Linda Castillo - Breaking Silence

“I just read the report you filed on the burning buggy incident.”

I look from Tomasetti to Rasmussen, wishing I hadn’t done those two shots. I’m at a distinct disadvantage here. The alcohol has rendered my IQ somewhere between that of a toddler and a German shepherd. While I’m pretty sure Rasmussen hasn’t noticed, I’m utterly certain Tomasetti has.

“These crimes qualify as hate crimes, Kate.” Rasmussen gives Tomasetti a pointed look. “I know your department is tied up with the Slabaugh thing, so I contacted BCI.”

“Isn’t a hate-crimes designation usually federal?” I ask.

“Hate crimes are against the law no matter which agency does the investigating.” Tomasetti shows me his teeth. “I drew the case.”

“We wanted an agent who was familiar with the area,” Rasmussen interjects. “Since Agent Tomasetti has worked in Painters Mill before, I thought he was the best person for the job.”

I nod. “We worked the Slaughterhouse Killer case last year. A couple of months ago, we worked the Plank murder case.”

“I remember,” the sheriff says. “Nasty business.” Rasmussen looks from me to Tomasetti and then back to me. “Agent Tomasetti and I met for dinner earlier. We were talking about the hate-crime issue, and we thought with your being formerly of the faith, you might be able to lend a hand with the Amish,” Rasmussen says. “I’m batting zero because none of the victims will press charges.”

“Or even report the crime,” Tomasetti adds.

“You can add Kaufman to that list.” I recap my exchange with Kaufman at the scene. “He denied anything had happened and basically refused to talk to me.”

“Nice.” Rasmussen sighs in obvious frustration. “How the hell do these Amish assholes expect us to get these idiots off the street if they don’t cooperate?” He catches himself and mutters, “No offense, Kate.”

“None taken.” But it makes me smile. “The Amish want to be separate from us. They want to be left alone.” I shrug. “They haven’t yet learned they can’t do that completely when the rest of us live in such close proximity.”

“It takes two to tango,” Tomasetti says.

Rasmussen adds, “That makes the Amish easy pickin’s if someone wants to mess with them.”

“Exactly,” I agree. “There are probably quite a few more crimes that have been committed, but we don’t know about them because they were never reported.”

“And there’s not a whole lot we can do without a complainant,” Rasmussen says.

“Sooner or later, someone’s going to get hurt,” Tomasetti adds.

I nod. “Probably sooner at the rate we’re going.”

“We pulled stats for Holmes and Coshocton counties,” Rasmussen says. “Even though the numbers are skewed because so many of these crimes go unreported, in the last two months there’s been a marked escalation.” He sighs. “Because most of the incidents were mischief-type crimes, local law enforcement hadn’t taken aggressive action.”

I tell them about the two men McNarie mentioned earlier.

“Could be our guys,” Rasmussen says.

“Or part of a concerted effort,” I add. “A group.”

Tomasetti nods. “Considering the escalation in such a short period of time, I’m betting on the latter. Some hate group. Loosely organized. Young Caucasian males, ages fifteen to twenty-five.”

Something unpleasant scrapes at the edge of my brain. I don’t want to let it in, look at it. But it’s there, nagging at me like an arthritic joint: my conversation with Pickles about the Slabaugh case. “It would be a huge escalation with regard to the level of violence, but do you think it’s possible the Slabaugh murders are hate-related?” I give them the particulars of the case.

“I suppose it’s possible.” Rasmussen’s voice is slightly incredulous. “Different MO.”

“Suspects?” Tomasetti asks.

I tell them about Adam Slabaugh. “He doesn’t have an alibi.”

“Pretty strong motive,” Tomasetti says. “The kids.”

Rasmussen leans back in the booth, taking it all in. “So maybe this is all one big fucked-up case.”

“I don’t know,” I say. Both men look at me. “The Slabaugh case feels different. I think there’s something else there we’re not seeing.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something I’ve missed.” I shrug. “Something about the family.”

Both men nod, knowing that some crimes are that way. Solving them takes time, as well as persistence, perseverance, patience. You need to trust your instincts enough to follow them blind, listen to something as intangible as your gut.

“We can talk about this a little bit more tomorrow.” Rasmussen slides out of the booth and tosses a few bills on the table. “It’s past my bedtime.” He looks at me. “Good to see you, Kate.” He turns his attention to Tomasetti. “See you in the morning.”

I watch Rasmussen walk away, but my attention is focused on Tomasetti. Tension creeps down the back of my neck and spreads into my shoulders.

“How are you, Kate?” His voice is deep and intimate, and I feel the rumble of it all the way to my stomach.

“I’m good.” I look at him. John Tomasetti has a powerful presence. Even more so from my perspective, because my feelings for him are fervent. We’re close, but sometimes I sense some unexplained chasm between us, unmapped territory, which feels vast tonight. “You could have told me you were coming.”

He smiles. “You mean warned you?”

I smile back. “That, too.”

“I called.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Then I got busy with Rasmussen. Didn’t want to call you when I was in the car with him.”

“Might have been awkward.”

“Kind of like now.” He softens the words with a smile.

I can’t help it; I laugh. “But we’re so good at awkward.”

“We’re good at a lot of things.”

“Just not surprises.”

“Even when they’re nice.”

Silence falls and Tomasetti lets it ride. I try going with it. I peel the label on my empty bottle. I listen to the music. Usually, silence doesn’t bother me. John and I have been through a lot together; I don’t need conversation to be comfortable. This is one of those times when the silence is like a tuning fork against a broken bone.

When I can stand it no longer, I ask, “How’s the move going?”

“I’m all moved in. Nice digs, by the way.”

“Have you found a place in Cleveland?”

He nods. “Rented a house by the lake.”

“Nice.”

But we’re both dancing around the real subject. The fact that he’s living back in the city where his family was murdered. A city where a lot of people—the cops included—suspect he went rogue and executed the men responsible. I want to ask him how he’s dealing with all that, but some inner voice warns me to tread lightly, give him some space.

McNarie arrives and sets two more Killian’s on the table between us. Frowning at me, Tomasetti slides the pack of cigarettes and lighter across the table toward McNarie. Smoothly, the old barkeep picks them up and drops them in his apron pocket. I give Tomasetti points for not lecturing me on all the dangers of smoking.

“Been here long?” he asks.

“About an hour.”

“You look tired.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m drunk.”

“I’ve noticed.” He sips his beer. “I guess the question is: Why?”

It’s an honest question—one I should probably be asking myself. But then, Tomasetti is one of the most honest people I’ve ever known. He asks the hard questions, even when he knows the person he’s asking probably doesn’t want to answer. He also gives honest answers, even when you don’t want to hear the truth. It’s not easy being his friend; it’s not easy caring for him. But he’s got me on both counts and then some.