Fallen

by Linda Castillo

  “All night?” Tomasetti asks.

  “All night,” Fletcher echoes.

  “You know we’re going to check,” Tomasetti says.

  “Stay the hell away from my wife.” Fletcher’s eyes flick to Rasmussen. “Are you going to let them run with this? Ruin me? My marriage? My reputation?” He shakes his head. “Mike, you’re going to let them move forward with this bullshit based on accusations made by someone I don’t even know? Someone I’ve never met? I’m telling you right now, Bontrager made the whole thing up. I wasn’t anywhere near their place.”

  Rasmussen shrugs. “You know we’ve got to look at it.”

  Fletcher smacks his hand against the tabletop. “This is bullshit.”

  “Did you ever initiate a stop on Rachael Schwartz?” Tomasetti steps easily into the bad-cop role.

  “You mean thirteen years ago?” Fletcher shakes his head, angry. “I don’t remember. How could I?” Mouth pulled into a snarl, he looks at me. “The one thing I do know for certain is that I sure as hell didn’t demand sex!”

  Tomasetti doesn’t give him a respite. “You have two similar citizen complaints on your record.”

  “So do a lot of cops,” Fletcher snaps. “Those two women lied. It’s on record. Nothing came of either incident. I resent it being brought up now.”

  For the span of a full minute no one speaks. So far, we’ve danced around the subject of Rachael Schwartz’s murder. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he knows there’s more coming.

  “So if we take a look at the tread marks we picked up at the Willowdell Motel,” Tomasetti says slowly, “and footage from the game cam in the field across the road, we’re not going to see you or your vehicle, right?”

  He glares at Tomasetti, nostrils flaring with every elevated breath. Fury in his eyes. But I catch a glimpse of a chink in the veneer. Beneath all that anger is uncertainty—and fear. Of course, there were no viable tire-tread marks picked up at the scene. Nor is there a game cam in the field across the road. Fletcher doesn’t know either of those things.

  “You’re not going to find shit because I’ve done nothing wrong.” He looks at Rasmussen. “This is bullshit, Mike. I can’t believe you’ve let this charade go this far. For God’s sake I’ve been with the department for seventeen years and this is the thanks I get?”

  “Did you ever meet Rachael Schwartz?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so,” he says. “I don’t recall.”

  Another silence, this one filled with unbearable tension, like a razor slicing skin.

  After a moment, Tomasetti sighs. “Dane, we’re looking at her banking records,” he says quietly. “Yours, too.”

  Fletcher’s Adam’s apple bobs. “This is a fucking hack job.”

  Tomasetti stares at him, saying nothing.

  “Fletch.” I utter the nickname even before I realize I’m going to address him.

  His eyes shift to mine.

  “If you want to help yourself,” I say, “tell us the truth now. You’re a good enough cop to know we’re going to figure it out.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Burkholder,” he snarls.

  It’s so quiet I can hear the whistle of quickened breaths through nose hair. The creak of a chair as someone shifts.

  I look at Fletcher. He’s slouched now. Head down. Elbows on the table. Hands laced at his nape, staring at the tabletop. A beaten man who knows the worst is yet to come.

  Up until now, this has been an information-seeking mission. The longer we talk to Fletcher, the more apparent it becomes that this undertaking now has three levels. What happened between him and Loretta Bontrager last night. What occurred between him and Rachael Schwartz thirteen years ago. And what may or may not have happened between them the night she was murdered.

  For the first time I notice the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The damp rings beneath his arms. He looks at Rasmussen. “If that’s the way you’re going to play this, Mike, I guess I need a lawyer.”

  Dane Fletcher is not under arrest. We don’t have enough evidence to hold him. I have no idea how any of this is going to end. The one thing I do know is that when he walks out of this room, he will not have a badge. Whether he is put on administrative leave, suspended, or fired is up to Rasmussen and policy.

  “That’s your right,” the sheriff tells him.

  “Union rep, too.”

  “You got it,” the sheriff tells him.

