Linda Castillo - Breaking Silence

The woman working next to him notices and stands up. “Hey!”

“We just got made,” I hiss.

Steele bolts.

“Shit,” I hear Tomasetti mutter, and then I’m running toward Steele.

“Halt! Police!” I shout. “Willie Steele! Stop!”

At the assembly line, a dozen faces turn to watch me as I sprint past them. Twenty feet ahead, Steele knocks over a stool, tosses a trayful of cylinders at me. “Fuck!” he shouts.

For such a big guy, he’s fast and agile. I’m running full out, but he’s still pulling away. Tomasetti is slightly ahead of me now. Wishing I hadn’t done those shots earlier, I hit my lapel mike, call for backup. If Steele gets out of the building and to his vehicle, he could get away.

Tomasetti and I are at an added disadvantage because Steele knows the layout of the building and we don’t. As long as we keep him in sight, we should be okay. Not an easy task when the guy runs like a freaking rhinoceros on speed.

He takes us toward a huge overhead door marked PAINT ROOM at the end of the walkway. He makes like he’s going to go right. I veer in the same direction, my arms pumping, my feet pounding the concrete. At the last minute, he goes left, and I lose another yard.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see employees coming off the lines to watch. The conveyer belts don’t wait, and oil-filter cylinders pile up and fall to the floor.

We’re running down another walkway now. A forklift backs into Steele’s path. Cursing the driver, Steele slams his fist into it, but he keeps moving and veers left. Tomasetti darts around the other way. I follow Steele, but I’m losing ground. Then we’re back on the walkway. Steele looks over his shoulder, spots Tomasetti.

“Fuckin’ cop,” he snarls, and darts right. Remembering what he did last time, I take a chance and veer left. At the end of the walkway, he darts left, too. I gain ten feet, almost close enough to tackle him. I’m focused, running as hard as I can, ready to take him down.

He cranks his head around. I’m so close, I can see his eyes widen when he spots me. I’m aware of Tomasetti off to my right, a few feet behind me. The forklift comes out of nowhere. Steele doesn’t have a snowball’s chance of avoiding it. At the last instant, he puts his hands out. The momentum of his body collapses his arms. His forehead clangs hollowly against the steel cage that protects the driver. Steele reels backward two steps, then goes down like a big rodeo bull. He slides along the concrete on his back, coming to rest against a support beam.

I reach him just as he raises his head. “Stay down!” I snap, tugging the cuffs from my belt. “On your belly! Now!”

“Wha…”

Grabbing his arm, I flip him over and kneel. “Shut up and give me your wrists.” Shoving my knee into his back, I reach for his hands. “Don’t move.”

“My fuckin’ head…”

“Serves you right.” His wrists are slick with sweat as I pull his hands behind his back and snap the cuffs into place.

Tomasetti slides to a stop next to me, kneels, and rams his knee against Steele’s back. “I’ll bet no one ever accuses you of being smart, do they?” he says to Steele.

The downed man groans. “What’d I hit?”

I rise and look around. A dozen factory workers have formed a circle around us, their eyes alight in anticipation of some late-night entertainment. Across from me, Tomasetti brushes dust from his trench coat. He’s breathing hard. I can tell by the look in his eye that he enjoyed the chase.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m good. How about you?”

“Most fun I’ve had all day.”

I’m smiling when I bend and grasp Steele’s arm. “Come on. Up and at ’em.” He outweighs me by a hundred pounds, but he feels as wobbly and frail as an old man when I pull him to his feet.

“I’m dizzy. I think I need a doctor.” Steele shakes his head, makes a show of blinking. He’s got a bump the size of a hen’s egg in the center of his forehead.

I look at Tomasetti. He rolls his eyes, then addresses Steele. “You ever hear the Chinese proverb about the steel dragon?” he asks.

“No, man.”

“Didn’t think so.” Taking Steele’s arm, he guides him toward the exit on the opposite side of the building.

I address the group of line workers. “Sorry for the disturbance, folks. Show’s over, so you may as well go back to work.”

A collective groan of disappointment emanates from the crowd.

I catch up with Tomasetti just as Steele asks, “So what’s the proverb say?”

“Translated, it says don’t ram your head into forklifts.”

Steele gives him an incredulous look. “That’s the stupidest fuckin’ proverb I ever heard.”

Two hours later, Rasmussen, Tomasetti, and I sit at the conference room table with a downcast Willie Steele. At first, he was belligerent, so we let him stew in a cell for an hour or so in the hope that when we started questioning him, he would be ready to talk. It worked. The earlier belligerence has given way to reticence. Or maybe he’s being coy. That’s all right, I think. It’s still early in the game.

The bump on his forehead now resembles a baby eggplant. I’m starting to wonder if we should have him transported to the hospital to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion. Not because I’m unduly concerned about Steele’s physical well-being, but I’ve learned that if a suspect’s health is in the hands of the police, they’d damn well better make sure he emerges in the same condition as when he came in.

A few minutes earlier, the warrant came through from Judge Siebenthaler. I dispatched Skid and Glock to pick it up, then head over to Steele’s apartment for a search. Hopefully, they’ll come back with some shoes or boots we can match to the footwear impressions from the scene.

When everyone’s ready, I hit the RECORD button on the digital machine and take a moment to identify all present and recite the date and time. Then I read Steele his Miranda rights. “Do you understand these rights?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

Everyone holds their collective breath, anticipating that Steele may exercise his right to an attorney, which would bring this to a grinding halt. Five seconds pass, then Tomasetti dives in with a harsh summary of Steele’s predicament, using the “We have a bunch of evidence against you, so you may as well start talking” approach. “We have a Skoal can with your fingerprints on it that places you at the scene of a murder.”

“What? Murder? ”

“We’ve got footprints that are going to match those boots we took off you.”

Steele gives him a red-eyed glare. “I didn’t kill anyone! What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The barn you torched? We found a dead guy inside.”

“What? We didn’t—”

“We’ve got you dead to rights,” Tomasetti points out. “We could charge you with first-degree murder right now. If the prosecutor wants to be a hard ass about it, he might even go for the death penalty.”

“Fuck you! I didn’t kill no one!”

“You’re going down, my man. You’ll be lucky to get life in prison. It’s a done deal. End of story. You getting all that?”

“I didn’t do no murder!” he cries.

“So if you’re feeling lucky today, go ahead and keep your big fat mouth shut.”

Steele jumps to his feet, slams his fists against the tabletop, jangling the cuff. “This is bullshit! I didn’t kill anyone!”

In an instant, Tomasetti is on his feet. Clamping his hand around the back of Steele’s neck, he shoves him back into the chair. “Sit the hell down, you piece of shit.”

Steele sits there, breathing hard, glaring up at Tomasetti. “You guys are railroading me.”