Linda Castillo - Pray for Silence

“Did you see any strangers?” I ask.

“No strangers.”

“What about cars or buggies? Did you hear any noises?”

“No.” Biting his lower lip, he looks at his father. “Is Mary okay, Datt ?”

I glance at William.

The Amish man grimaces, then sets his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Mary is in a good place, Billy. The whole family is.”

CHAPTER 6

John Tomasetti arrived at BCI Headquarters at the Rhoades State Office Tower in downtown Columbus at just before nine A.M. He should have been thinking about his agenda for the day: the presentation he was supposed to give to a group of sheriffs that afternoon at the Marriott in Worthington, an interview at the Franklin County Correction Center down on Front Street with a suspect involved in the shooting death of a kindergarten teacher.

But Tomasetti’s thoughts weren’t on the day ahead of him as he stepped off the elevator on the fourteenth floor and headed toward his office. He’d been thinking about Chief of Police Kate Burkholder since her earlier call and a case that would take him back to Painters Mill. They’d kept in touch, but he hadn’t seen her for almost two months. Things had been good between them—the friendship, the sex—but as was usually the case, distance had intervened. Or maybe things had been progressing a little too fast and with a little too much intensity. Kate was cautious, after all. That was one of many things he liked about her.

Tomasetti, on the other hand, had been dealing with other issues. Working through them. Trying to get his shit together. Or so he’d hoped. Regardless, he wanted to see her. He’d been looking for an excuse to drive down. They worked well together, and it sounded like she could use the help.

It bothered him that she’d hesitated to ask. Tomasetti knew what she was thinking. That he couldn’t handle it. That walking into a case where a family with kids had been murdered would hit too close to home. Maybe she was right. Maybe this case would be like walking into his worst nightmare. Or maybe this was just one more hurdle on top of a hundred others he still needed to scale.

He was ruminating his options when he found Special Agent Supervisor Denny McNinch waiting outside his office door, pretending to look at the sleekly framed circa 1947 photograph of downtown Columbus perched on the wall like an old piece of siding.

“Morning.” Denny shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and tried to look innocuous. “You got a minute?”

Tomasetti had been around long enough to know there was nothing even remotely harmless any time Denny showed up at your office before nine A.M. “Sure. Come in. Have a seat.”

“In the conference room, John.”

Uh-oh, he thought. The conference room was reserved for the big stuff. Hirings. Firings. Corporate-style powwows that entailed lots of forms in legalese, personnel files brimming with bureaucratic paper and, of course, the covering of managerial asses. It wasn’t the first time he’d been summoned there.

Tomasetti made eye contact and smiled. “Do I need my lawyer?”

McNinch chuckled at the quip, but it was a humorless sound that conjured a deep sense of foreboding in Tomasetti’s gut. “Not even your lawyer can help you this time, partner.”

“Well, that’s good to know.”

They walked side by side down the hall, past cubicles where pretty administrative assistants stared at computer monitors and French-manicured nails pounded keyboards. He could feel their eyes on him, their collective curiosities pricking him like knives. Good fodder for lunchtime gossip.

Tomasetti didn’t like the idea of walking into something unprepared. Since the Slaughterhouse Murders case ten months ago, he’d worked hard to clean up his act. He’d stopped taking the drugs his doctors had prescribed. He’d cut down on the drinking. He’d stopped thinking about putting his gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. His work on the Slaughterhouse case had earned him a commendation and gone a long way toward restoring a reputation of which he’d once been proud.

But it had been more than just the case that had saved him from self-annihilation. He may not have survived if it hadn’t been for Kate. Somehow, she’d managed to cut through the bullshit when no one else had been able to reach him. She made him want to be a cop again. Made him want to live. Made him want to be a man.

They reached the austere mahogany doors of conference room one. It was then that he knew this was no impromptu morning chat. He’d always known it was only a matter of time before his transgressions of the past caught up with him. When Denny shoved open the door, Tomasetti knew his day of reckoning had arrived.

Deputy Superintendent Jason Rummel stood at the glossy conference table, looking down at a smattering of papers spread out before him. He smiled when he saw Tomasetti. “Morning, John.”

Too friendly, Tomasetti thought, and figured the meeting was going to be worse than he’d anticipated. “Morning.”

Crossing to him, Rummel extended his hand and they shook. He was a short, wiry man with a pale complexion and a mustache that looked as if it had been fashioned by Adolf Hitler’s barber. “We’re glad you’re here.”

Tomasetti was vaguely aware of the vista of downtown Columbus through the window. The podium affixed with the seal of the great state of Ohio shoved into a corner. The flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. On the opposite side of the table, Human Resources Director Ruth Bogart had already set up shop. He recognized his thick and battered personnel file on the glossy surface in front of her. Next to his file were two pens, a legal pad, several ominous-looking forms and a Starbucks coffee mug smeared with lipstick.

Bogart wore a burgundy power suit with a hint of white lace at the neckline. She looked at him over the bifocals perched on her nose and smiled in a way that reminded him of a coral snake, right before it sank its fangs into you.

Rummel took a seat at the head of the table, reminding everyone he was the man in charge. Behind him, Denny closed the conference room door with an audible click, shutting them in. Tomasetti wondered if they were psyching him out. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, he might have laughed at the absurdity of it. Back when he’d worked vice with the Cleveland Division of Police, he’d spent many an hour in interview rooms, psyching out perps. He didn’t much like being on the receiving end.

Tomasetti sat across from Bogart. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”

She ignored him. Rummel cleared his throat. “You’re a good agent, John. One of the best we have. I know we’ve had our differences over the last year or so, but I want you to know I have the utmost respect for you as a professional.”

All Tomasetti could think was that the axe was about to fall. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling in anticipation of the blade. That’s how Jason Rummel operated. Butter them up, then sink the knife in good and deep.

Knowing the value of playing the game, Tomasetti focused his gaze on the photo of the attorney general framed in gold leaf above Rummel’s head. “I appreciate that,” he said.

“I know that last case took a toll, John. Professionally. Personally.” Rummel grimaced. “I know the timing on the whole thing was bad.”

The words were a euphemism for the untimely murders of Tomasetti’s wife and two young daughters two and a half years earlier. People used euphemisms when they didn’t want to say the real thing. This time, because the reality of what happened was too terrible to say aloud. Tomasetti had no use for euphemisms, so he remained silent.

“I want you to know we take care of our agents here at BCI,” Bogart added.