Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

“Oh, John—”

He cut her off. “I knew that tape would be deemed inadmissible.” He blew out a breath, wiped his wet palms on his slacks. “I didn’t plan to kill him, Kate. All I wanted was the confession. But when he told me what he did to them . . . it was like I stepped out of my body. I watched while someone else doused that sick motherfucker with gas and burned him alive.”

John could feel the tremors wracking his body. His breaths shuddered out like stifled sobs. The sound was inordinately loud in the silence of the house. When he held out his hands, they shook uncontrollably, so he set them on the table in front of him, looked Kate square in the eye and told her what he’d never told another human being. “I watched Vespian burn, and I didn’t feel a goddamn thing but satisfaction.”

She blinked rapidly, but it wasn’t enough to stanch the flow of tears. Her hand shook when she wiped them away.

“Now you know what kind of man you slept with tonight,” he said. “You know what I did. Why I did it.” He shrugged. “Poetic justice? Cop gone bad? Or just plain murder in the first degree?”

For the span of several heartbeats, the only sound came from his quickened breathing and the howl of the wind around the eaves. After a moment, Kate cleared her throat. “Did the cops know you did it?”

“They suspected me from the get-go. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to connect the dots. It didn’t take long for the cops to start sniffing around.” He forced a smile. “But I was careful. I didn’t leave them anything to work with. All they had was circumstantial crap.”

“Enough to put you before a grand jury.”

“Yeah, but it took that jury less than an hour to hand down a no bill.” He smiled. “You see, the real evidence was against Vespian’s partner. I know because I planted it. That wasn’t in the papers.”

“Vespian’s partner was eventually tried and convicted.”

“He’s serving a life sentence in the federal pen in Terre Haute.” He smiled. “Now that is poetic justice.”

“What did you do after that?”

“Got my old job back. Deskwork because they thought I was a menace to society. I’d crossed a line, Kate. Big fuckin’ line. Once you do that, you can’t go back. The brass wanted me gone. They made life tough. Eventually, they got their wish.”

“How did you end up at BCI?”

“Technically, I had a clean record. I think the commander was so glad to wash his hands of me, he pulled some strings, got me hired. What the hell else are you going to do with a psycho, corrupt, highly decorated police detective?”

“Ship him off to a place where he can’t cause any problems.”

“Exactly.” He looked away, grimaced. “But we both know problems have a way of following you around. I’m pretty much washed up at BCI. That stigma thing. Too much baggage . . .” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Not to mention the booze and drugs.”

“John.” She said his name with sympathy. “How bad?”

“Shrinks handed out prescriptions like candy, trying to figure out how to fix me. I was more than happy to oblige.”

He hated the disappointment he saw in her eyes. But Kate wasn’t the first person he’d disappointed in the last year. He’d disappointed just about everyone he knew, including himself.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

“Let’s just say I’m a work in progress.” John rose. Her eyes widened when he stepped close. Wrapping his fingers around her biceps, he eased her to her feet and looked down at her.

“Being with you,” he said. “Like this. Working with you. It helped, Kate. It made me feel things I haven’t felt in a long time. I want you to know that.”

“I do,” she said. “I know.”

CHAPTER 31

The blast of the phone wrenches me from a fitful slumber. Rolling, I reach for it before I’m fully awake. “Yeah.”

“Is this Chief Kate Burkholder?”

For a fraction of a second, I’m still the chief of police, and someone is calling with a break in the case. But it’s only the remnants of sleep tickling my fancy. In the next instant I remember I was fired. I remember Jonas Hershberger was arrested. I remember sleeping with John Tomasetti.

I sit up. “Yes, I’m Kate Burkholder.”

“This is Teresa Cardona. I’m a crime analyst with BCI. John Tomasetti asked me to forward the VICAP summary report to you.”

I sense John’s absence. The house has that empty feel I’m so accustomed to. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I reach for my robe. “Yes, I’m anxious to see it.”

“I don’t have your e-mail address.”

I rattle off the address. “How quickly can you send it?”

“How about right now?”

“That would be great. Thanks.” I hang up feeling both excited and deflated. The good news is I’ll finally have the crime-matching information I need. I don’t want to examine too closely the cause of the latter. It would be easier, simpler, to believe the pang in my chest is from the loss of my job and the probable end of my law enforcement career. But I’m honest enough with myself to admit it has more to do with John’s departure without so much as a good-bye. I resolve not to dwell. I’ve got enough on my plate this morning without adding a heap of morning-after jitters.

Ten minutes later, armed with a cup of coffee, I’m at my desk in the spare bedroom, opening my e-mail program. Sure enough, I find an e-mail from T. Cardona. I click on the attachment and download a pdf file named: paintm-lOH_inquiry53367vsumrpt.pdf. One hundred and thirty-five pages of detail fills my screen. An endless stream of Victim Information, Types of Trauma Inflicted on Victim, Offender’s Sexual Interaction, Weapon Information, and dozens of other criteria. It’s going to take a lot of coffee to get me through all that information.

I start with Types of Trauma Inflicted on Victim . By noon, I’m wired on coffee, information overload, and a growing case of cabin fever. I try to stay focused on the case, but my thoughts stray repeatedly to John. Last night was an anomaly for me. Maybe it’s a remnant of my Amish upbringing, but sleeping with a man is a big deal to me. I can’t stop thinking about him. About everything we shared. And everything that was said.

Most people would condemn him for doling out vigilante justice. Though I’ve walked that fine line myself, I believe it’s wrong to take a life. But I know some anguish is too horrendous for the human heart to bear. Some crimes are too unspeakable for the mind to accept. For John’s sake, I hope he can find some semblance of peace.

At two-thirty a knock at the door yanks me from my work. I’m inordinately happy to find Glock on my back porch. “You know things are bad when visitors come to your back door,” I say.

“Don’t want to get those tongues wagging.” He steps inside, brushing snow from his coat. “Nasty out there.”

“Weather guy is calling for six to eight inches by morning.”

“Fuckin’ winter.” But his eyes are on my laptop humming on the kitchen table and the reams of paper surrounding it. “You look like you could use a break.”

I close the door behind him. “Anything new on the case?”

“We’re still at Hershberger’s farm, looking for evidence.”

“What do you think?

“Hershberger is fucked.”

At the counter I pour two cups of coffee. “You think he did it?”

“Evidence is overwhelming. The shoe we found belongs to Amanda Horner. Her mom identified it this morning. We’ve got underwear with DNA. We’re waiting to hear back from the lab.”

“Don’t you think all of that is kind of convenient?”

“There’s no way he could have possession of the shoe or underwear unless he had contact with the victim.”