  Fletcher rises, takes a moment to pull himself together, gather his composure. Eyes on his boss, he removes the Glock from his holster and lays his badge on the table.

  “There you go, you sons of bitches,” he says.

  He turns and walks from the room.

  CHAPTER 30

  Day 4

  Early in my career, the resolution of a case—the bringing of a bad actor to justice, the closure for the victim’s family, the satisfaction that comes with the knowledge of a job well done—was one of the simple and straightforward highlights of being a cop. Now that I’m older, with a few years of experience under my belt, none of those things are quite as cut-and-dried. Rachael Schwartz is still dead, her life cut short years before her time. A colleague, a man I’d worked with for years and trusted with my life—a husband and father of four young children—will likely be spending the rest of his life in prison. And for what? Money? Lust?

  It’s been twenty-four hours since Tomasetti, Mike Rasmussen, and I questioned Fletcher. We let him walk because we don’t have enough hard evidence to arrest him. But it’s coming. We procured a search warrant and confiscated his cell phone and laptop. Banking records are in the works. I spent most of the last day combing through everything I’ve got so far. I’m not sure if I’m looking for something that will exonerate him—or put that last nail in his coffin so I can drive it in myself. Do I believe he forced a seventeen-year-old Rachael Schwartz into having sex with him in exchange for letting her go? Considering the two complaints on file—and later dismissed—and the detailed statement from Loretta Bontrager, I do, indeed, believe he’s guilty. If it’s true, Fletcher is a sexual predator, a disgusting excuse for a man, and a dishonor to everyone in law enforcement. As unscrupulous as that is, I simply can’t get my head around the notion of him beating Rachael Schwartz to death in that motel room.

  “You look like you could use some good news.”

  I glance up to see Tomasetti standing at the doorway to my office, his head tilted, looking at me intently.

  Despite my somber mood, I smile, liking the way he’s standing there with his arms crossed, his leg cocked. “A little good news would go a long way right now.”

  He crosses to my desk and lowers himself into the visitor chair adjacent to me. “The IT techs hit the jackpot on Schwartz’s laptop.”

  I sit up straighter. “Fletcher?”

  “We got him.” He produces his cell and taps the screen a few times. “They found texts and emails. Deleted, but easy enough to recover.”

  Rising, he comes around my desk to stand beside me, sets his hand on the back of my chair. I look at the screen, find myself staring at what appears to be copied texts. The first three transmissions are from Rachael Schwartz, sent on the same day, just a few minutes apart.

  What is the age of consent in the state of Ohio?

  Wifey has a nice Facebook page. I didn’t know she was preggers! Congrats!

  Bet she’d be pissed if she found out you’d pulled over and raped a 17 year old Amish girl.

  No reply.

  The next day, from Schwartz:

  She posted pics of you and the kids. Didn’t know you guys had a pool. Nice!

  Like her accent. Where is she from? Australia? London?

  I look at Tomasetti. “Fletcher’s wife is from New Zealand,” I tell him.

  He scrolls down to the next exchange.

  From Fletcher:

  You call my house again and I will fucking bury you. You got that?

  From Schwartz:

  Don’t be such a pussy. Just
messing with you.

  “She’s taunting him,” Tomasetti murmurs.

  “Doing a pretty good job of it,” I say, but I can’t take my eyes off the screen as he scrolls to the next exchange.

  This one is from Schwartz and comes the next day at two A.M.

  I see yur still a deputy with Holmes County. I wonder how Sheriff Rasmussen would feel if he nu U sodomized me in the back seat of yur cruiser?

  No reply.

  Bet yur sweating right now.

  I’m going to call him.

  330-884-5667

  Recognizing the number, I look at Tomasetti. “That’s Rasmussen’s home number.”

  Fletcher doesn’t reply.

  Rachael Schwartz doesn’t stop.

  Maybe I’ll just show up and tell him everything. Maybe I’ll show up at your house and tell your pretty little wife what you do to little girls when you pull them over.

