…
He’d never collected two doves at the same time before. Well, at least, not without disposing of the current one. But time was running out. He needed to take her now while he could still get to her. He couldn’t keep evading the detective, and Troyer was putting the pieces together faster than he’d expected. It wouldn’t take long before the cops were knocking on his door, but he wasn’t finished with his work yet. His masterpiece was not complete. There was still much to do. They deserved to be punished for their sins. It was his duty to cull the diseased from the flock before the whole lot became infected. That’s what he’d done to his sister after he found her fucking that Englisher in their barn.
They hadn’t known he was up there stacking the hay… Her laughter rang out as she started up the ladder—that carefree giggle he could still sometimes hear echoing in the back of his mind. He waited behind one of the bales to jump out and scare her. She hated when he did that, but he couldn’t resist the juvenile thrill he got every time he made her scream. As he prepared to leap out, he froze at the sound of another voice—a masculine one.
“Are you sure nobody’s here?”
“I’m sure. Will ya stop bein’ so skittish? I already told ya, everyone’s gone to market. I faked a stomach ache to stay behind. They ain’t comin’ back ‘til evenin’.”
He’d suggested to Ma and Da that he stay behind to tend to his sister. They’d agreed it was best not to leave her alone. Besides, there were plenty of chores needing done around the farm. Mary hadn’t been herself the last month or so, and everyone was a little concerned for her. From where he hid, he could barely see the ends of the ladder. When her white-kapped head poked above the railing, he pressed himself flat against the bale to remain out of sight. But he chanced a glance at the boy and a knot of rage fisted in his gut. Englisher…
Nausea churned in his stomach. He was about to step out and give her a good scolding, when a soft moan on the other side of the bales and the sound of kissing stopped him. His chest heaved as he struggled to draw the humid air into his lungs. The sweet, earthy scent of fresh-cut hay made the rolling in his stomach worse.
“When are you going to tell them about the baby?” the Englisher asked between kisses.
Baby? Mary was pregnant with an Englisher’s babe? How could she shame herself so? And not just her. Think of the embarrassment and the humiliation her carelessness would bring upon the family. It would kill Ma.
Stupid, selfish, little cunt… He shook with anger as the noises escalated. Dirty, filthy noises… Rage licked through his veins like a wildfire. He couldn’t stand it another second—the sound of that bastard rutting with his sister. His gaze darted wildly around the loft, all rational thought shutting down. He was barely aware of reaching for the shovel. Unmindful of his actions, he stepped from behind the hay and laid eyes on his sister’s bare legs spread wide, and that Englisher’s pants down to knees as he thrust into her over and over…
He moved forward silently, raised the shovel, and brought it down on the back of that boy’s head.
Thwack!
He fell off her and lay unmoving, flecks of hay and dirt sticking to his erect penis. His sister screamed, her bare sex opened to him, giving him his first glimpse of a female’s flesh. Something stirred in his groin, heat rushing…and he began to grow hard. Shame assailed him.
“What’d you do?” she screamed, closing her legs and scrambling to cover herself.
But he was in a rage. And at that moment, he hated her. He hated her for what she’d done to herself, to their family, and he hated her for the arousal she stirred in him.
“You whore!” he bellowed in fury and leaped on top of her before she could get away.
“Get off me,” she screamed, wiggling and thrashing beneath him.
His erection grew harder. He wanted it to stop; he wanted her to stop. Circling his hands around her neck, he squeezed. Her pale green eyes grew wide and terrified, watering as he squeezed tighter. Her long chestnut hair became tangled with hay and dust as she fought to break his hold. He squeezed tighter, arms shaking with the effort, her face growing redder with each passing second.
Soon, her arms dropped to her sides, and she grew still. Eyes that a moment ago stared at him in terror were now sightless. He waited for regret, but only satisfaction and relief came. Pulling the knife from his pocket, he reached over to the Englisher and pressed two fingers to his throat, feeling for a pulse. At the slow steady beat, he considered grasping the Englisher’s offensive flesh between his legs and cutting it off, leaving him there to bleed to death beside his Amish whore. But then he thought better of it. If he hurried, he could still take a shortcut and beat Ma and Da to the market. Before he left, he grabbed his sister’s hair, twisting the length in his fist and then began cutting it off at her nape.
