Linda Castillo - Pray for Silence

I touch his shoulder. “Of course.”

As I drive away, I feel as if I know even less than when I started. Who were the Planks? Why did they leave Lancaster County? Why was Bonnie worried about her daughter?

The questions taunt me, but I have no answers. The one thing of which I’m fairly certain is that the Plank family left behind secrets. Where there is a secret, there will be a revelation.

I drop Glock at the Plank farm with instructions to assist the crime scene unit from BCI. The CSU will process the scene, dust for latent prints, collect blood evidence and footwear imprints, bag any hair and fibers and whatever else they can find. I know it’s petty in light of the loss of life, but I find myself watching for John Tomasetti’s Tahoe. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed when he doesn’t show. In my current frame of mind, I’m probably better off not analyzing my feelings too closely.

On my way to the police station, I call Lois, my first shift dispatcher, and ask her to let all of my officers know there will be a briefing at the station in an hour so I can bring them up to speed on the case.

As I drive through downtown Painters Mill, life goes on as usual. I pass by the Carriage Stop Country Store where Mary Plank worked part time. I’m tempted to pull in, but I know the store isn’t open for another twenty minutes, so I keep going. On the steps of the City Building, Mayor Auggie Brock and Councilman Norm Johnston are in the midst of some gesticulation-inducing exchange. Auggie spots me and waves; Norm pretends not to see me, which makes me sigh. His daughter was the victim of a serial killer last January. He didn’t agree with the way I was investigating the case, and to this day he blames me for her death. One more demon riding my back, spurring and whipping, keeping all the others company.

Down the street, Tom Skanks, owner of the Butterhorn Bakery, squeegees the front display window with the verve of a New York City high-rise window washer. The elderly Farmer brothers sit in steel chairs on the sidewalk in front of the hardware store and argue over their morning chess game.

I should be comforted by the constancy of our existence. The routine of small town life. The prettiness of the town. The friendliness of the people I’ve sworn to protect and serve. Instead, I feel strangely indignant that life continues on with so little interruption when just down the road a family of seven has been wiped off the face of the earth.

The predator inside me has been roused. I look upon every man, woman and child with hard-edged suspicion. Maybe because I know the possibility exists that hidden somewhere behind all this normalcy, a monster roams.

The police station is housed in a century-old red brick building that had once been a dancehall. It’s sweltering in the summer and cold as a meat locker in winter. But it’s my second home; the people who work for me are my family. At this moment, I’m unduly thankful for them.

I enter to find both my day- and night-shift dispatchers at the window that faces the street. Lois Monroe is about fifty years old with pretty blue eyes and a disposition as prickly as her overprocessed hair. She might look like someone’s mom, but I’ve seen her put more than one cocky young cop in his place. Mona Kurtz, on the other hand, is twenty-four going on sixteen with a head full of wild red ringlets and a personality that matches her hair to a T. Working on an associate’s degree in criminology, she’s totally enamored with all facets of law enforcement—and doesn’t mind working third shift. Neither woman is perfect, but they keep the police station up and running.

Mona is kneeling at the window, braced, with her hands on the sill, straining to open it. Lois is using the heel of her practical shoe to tap on the seal, trying to break it loose.

“I’m afraid to ask what you’re doing,” I say as I pass the dispatch station.

Both women turn at the sound of my voice.

“Oh, hey, Chief.” Mona grins. “We’re trying to get the window open.”

“It’s hot in here,” Lois adds.

“She’s having another hot flash.”

Lois wipes her forehead. “If I don’t get cooled off I’m going to have to call the fire department.”

I steer clear of the hot flash comment. “You look like a couple of inmates trying to break out of jail.” Reaching over the top of the desk, I grab messages from my slot. “Mona, did you hear back from Lancaster County?”

She crosses to me, and I try not to notice the black tights, red miniskirt and little black boots. “The sheriff’s office checked the names over the phone and sent a couple of deputies to some of the Amish farms. I haven’t heard back.”

“Call them again. The Planks have got to have relatives somewhere.” Notifying NOK is one of the most difficult aspects of my job. There’s nothing I’d hate more than for someone to find out about a family member’s death from the six o’clock news.

“Any media inquiries?” I ask.

“Steve Ressler,” Mona replies. “Channel eighty-two in Columbus. Radio station in Wooster. The usual suspects.”

Lois sighs. “I swear the gossips in this town are the best informed people in the world. Everyone’s got everyone else on speed dial.”

“Text messaging.” Sliding behind her desk, Mona pulls the headset over her head. “It’s faster.”

“Our official response is ‘no comment,’ ” I tell them.

Mona puts her hand over the mouthpiece of her headset. “What’s your unofficial response?”

“We don’t know shit.”

She gives me a smile.

“I’ll have a press release ready this afternoon.” I turn my attention to Lois. “Glock’ll get that window for you.”

“If he can’t get it open, I guess he can always shoot it.” She gives the window a final whack, then gives me a sage look. “You guys have any idea who killed that poor family?”

“The devil himself, more than likely,” I say and head toward my office.

An hour later, I’m sitting behind my desk thinking about murder. Ten months ago, I faced my first truly unfathomable case. The Slaughterhouse Killer investigation tested me to my limits, both professionally and personally. But while the case was a tough one, the fact that we were dealing with a serial murderer made him predictable to a degree. I knew his motive. His modus operandi. I knew he couldn’t stop. And I knew that eventually his dark compulsion would lead him to make a mistake. The case nearly cost me my life, but in the end, I got him.

This case promises to be different. I don’t have any parameters to guide me. No motive. No suspect. All I have to work with is a slaughtered family, a crime scene that has been stingy with evidence, and a jumble of unanswered questions.

“You look like you could use this.”

I start at the sound of Glock’s voice and look up to see him standing just inside my office, holding a brown paper bag from the diner. “If you’re angling for a raise, you’re on the right track,” I say.

“Being married has taught me two things, Chief.”

I smile. “Just two?”

He smiles back. “Understanding a woman begins with knowing what she wants even before she asks.”

“Not bad.” I take the bag from him. “What’s the second thing?”

“When in doubt, bring food.”

“You’re a wise man, Glock.”

“My wife thinks so.” He takes one of two visitor chairs. “Some of the time, anyway.”

I smell chili as I unpack the Styrofoam bowl, paper napkin and plastic spoon. The rest of my team shuffles in. Skid looks like he hasn’t slept for two days. I know third shift has been hard on him. It was the only way I could think of to discipline him for mishandling a drunk-and-disorderly case a couple of months back. Pickles smells like cigarette smoke and looks as content as a sixth grader at recess as he drags in a chair. T.J. brings up the rear. He’s my youngest officer and the only one of us who’s had any decent sleep.