Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

“In that case come in.”

T.J. enters and approaches my desk. “Hamburger with pickles, hold the onions. Large fries and a Diet Coke.”

The aroma elicits a grumble from my stomach. I smile as I reach for the bag. “If you weren’t already engaged, I’d ask you to marry me.”

“Sustenance, Chief. You gotta eat.” But he blushes.

Behind him, Glock appears holding four biggie coffees in a cardboard carrying tray. “I got the caffeine.”

I unpack my lunch as Skid drags in a folding chair. I steal a few bites of the hamburger as the men take their seats. “We’ve gotta catch this guy,” I begin.

Glock sets his coffee on the edge of my desk. “So is it the same guy from before or not?”

I shake my head. “We can’t operate under that assumption.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t want to limit ourselves.” I don’t believe that. But I can’t reveal that the murderer from the early nineties is dead—if that is the case. I hate it, but I have no choice but to lie to my team. “We could have a copycat.”

“That’d be pretty fuckin’ strange,” Skid says between bites.

“The one thing we can assume is that we probably have a serial murderer on our hands. This was no crime of passion. He was organized. Deliberate.”

The room goes so quiet I hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.

“So you think he’s going to kill again?” T.J. asks.

“That’s what he does. He kills. He’s good at it. He likes it.” I sip my Coke. “And it’ll happen right here in Painters Mill unless he moves on to another town.”

“Or we get him first,” Glock adds.

I set my drink on my desk. “We’ve got to pull out all the stops, guys. That means mandatory overtime.”

Three heads nod, and it’s reassuring to know I have the support of my small force. I look down at my hastily scratched notes. “I’ve got Mona working on a list of abandoned properties in the two-county area. T.J., where are you on the condoms?”

“Manager of the Super Value gave me the names of the two guys who paid with checks.” He glances at his palm-size notebook. “Justin Myers and Greg Milhauser. As soon as we finish up here I’m going to talk to them.”

“Good. What about the cash guy?”

“Manager is going to get me copies of video first thing in the morning.”

“We need it now.”

T.J.’s expression turns sheepish. “His daughter is having some kind of birthday party tonight.”

“Call him. Tell him you need that tape yesterday. If he balks, tell him we’ll get a search warrant and he’ll be scraping produce off the floor for a month.”

“Got it.”

“Once you get the tape, I need the cash guy identified. This is a small town. It shouldn’t be too hard.” I turn my attention to Glock. “What about the tire tread and footwear imprints?”

“I had them couriered to BCI. I’m still working on getting imprints of city vehicles and footwear. Probably be another courier fee, Chief.”

“Don’t worry about the budget. How soon can you finish?”

“Today. If you guys give me a shoe imprint before you leave this meeting, that would be great.”

“You got a kit?”

“I’ll just use an ink roller and put them on paper if that’s all right.”

“Should be good enough for a comparison analysis.” I think about that for a moment. “Did BCI give you a time frame?”

“Two days. Three max.”

“Tell them we want priority or I’ll call the attorney general and have him light a fire.”

Glock nods. “Okay.”

My mind jumps to the next subject. “You getting background checks on those people at the bar?”

“A few have come back.” Glock opens a tattered folder. “Aside from Connie Spencer, the only other hit that came back is for a guy by the name of Scott Brower.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Thirty-two years old. High school dropout. Worked at the oil filter factory down in Millersburg, but he got into some kind of altercation with his boss, threatened to cut her throat.”

“Nice guy,” T.J. says.

“I bet he didn’t get the raise,” Skid comments.

Glock meets my gaze. “Boss was female. Anyway, he’s been working as a mechanic over at the Mr. Lube.”

“Did the factory press charges for the threats?” I ask.

“Fired him, but there were no charges filed.”

“Any arrests?”

“Four. Two were domestics. One for slugging a guy in a bar in Columbus. The other he pulled a knife on a guy in a bar in Kingsport, Tennessee.”

“Sounds like Mr. Brower has a penchant for knives.”

“And bars,” Skid interjects.

“Not to mention a problem with women,” Glock adds.

I nod. “You got a current address?”

Glock rattles off the address of a downtrodden apartment complex on the west side of town.

“He ever work at the slaughterhouse?” I ask.

“HR says no.”

“See if he’s got a juvie rec. I’ll pay him a visit.”

Glock looks mildly concerned. “Alone?”

“We don’t have the manpower to work in teams.”

“Chief, with all due respect, this guy seems to have problems with women in places of authority.”

“Yeah, well, I have my .38 to back me up in case he mistakes me for the weaker sex.”

Skid gives a raucous laugh.

Impatient, I tap my pen against my notes. “What about Donny Beck?” I ask Glock.

“Squeaky clean.”

“Go talk to his friends and family. I’ll rattle his cage a little. See if he has an alibi.”

He gives me a thumbs-up.

I transfer my attention to Skid, who’s slumped in his chair like a sleepdeprived tenth grader in study hall. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair looks like it hasn’t been washed for a couple of days. He hasn’t shaved. He straightens when I address him. “I want you to finish interviewing the rest of the people at the bar. And I want background reports on the Horners.”

“You think they—”

“No,” I cut in. “But we leave no stone unturned.”

Skid nods.

“Lois and Mona can help you guys type up your reports,” I say. “Document everything.”

I contemplate my team. All three men are good cops, but only two are experienced. I have a good bit of experience myself. But mine is mostly limited to patrol. I worked a total of four homicides during my stint in Columbus. God help us is all I can think.

“Recap.” I lean back in my chair. “People of interest?”

“Scott Brower,” Glock says.

“The three condom guys,” Skid adds.

“Donny Beck,” I say.

T.J. pipes up. “The Slaughterhouse Killer.”

If I totally dismiss the old case, I risk appearing incompetent. “I pulled the file,” I say. “Doc Coblentz is sending the complete autopsy reports. I’d like for each of you to familiarize yourself with the details of the case.”

Glock nibbles the cap of his pen. “Let’s say it is the Slaughterhouse guy. What’s up with the lapse in activity? And wasn’t the Roman numeral IX carved into the last victim?”

“So what happened to ten through twenty-two?” Skid asks no one in particular.

“Maybe he’s been a busy boy somewhere else,” Glock surmises.

“Or he wants the cops to think that,” T.J. offers.

I cut in before the conversation takes a turn I don’t want it to take. “I’ve got some database queries going for similar crimes. If he changed locales and used the same signature, we’ll get a hit.”

“He could have been arrested on some unrelated charge,” Skid puts in. “Went to jail, did his time, and was recently released.”

I meet his gaze. “Follow up on that. Check with DRC.” DRC is the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections. I hate wasting his time on a ruse, but I have no choice. “Get a list of names for all male inmates released in the last six months, between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five years of age.”