“Ya want to fuck an Englisher?” he growled. “Now ya can look like one, too.”
He was drawn from his musing by the rattle of the barn door. He moved deeper into the safety of the shadows as he watched her step inside with her little gas lantern and empty milk pail. She moved past him to the stall where the milk cow resided every night. The clink of the latch sounded, and the squeak of rusty hinges filled the silence as she pulled the door open. Her voice was soft and soothing as she called out a greeting to the cow. He watched her pause to put a few scoops of grain into the bucket and set it at the front of the stall. With a light pat on the cow’s gaunt hindquarter, she set up her stool and placed the bucket beneath the distended udder.
The rhythmic hiss of jetting milk hitting the empty bucket soon filled the silence in the barn. He found the sound soothing. It reminded him of better days when he was a young child playing in the barn while his da tended the chores. Those were the days when he knew not of the monster that lived inside him. His sinful sister had woken a beast he’d yet to satisfy. This was all her fault. She was to blame for what he’d become.
He would not apologize for it. Besides, they brought this on themselves—every last one of them. He saw them for what they were, masquerading whores, and he would make sure they got what they deserved. As his thoughts began to escalate, the momentary calm he’d enjoyed vanished. He moved carefully and quietly as he prepared his cloth. Her back was to the opening of the stall as he stepped up from behind and covered her face. Her scream was muffled as he yanked her off balance, pulling her backward off the stool and dragging her out of the stall. Her legs kicked out, knocking the milk pail over. As she struggled against him, he grew hard from the fight. Of all his doves, he’d been looking forward to this one the most. He’d saved her for last. It disappointed him he’d have to rush with her, that their time together would be brief. Troyer was closing in…
Chapter Thirty-One
“I already told you, Detective, I don’t know who Ruth King is.”
Joe exhaled a sigh, grappling for patience. They’d been at this for hours, and this little dance was getting them nowhere. He wasn’t laying all his cards on the table yet, because the moment he did, Heinz would realize what they had on him and would quit talking all together and demand a lawyer. But he was leaving Joe with little choice. He was going to have to push him harder.
It was just Joe, Dexter, and Heinz in the ten by ten interrogation room. A long rectangular table separated them as they stared at one another in a stalemate.
“I don’t understand why you have it out for me. Is it because of Hannah? Are you jealous of our relationship? It’s because I admitted to you that I care for her, isn’t it?”
Heinz was smart. He was turning the tables and making this personal. It was a good defense, considering Joe’s relationship with her, and it would undermine his authority and objectivity in the eyes of a jury. Anything that cast a shred of doubt in the courtroom could derail a conviction. Calling his professionalism into question would risk not only this case, but his career.
Joe picked up the remote and pointed it at the camera in the corner of the room. Heinz watched as the little red flash
ing light turned off. Setting the remote down, Joe rested his forearms on the table and leaned closer. Careful to keep his voice void of emotion he said, “The camera is off, so anything you say to me right now is just between you and me. It’s inadmissible in a court of law, and you are not officially being charged with anything. What I’m saying is that it’s in your best interest to work with me. Now, before you tell me again that you don’t know where Ruth King is, let me tell you why I think you do.
“You were the last person to see Cassie Beiler alive. The day Abby Schwartz disappeared, you left her property shortly after she did, giving you every opportunity to be waiting for her in that cornfield. Your fingerprints were on the binoculars recovered from the Adam’s and the condom wrapper I found in the Schwartz hay loft. I know you were watching those girls.” Surprise and maybe a little fear registered in the man’s eyes. Joe was rattling his cage, and it was working. He pushed him harder. “Does that prove you killed them? No. But it makes you look like a suspicious creep with opportunity and motive. Oh, and your DNA was a match to the semen found on both Cassie Beiler and Abby Schwartz.”
