Castillo Linda - Outsider

That I can see past the faux bravado does nothing to assuage the knot of dread that’s taken up residence in the pit of my stomach.

CHAPTER 25

My grandmother lived with us for a while when I was a kid. It was wintertime and I was just young enough that I didn’t realize she was sick. In typical Amish fashion, she never complained about the pain; she never let on that her time left on this earth was short. What I remember most about Grossmammi is that she loved to read to us. On those days when it was too cold to work or play outside for long, my siblings, Jacob and Sarah, and I would gather around the woodstove and listen to her singsong voice. Sometimes she read to us from Martyr’s Mirror. What I really enjoyed were the stories.

I remember vividly a tale about a young Swiss Mennonite woman whose family migrated to America. Her name was Anna and she stayed behind to wait for her husband to return from the city, at which time they would make the trip across the Atlantic to join her family in Pennsylvania. It was a time of horrific persecution for the Anabaptists. Anna survived the long alpine winter in the Bavarian Alps, but by the time her husband arrived in spring she’d gone mad with Foehnkrankenheit, a mysterious psychosis caused by the fierce foehn winds.

I never forgot Anna’s tragic story or my grossmammi ’s description of winds strong enough to cause insanity. This morning, troubled and listening to the incessant wind tear at the house, I’m reminded of Foehnkrankenheit.

I’m nursing my third cup of coffee when a hard rap on the front door breaks the silence. The .38 is still tucked into the waistband of my jeans, so I head toward the living room. Gina stands at the mouth of the hall.

“Go to the kitchen,” I tell her. “Keep your eyes on the back door.”

“Yep.” Eyeing the front door as she passes it, she heads to the back of the house.

I’m midway to the door when I recognize the silhouette through the glass. I find John Tomasetti standing on the porch, wearing the now-familiar snowsuit, his helmet at his side.

“Where’s your cell?” he asks.

“Charging in the Explorer.”

“Colorosa?” The tone of his voice, the dark look in his eyes, alerts me that this is not a friendly visit.

“Kitchen.” Stepping back, I usher him inside. “What’s wrong?”

“Have you checked your cell for news?”

“Not since last night.”

He tugs off his gloves, drops them on the floor, and moves past me. “She played us.” He heads toward the kitchen without bothering to remove his boots. “She’s all over the news this morning.”

“What?” I say and follow. “Why?”

Tomasetti isn’t some loose-cannon rookie. He’s smart and methodical and plenty capable of keeping his emotions in check. But he’s human, too, and there’s nothing he dislikes more than to learn someone he’s trying to help isn’t being forthcoming.

Gina stands at the kitchen sink, coffee cup in hand, staring out the window. She turns when he enters the room. Her eyes widen at the sight of him striding toward her, his expression hostile, his mouth set into a hard line. She doesn’t give up ground when he reaches her. Sensing confrontation, she slips quickly into cop mode.

“The man knows how to make an entrance,” she says.

He stops a few feet away from her, eyes like shards of ice, sharp enough to cut skin. “You have two minutes to explain this.”

Yanking down the zipper of his snowsuit, he pulls out his cell phone. Hand perfectly steady, he swipes the screen twice and holds it up for her to see.

Expression amused, she tilts her head, looks at the screen. I move up beside her as the logo of a television station out of Columbus scrolls across the screen. A video, I realize, and something akin to dread stirs in the pit of my stomach. Tomasetti hits the play button with his thumb.

The video rolls. I take in a dozen details at once. It’s poor quality. Bodycam footage. Shot at night. The logo of the news station hovers in the upper left-hand corner. The date, the time, and meaningless numbers appear in the upper right-hand corner. Then, voices.

“All you had to do was keep your fucking mouth shut!” Female voice, laced with anger. Gina’s?

Dead ahead, front and center, a man in a dark coat, hands up, stepping back, eyes darting and filled with a combination of panic and fear. “I didn’t say nothin’!” he tells her.

Her right hand appears. She’s gripping the black steel of a pistol—a Sig Sauer—the sleeve of her coat visible. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What the hell do you think is going to happen now?”

“I don’t know!” His head swivels left and right. Eyes big and darting to the pistol. Mouth open. He doesn’t trust her, I realize, fears for his safety.

“Piece of shit,” she snarls.

“Fuckin’ don’t!” He raises his hands as if to fend her off. “Don’t!”

Six shots in rapid-fire succession. The man drops, lies unmoving on the floor. The wearer of the cam moves toward him. An arm extends, a gloved hand tugging off the glove of the other. A female hand touches the side of his neck with an index finger.

“Stupid motherfucker,” she whispers.

It’s a disturbing, bloody video that shows a complete lack of conscience—and the cold ruthlessness of a killer.

Tomasetti turns off the cell, drops it in his pocket; then his eyes fasten to Gina. “When were you going to tell us about that?”

Gina stares at him, eyes wide, mouth open, and she motions toward his cell. “That did not happen. I don’t know where you got it, but it did not happen. Not like that.”

“For God’s sake.” Tomasetti throws up his hands in exasperation. His eyes simmer with fury. “You had better start talking, because I’m an inch away from placing you under arrest. I will transport you to the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, where you will be booked and put in a holding cell until we can figure out what the hell to do with you. Are you getting where I’m coming from?”

She opens her mouth, closes it without speaking, takes a moment to compose herself. “I can’t explain something I’ve never seen. All I can tell you is that it did not happen. Not like that. Not even close. I don’t know how they got that video, but that is not the way it went down.”

“Who’s the man in the video?” I ask.

“Eddie Cysco.” She snaps the name, but her face has gone pale. “The one they murdered.”

“They?” Stepping forward, Tomasetti takes the mug from her hand, spilling coffee in the process, and tosses it into the sink. “Sit down.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” she snarls.

“I’m the dumbass trying to save someone who by all indications isn’t worth the effort.” He points to the chair. “Sit the fuck down.”

Glaring at him, more fight than flight in her eyes, she goes to the chair, hesitates, then sinks into it. “I do not have an explanation for that video. I recognize parts of it. The badge number is mine. But that did not happen.”

“So you’ve said,” Tomasetti says in a low voice. “Here’s a news flash for you, Colorosa. Bodycam footage doesn’t lie.” He all but snarls the words. “I can’t say the same for you.”

She starts to stand, but he sets his hand on her shoulder, presses her back into the chair. “Did you shoot Eddie Cysco?” he asks.

“No. He was my CI,” she tells him.” “I arrested him several times over the years. He never resisted and there was never a shot fired.”

“That’s you in the video,” he says. “Your Sig.”

She looks down, her brows furrowing. “I don’t know what that is. I can’t explain it.”