Linda Castillo - Breaking Silence

The ambulance pulls up behind Tomasetti’s Tahoe. We watch the two paramedics open the rear doors and unload the gurney. They roll it across the road to the bar ditch and kick down the brake. One of the men kneels next to Lambright and begins a field assessment. The other, a freckle-faced man with a red goatee, approaches Tomasetti and me. “What ya got, Chief?”

“Assault,” I say. “Hypothermia. Frostbite, maybe. He’s been out in the cold all night.”

“Cold night. He’s lucky.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “You guys know who did it?”

“We’re working on it.” That’s my standard answer in situations where I don’t know squat.

Tomasetti and I stand in the dirty snow and watch the two paramedics load Lambright onto the gurney. The Amish man makes eye contact with me briefly as they roll him across the asphalt. I stare back, letting him know I’m not happy with his lack of cooperation.

That’s when I realize I’ve yet to make good on my promise to take care of the horse. It’s been standing all night with nothing to eat or drink. “I need to unhitch the horse,” I say.

Tomasetti arches a brow. “Can’t help you there.”

I cross to the animal, moving slowly, my hand outstretched. “Whoa, boy. Whoa.”

It’s an old gelding with a sorrel coat and the kind eyes of a working animal. Stepping into the mud, I set my hand against the animal’s neck, then run both hands over its shoulder and down both front legs, checking for injuries. Finding none, I go to work on the harness. Having tacked up our own horses many times as a girl, I let the dormant memories come rushing back. I unbuckle the crupper and girth, unfasten the shaft tugs, pull the long reins through the guides, then lift the collar over the animal’s head. In a couple of minutes, the horse is free of the buggy. I lead him to a gnarled fence post, use the scissor snap to attach one of the reins to the halter beneath his bridle, and tie him until a neighbor arrives to walk him home.

I turn back to the street, to find Tomasetti watching me. “You’re pretty good at that.”

“Lots of practice as a kid.”

“I’m impressed.”

But I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that the horse is the last thing on his mind. “What are you thinking?”

“I was just thinking about connections.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “You have my attention.”

He moves closer, his eyes meeting mine. “You mentioned earlier you had considered the possibility that these hate crimes are related to the Slabaugh case. Do you still think that’s a possibility?”

“I’m not sure,” I tell him. “They feel different.”

The statement doesn’t need any explanation, not for Tomasetti. And he doesn’t dispute it. “I agree. But maybe we shouldn’t close the door on the possibility.”

The frustration I’d been feeling earlier transforms into something edgy and uncomfortable. “What’s your angle?”

“What if the Slabaugh murders weren’t intentional?” He shrugs. “What if it started out as a hate crime? The situation somehow got out of control. Things went too far.”

My mind takes the turn into territory I don’t want to venture and runs with it. “Maybe whoever pushed them into the pit didn’t know about the dangerous gases. Maybe they didn’t realize the outcome would be fatal.”

He nods. “Rachael Slabaugh tried to get the two men out of the pit and was overcome by the methane gas.”

“Collateral damage.” I consider the implications of that. “I don’t know, Tomasetti. If the deaths weren’t intentional, it seems logical that the person or group responsible would stop now that the police are all over it.”

“Unless they liked it. Or decided those deaths weren’t such a bad thing. A benefit to their cause.”

“That puts all of this into a whole new category.”

“A really ugly one.”

“Not to mention dangerous.” I glance over at the trampled snow where a young Amish man nearly froze to death, and I shiver. Everything Tomasetti said runs through my head like a ticker tape streaming bad news. “Why not just kill him outright, since they’ve already crossed that line?”

“A few more hours and he might not have made it.”

I nod without enthusiasm. “I’m not convinced it’s a viable theory, but I’ll keep an open mind.”

“Something to think about,” he says.

Watching the ambulance pull away, I find myself wondering if he’s right, if they’ll strike again, and what they’ll do next time.

CHAPTER 10

An outdoor scene that’s been trampled and is spread over a large area is extremely difficult to process. Tomasetti called his office and requested a CSU, but none of us are too optimistic they’ll glean anything useful. Sheriff Rasmussen arrived a short while after the ambulance left. We’re basically standing around doing nothing, so I call Glock and send him and Pickles out to canvass the area farms, in the hope that one of the neighbors saw something. But with the area being heavily wooded and the houses more than a mile apart, the prospect of a witness is not very promising.

It’s nearly noon when my cell phone chirps. Pickles says, “Chief, Glock and I are out here at Dickey Allen’s place. We were asking him about the buggy incident, and we got to talking about the Slabaughs. He told us Solly Slabaugh used to hire a guy by the name of Ricky Coulter to do odd jobs around the farm. I ain’t run him through LEADS yet, but if I recall, he’s had some problems with the law.”

That’s the way cases usually go. You get a break from some unlikely source when you’re least expecting it. It’s kind of like falling in love, without all the insanity. “I’ll go talk to him.” I pull out my keys, make eye contact with Tomasetti, and motion toward my vehicle. “Any of the neighbors see anything?” I ask Pickles.

“Not a damn thing.”

“Keep at it.”

I ring off, clip my phone onto my belt. I’m walking fast, energized by the possibility of a break in the case. Tomasetti falls in beside me. “You get something?”

“The name of a guy who did some work for Slabaugh.”

“Sounds promising.”

“A break would be nice.”

We reach the Explorer. “What about your vehicle?” I ask.

“I’ll pick it up after we talk to Coulter.”

“Fair enough.” We climb inside and I pull onto Township Road.

“Wouldn’t be the first time some lowlife killed the guy who signed his paycheck,” Tomasetti says.

“Who says crime doesn’t pay?”

I call Lois for Coulter’s most current address as I head toward the highway. She punches his name into LEADS and discovers he did time at the Mansfield Correctional Institution for burglarizing his place of employment, a tire shop, where he stole some tools and two hundred dollars in petty cash.

“Raiding the till to triple murder is one hell of a leap,” Tomasetti comments.

“Yeah, but not implausible.”

“What’s your theory?”

“Maybe Coulter planned to rob Slabaugh. Maybe he wasn’t expecting the brother to be there. Abel was visiting, remember? Anyway, let’s say Coulter showed up. The three men had a confrontation. Things got physical. Coulter pushed them into the pit, then panicked and ran.”

Tomasetti takes over. “Rachael Slabaugh shows up. Tries to save her husband, but the methane gets to her and she falls into the pit.”

“What about the missing cash in the mason jar?” I ask.

“Maybe he hit the house on the way out, once everyone was in the barn.”

“Pretty cold-blooded.”

“Yeah.”

We look at each other, our minds churning. It’s a good supposition. But is it right?

Coulter lives in a small frame house a block from the railroad tracks and grain elevator. The dank, salty smell of the nearby slaughterhouse wafts into the Explorer as I pull up to the curb. An old Ford Thunderbird with wide tires, aluminum wheels, and oxidized black paint sits in the driveway, a tribute to the muscle cars of the 1970s.