“That’s impossible. You’re lying. You’re just telling me this to scare me. Otherwise you wouldn’t have turned off the camera.”
Joe grabbed Abby Schwartz’s file, slapped it down in front of Heinz, and opened the cover. “These,” he jammed his finger onto the left side of the file, “are DNA markers found on Abby Schwartz. And these,” he pointed to the right side of the page with equal force, “are your DNA markers. “See how they look the same? Read the paragraph at the bottom of the page and then explain to me how that’s possible.”
Heinz paled, his expression briefly grew panicked as he read the report. After taking a deep breath, he exhaled loudly. When he met Joe’s eyes, resignation stared back at him. “I was having sexual relations with Abby Schwartz.”
“Bullshit!” Joe yelled, slamming his fist down on the table. The echoing bang resonated though the small room, startling Dexter. Oh, this bastard was smart. Smarter than Joe had given him credit for—claiming he’d been having a secret, consensual relationship with Abby Schwartz. It was his word against a dead girl’s. Fucking brilliant…
“You’ve got nothing to connect me to the first two murders. I didn’t know those girls and I don’t know Ruth King,” Heinz insisted.
“And Cassie Beiler…? Are you going to tell me you’ve been having consensual intercourse with her, too?”
“No. I never had sex with that girl, and those aren’t my fingerprints on the binoculars, either.”
“Then how do you explain the match and why your DNA was found on her?”
“I’m being set up. You need someone to pin this case on and you’re targeting me. I think it’s about time you offer me that lawyer, Detective.”
Joe stormed from the interrogation room, Dexter hot on his heels. The office was mostly empty, except for the second shift crew. Mills was at his desk, doing something on the computer. As Joe passed by, he snapped, “Get Heinz a lawyer and transfer him back to holding.” He had to get out of there before he did or said something he’d regret.
Sam startled when he entered the office and slammed the door behind him.
“I’d ask you how it went but the look on your face is answer enough.”
“Fucking Heinz…” he growled, heading to his desk to start filling out the paperwork to request a search warrant for Heinz’s property. “I need inside that house. Ruth King could be in there right now and this case would be sealed. The bastard knows I got nothing connecting him to the first two murders.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Joe got the sense Sam was guiding him somewhere with her questions. Like she already knew the answer and was trying to help him see it. Only he was too pissed off and frustrated to take the bait. “How the fuck would I know? Maybe he’s gotten overconfident and grown sloppy with time?” He didn’t buy Heinz’s bullshit claim about being framed. And he really didn’t appreciate the asshole’s insinuation that Joe was the one doing it.
“Let me take the warrant to the courthouse,” she offered, grabbing the paper off the printer and handing it over to him to sign.
“Thanks, Sam. I appreciate your help.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Sam grabbed her coat and purse and headed for the door. “Wish me luck.”
With a parting wave she was gone, and Joe called the forensics lab. “Is Bill Kent there?”
“Sorry, he’s already left for the day.”
Joe glanced at his watch. Damn, it was already after five. Sam was going to have to hurry if she hoped to catch a judge at the courthouse.
“Is there something I can help you with, Detective?”
“No. Thanks, anyway. I’ll call his cell.”
When Joe couldn’t reach Kent by phone, he decided to stop by his house. He wanted to make a game plan with him, so a team could be mobilized at a moment’s notice to move on Heinz’s house. Time was of the essence. And speaking of time, where in the hell were those files from Eau Claire?
Joe logged back onto his computer to check his email while he called the station secretary for Kent’s address. He jotted it down and thanked her for her help before disconnecting the call.
Opening his email, Joe grumbled, “About fucking time,” and began downloading the attachments labeled, Mary Rabine, Michelle York, Chelsea Peters.