  Finally, Fletcher responds.

  You show up here and I’ll put a fucking bullet in your head. You got that?

  From Schwartz:

  Don’t be so sensitive! I’m jus kidding.

  In case you’re thinking about going all batshit … don’t forget I got that insurance policy. Anything unsavory happens and presto! Out comes the proof.

  “So they talked at some point,” Tomasetti says.

  “What proof is she referring to?” I ask.

  “Be nice to know, wouldn’t it?” he mutters. “I’ve no doubt we’ll figure it out.” He sighs. “There’s more.”

  So if you can afford that pool you can afford to pay me a little something for keeping my piehole shut all these years.

  How much you got saved?

  How much is your marriage worth?

  How much is your job worth?

  No reply from Fletcher.

  Tomasetti backs out of the file and goes to the next. It looks like a listing of phone numbers. “I pulled these numbers from their devices. I compared time of day with the numbers. Fletcher called her the day after those texts were sent. They talked for six minutes.”

  He angles the phone so I can see the next item. I find myself looking at what appears to be some kind of financial statement.

  Tomasetti continues, “Two days later, Fletcher withdrew three thousand dollars from his savings account. He withdrew another two thousand from an investment account.”

  He thumbs through a few more screens. “The following day, Rachael Schwartz deposited five thousand bucks into her checking account.”

  He flicks off the phone and returns to the chair. When he looks at me his expression is sober. “There’s more, Kate. Over the last six months, she’s called his house a dozen times. Calls last only a minute, so they’re probably hang-ups. She hounded him, posted things on Jennifer Fletcher’s social media pages. I spent half the night reading some really raw and disturbing text and email exchanges. She threatened him dozens of times. She wanted money for her silence. He’d paid her up to about twelve thousand. He threatened to kill her twice.”

  The information settles into my gut with the power of a stomach virus. “We have motive,” I say.

  “The CCTV footage at the bar in Wooster?” he says. “Expert says the car that pulled in belongs to Fletcher’s wife. We enlarged it, got the plate number as it was pulling into the lot. We had an expert look at the video. He says the silhouette of the male is likely Fletcher.”

  “They met at the bar the day she was murdered,” I say.

  He nods. “A few hours later, she was dead.”

  We stare at each other for the span of a few heartbeats and then I reach for the phone on my desk. “Let’s get the arrest warrant.”

  CHAPTER 31

  As police chief of a small town, I deal with the occasional sticky situation that requires some degree of discretion. My department is good at maintaining confidentiality when necessary, especially when it comes to protecting someone’s safety. But secrets are tough to keep in a small town. When a neighbor sees a police car pull up to someone’s house—even with the overhead lights off—they want to know what’s going on.

  I don’t expect any trouble from Fletcher. He’s a stable guy with four kids at home and a wife who’s expecting their fifth. Still, I’ve dealt with enough high-stress situations to know that when Mr. Even Keel realizes his life is about to unravel, he can come unhinged.

  In my rearview mirror, I see Tomasetti pull up behind me, a Holmes County deputy behind him. I get out and we meet on our way to the front door.

  “You talk to Rasmussen?” he asks.

  I nod. “He’s on his way.”

  We reach the front porch. I’ve just pressed the doorbell when the door opens. Jennifer Fletcher appears. She’s wearing a yellow and white maternity dress. Huge belly. House shoes. Hair pinned atop her head. Her smile falters at the sight of us.

  “What’s going on?” Her voice rises a pitch with each word. “Is it Dane? What’s—”

  It takes me a second to realize she thinks we’re here to inform her that her husband has been hurt on the job. It’s a normal reaction. It’s sad because he didn’t fill her in on what’s going on or warn her that he’s in serious trouble.

  “He’s not hurt,” I say quickly. “We need to talk to him. Is he home?”

  “Oh.” She sags, presses a hand against her chest. “Whew! You guys scared me for a second.” Still, she knows there’s something wrong. She pauses, cocks her head. “Is everything all right?”

