Linda Castillo - Pray for Silence

I get in his face. “That’s right. We’re desperate. We can make things desperate for you, too, since you’re on parole. So if I were you, I’d get real serious about cooperating.”

“Okay, okay.” For the first time, he appears uncertain. “Look, I got off work around four. Went home to shower and change—”

“Where’s home?”

“I live with my brother. On the farm.”

“Then what?”

“I came here. Had a few drinks. Stayed until closing.”

“Do you know any members of the Plank family?”

“I’m not trying to be a smart-ass or anything, but the Amish and I don’t run in the same circles.”

“Are any of your drug-dealing buddies whacked out enough to kill an entire family?”

He looks at me as if I’ve just asked him to chop off his little toe. I know the one thing he won’t talk about are his druggie friends. Even among thieves, there is a code of honor. If that’s what you want to call it, anyway.

“Look it, I got a job now. I’m legit.”

I roll my eyes. “Everyone knows you and your brother are cooking meth at the farm.”

“That’s bullshit. A bunch of damn rumors from people who don’t like us.”

“Do yourself a favor and answer the question, Drew. Have you heard anything? Are any of your freaky friends desperate enough to do something like that?”

“I don’t have any freaky friends. I’m outta the drug business. I learned my lesson.” For the first time he looks rattled. Joe Cool losing his cool.

“You’re full of shit.” I jab my finger in his shoulder hard enough to send him back a step.

“Hey.” He knows I’m daring him to make a move, but he doesn’t take the bait. He’s too smart to hit a cop.

“What about your brother?” I ask.

“He don’t run with the dealers no more, either. I swear.”

“Give me a name.” I jab his shoulder with my finger again, harder this time. Vaguely, I’m aware people are staring at us. Happy hour revelers giving us a wide berth. “Give me one name.”

“I don’t know anyone.” He takes another step back. “Not even the hardcore guys would do something like that. Seven people? And for what? Fifty bucks? No way.”

He’s right, but I’m not ready to let him off the hook. I have a particularly strong dislike for drug dealers. “Don’t leave town, Drew.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sooner or later, you will.” I step closer and whisper. “When you do, I’ll be waiting.”

His face darkens. A tick quivers beneath his right cheekbone. In that instant, I catch a glimpse of the man beneath the I’m-just-a-farm-boy façade, and I know that if I didn’t have a badge and a gun he’d wrap his fingers around my neck and kill me with his bare hands.

I smile at him. “See you around.”

His cheek quivers; he doesn’t smile back.

As I walk away, I hear him mutter something nasty about Amish cops behind my back. Pickles starts toward him, but I snag his jacket and keep him with me. “Let it go.”

“I don’t like that son of a bitch’s mouth,” he grumbles.

“Don’t worry, Pickles. If either of the Krause boys had anything to do with this, they’ll get what’s coming to them even if I have to dish it out myself.”

CHAPTER 9

Neither Painters Mill nor Millersburg have a morgue per se, so when an autopsy is required, bodies are transported to Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg, which has morgue facilities and now receives funding from two neighboring counties.

It’s nearly six P.M. when I pull into the lot and park illegally in the emergency parking area. I’m hyperaware of the passage of time as I stride through the glass doors. The day is nearly gone and I’ve accomplished only a fraction of what I’d intended. I’d planned to speak to the manager at the tourist shop where Mary Plank worked, but I got tied up with other things and now it will have to wait until tomorrow.

A young African-American man waves at me from the information desk as I pass. I return the wave and head directly to the elevator that will take me to the basement. I’ve visited this part of the hospital more times than I want to recall in the last year. I keep hoping I’ll get used to the sights and smells of death, but I don’t think I ever will.

The elevator doors whisper open and I step into a hushed tiled hall. I pass a yellow and black biohazard sign and a plaque that reads: Morgue Authorized Personnel. At the end of the hall, I push open dual swinging doors and find myself in yet another hall. A middle-aged woman in a red power suit looks up from her computer when I enter. “Chief Burkholder?”

“Yes.” I extend my hand and we shake.

“Doc Coblentz is expecting you.”

The nameplate on her desk tells me her name is Carmen Anderson. “You must be his new assistant.”

“I’m part of the new budget. Started last Tuesday.”

I glance toward the door that will take me to the morgue foyer. “Hell of a way to start your first week.”

“Doc says it’s the first time he’s had a full house since that semi hit that family out on the highway three years ago.” She grimaces. “You guys know who did it yet?”

“We’re working on it.” I motion toward the door. “Is the tech still here?”

“Oh, yeah.” She smiles. “Cute kid. He ought to be on soaps instead of hanging out with a bunch of dead people.”

I feel a tad more upbeat as I go through the swinging doors. The autopsy room is straight ahead. To my right is a small alcove where the doc stores supplies, including biohazard protection. To my left, I see Doc Coblentz’s glassed-in office. As usual, the mini-blinds are open. He’s sitting at his desk. A young man wearing lavender scrubs sits in the visitor chair jotting notes on a chart. Both men look up as I cross to the office door.

Rising, Doc Coblentz extends his hand. “Chief Burkholder.”

The technician stands. The receptionist is right; he’s cute. And he looks young enough to be in high school. Or maybe I’m just getting older. “I’m Dr. Rohrbacher,” he says.

“You look too young to be a doctor,” I comment.

“I get that a lot.” He offers a Whitestrip smile. “I always tell people I began my residency when I was fourteen.”

“The real Doogie Howser.” I smile back, but it feels stiff on my face. My mind has already strayed to the dead family in the next room and the chore ahead. “You guys have anything for me?”

“We’ve completed two of the autopsies.” Rising, Doc Coblentz motions toward the hall. “You know the drill.”

I go directly to the alcove and don the requisite disposable shoe covers, a blue gown, hair cap, and latex gloves. The men, gowned, gloved and capped, are waiting for me when I emerge.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” Doc Coblentz says as we move down the hall. “We finally got budget approved for fresh paint.”

At the end of the hall, I notice the stepladder, drop cloth and institutional blue paint. “I like the blue better than the gray,” I say.

“It’s supposed to be a calming color.” Coblentz pushes open the swinging doors.

I don’t feel very calm as we enter the autopsy room. It’s one place most cops go to great lengths to avoid. When I worked homicide in Columbus, I saw more than one veteran detective ralph his breakfast or break down and cry. Tough guys who would rather shoot themselves in the leg than display any kind of perceived weakness. My own response to death is visceral and more emotional than physical, especially when it comes to murder. I can only describe it as an intense feeling of outrage and a sense of indignation that burrows under my skin like some giant parasite. No matter how hard I try to keep those emotions at bay, they dog me day and night until the case is solved.