was Salome?”

  He studies me, his eyes seeing more than I’m comfortable with. But I’m learning to let him see all of me—the good right along with the bad, and all the stuff in between—and I make no effort to hide the fact that, despite everything, I still care.

  “We put her in a cell for her own safety while we did the paperwork and got a rep from the detention center en route. She calmed down after a few minutes. Started working Rasmussen and me.” He shakes his head. “I swear, if I hadn’t seen her go after you, I never would have believed she was capable of that kind of violence.”

  “It’s ironic,” I say. “Of all the people who were hurt or killed in the course of this case, the one who is most guilty is the one I can’t stop thinking about. Not Mose. Not the parents or the uncle. But Salome.”

  “You were a young Amish girl once, Kate.”

  “I think that blinded me to the things I should have seen.”

  “You’re nothing like her,” he says after a moment.

  I look away, take a sip of tonic. “Where did they take her?”

  “Lucas County.”

  I nod. I’m familiar with the juvenile facility. “It’s a good one. She’ll get help and won’t get lost in the system.”

  His gaze cuts to mine. “Bullshit aside, if she’s dangerous, they’ll find a way to keep her.”

  “What do you think will happen to her baby?”

  “It’ll go through the courts. If she’s tried as an adult, I suspect the child will go to foster parents and eventually be adopted permanently.”

  “Probably the best thing.”

  “If you hadn’t done what you did, she would have gotten away with murdering her entire family.” He frowns at me. “Think about that while you’re beating yourself up tonight.”

  “I’m not planning on beating myself up.” I smile. “Promise.”

  “How long until you’re reinstated?”

  “A few days. Maybe a week.”

  He nods. Chris Isaak fades into an old Goo Goo Dolls song that makes me think about how small our lives are in the scope of things.

  “What time do you have to be at the office tomorrow?” I ask.

  “I’ve got a deposition at seven.” He glances at his watch, sighs.

  “You’d better get going if you want to get any sleep.”

  “I should.” But he makes no move to get up.

  Instead, he stares at me so long, I have to resist the urge to squirm. “I don’t know what you’re thinking,” I say.

  “I was just thinking sleep’s way overrated.” Sliding out of the booth, he takes my hand, pulls me out, and we head toward the door.

  ALSO BY LINDA CASTILLO

  Pray for Silence

  Sworn to Silence

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  BREAKING SILENCE. Copyright © 2011 by Linda Castillo. All rights reserved.

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