  I hear kids playing in the background. Splashing in the pool out back. A dog yapping. Laughter. The smell of popcorn wafting out. And I feel a wave of anger toward Fletcher because he had it all—and squandered it.

  “We need to talk to Dane,” I tell her. “Is he here?”

  She blinks, worried now. Confused because she’s realized this isn’t a friendly visit and we’re not going to go away until we get what we want. “He took Scotty to the Little League game, down at the elementary school.” She glances at her watch. “They should be back any minute. Want to come in and wait?” She laughs. “Fill me in?”

  Neither of us responds as we follow her into the house. Glossy wood floors. Open concept. Crisp gray paint on the walls. The kitchen is large and well used, with newish appliances. A plastic truck tossed haphazardly on the dining room floor.

  Jennifer pauses at the island that separates the kitchen from the living room and turns to us. “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on. You guys are starting to worry me.”

  I look through the window, see three kids splashing in the pool outside, oblivious to what’s about to unfold, and I silently curse Dane Fletcher. How could a man who has so much—a family—children who need him—destroy it? And for what?

  “Dane’s in trouble,” I tell her. “It’s serious. We have a warrant for his arrest. That’s all I can say at this point.”

  “What?” She pales, an odd shade of pink rising to her cheeks. “I’m going to call him.” Spinning away from us, she rushes to the island, picks up her cell.

  I look at Tomasetti. “I’m going to go get him.” I lower my voice. “Keep an eye on them, will you?”

  Argument flares in his eyes. The scowl that follows tells me he doesn’t like the idea of me picking up Fletcher alone. “Take the deputy,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  “Who’s on duty?” he asks.

  “T.J.”

  “Call him, will you?”

  “Yep.” Taking a final look at Jennifer, I head toward the door.

  I hail T.J. en route to the school and fill him in on the situation, ask him to meet me there.

  The Painters Mill elementary school was built back in the 1960s at the height of the mid-century-modern phase of architecture. It’s a two-story building fabricated of mud-yellow brick and mullioned windows set back from the street in a treed lot the size of a football field. A big sign stands guard in front, next to the flagpole, and proclaims: PANTHER COUNTRY!

  I pull around to the rear of the building. Ahead is the basebal
l diamond, replete with freshly painted bleachers, overhead lights for night games. There’s a small clapboard concession stand that sells soft drinks and hot dogs during games. Closer to the school is the public pool—not yet open for the season, but there’s a good-size pool house and a cinder-block public restroom. A dozen or so cars are parked in the gravel lot on the south side. I idle through and spot Fletcher’s Focus at the end of the row. No one inside. I park next to it and get out.

  The deputy parks next to me and we meet at the rear of his cruiser. “See him?” he asks.

  I shake my head, motion toward the restroom and pool house. “Want to check in there?”

  “Yeah,” he says, and heads that way.

  It’s nearly dusk now. Golden light slants down through the treetops as I make my way toward the diamond. The quiet is punctuated by the shouts and squeals of children playing baseball and the occasional bark of an overzealous mom or dad. It’s an innocent scene, but when a young batter smacks out a single, I find myself thinking of the bat used to murder Rachael Schwartz.

  I speak into my shoulder mike. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene. “I got eyes on our ten-fifty. T.J expedite.”

  “Roger that,” comes T.J.’s voice, telling me he’s on his way. “Ten-seven-seven ten minutes.” He’s ten minutes away.

  My uniform draws a few stares as I approach the bleachers. I answer those stares with a wave. A dozen or so moms and dads watch their kids play. A couple of Labrador puppies wrestle in the grass behind the bleachers. No sign of Fletcher. I look toward the field, try to ascertain if his son is one of the players, catch sight of him at the shortstop position, his eyes on the batter who’s just stepped up to the mound.

  I stroll between the chain-link fence and the bleachers, trying to look nonchalant. One of the coaches glances my way and waves, but I can tell he’s wondering why I’m here. I’m relieved he’s too busy to talk.

  Where the hell is Fletcher?