Mary’s file finished downloading first. Joe opened the attachment and began reading the story of a seventeen-year-old Amish girl who was found strangled in the loft of her parents’ barn while the girl’s family had been at the market selling produce for the day. Her hair had been cut off, and there were signs of sexual assault. No witnesses, no suspects. The case had gone cold before her body had been placed in the ground.
He closed the file and began reading the next. Michelle York had not been Amish, but she and the other deceased, Chelsea Peters, had been friends. Just like Sheriff Johnson said, both girls had been sexually assaulted, strangled, and their hair cut off at the nape. These crimes were remarkably similar to Mary Rabine, yet fifteen years later. Thomas Root had been thirty-five when he’d been convicted. Mathematically, he could have been responsible for the death of Mary Rabine, yet there had been no physical evidence to convict him. He attested his innocence, and to this day, still claimed he’d been set up for these crimes, despite overwhelming DNA evidence to the contrary.
Joe carefully read through York’s forensic report and the evidence connecting Root to the crime. He studied it closer. No way… He opened Chelsea’s file and quickly searched the document until he found what he was looking for. No fucking way…
…
Kent’s house was a small, nondescript A-frame tucked back in the woods at the end of a long winding driveway. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he would have easily missed the narrow turn. Joe pulled up to the house and parked the car. Before he could get out, the front door opened, and Kent stepped out onto the wrap-around porch.
“Oz? What are you doing here?” He looked surprised to see Joe, but not displeased.
“Sorry to drop in. I tried to call but couldn’t reach you.” Joe got out of the car and opened the rear door for Dexter to hop out. As usual, his nose was to the ground, and he took off into the woods.
“It’s all right. The damn cell service ain’t for shit out here.”
“Yeah, you’re kind of off the beaten path. That’s for sure,” Joe commented, ambling up to the house.
“The place belonged to my grandparents. Been in the family for eighty years. I’m a bachelor, don’t need nothin’ fancy. So, what was it you were tryin’ to call me about?”
Joe climbed the porch steps and came over to Kent. In the distance, Dex began barking. “I’m working on getting a search warrant for the Heinz property. Samantha Roth is rushing it over to the courthouse to grab a judge to get it signed. I was hoping you could put together a forensics team to go through the house. I realize it’s short notice, but—”
“Whatever you need to close this case. I’ll get the team on standby right away.”
“Thanks. You mind if we step inside a minute. I’d like to talk to you about something.”
“Sure. Come on in. I’d ask you to stay for supper, but it’s just a TV dinner.”
“That’s all right. I won’t be too long.” Joe followed Kent inside. The place was small, but clean—a quaint, rustic log cabin.
“I know it’s not much to look at,” Kent commented, opening the fridge and pulling out two beers. “But you can’t beat the quiet, and the wildlife out here is incredible.” He popped the cap and handed a bottle to Joe.
“I bet… After living in Minneapolis for so many years, this looks pretty appealing.” Joe took a sip of the Budweiser and sat at the kitchen table.
Kent opened a second bottle, tossed the caps into the garbage, and sat across from Joe. “So, what do you want to talk about?”
He studied the man a moment and took another long pull from the bottle before answering. “Why didn’t you tell me you worked a case similar to this one in Wisconsin?”
Kent’s brows tightened thoughtfully as he took a sip of his beer. “Did I?”
“Two young girls strangled to death three months apart, both under the age of eighteen. Their hair was cut off. That doesn’t jog your memory—strike you as odd?”
Kent met and held Joe’s stare. “I’ve worked a lot of cases over the years, Oz. Can’t expect me to remember them all. Besides, that case was closed.”
“So, you do remember it?”
“Now that you mention it… There was a DNA match from the victims, and the killer has been in prison for the last five years. That’s hardly relevant to this case.”
“It is when he attests he was innocent, and that he was set up.”
“That’s what they all say, Oz. You haven’t figured that out by now?”
The timer on the stove went off, and Kent took another swig of beer before rising. He grabbed a hot pad, cracked the oven door, and pulled out the cookie sheet. “If there isn’t anything else you need…”
Vow of Silence Page 24