Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

I reach the front door of the police station and hesitate. I’m not inordinately vain, but the bruises on my face and neck are bad. I did my best to cover them, but I’m pretty inept when it comes to makeup. All that jazz in a jar can only do so much. My lip needed three stitches and is swollen to twice its normal size. I try not to think about that as I open the door and step inside.

Mona mans the dispatch station, the headset over her ears, her eyes on the computer monitor in front of her. She looks up when the bell on the door jingles and offers me a big smile. “Chief!”

“I didn’t actually catch you working, did I?” I ask.

Flushing, she rises, comes around the desk. “Homework, actually. Sorry.” I try not to wince when she throws her arms around me. “Boy, are we glad to see you. Welcome back.”

“Media been around?” I ask.

“Took a couple of calls this morning. Most of them are calling for an interview with you. I’ve been telling them you’re not allowed to talk about the case.”

“Keep up the good work.”

I look over her shoulder to see Glock emerge from his cubicle. He’s not big on smiles, but I see the grin in his eyes as he approaches. “How you feeling, Chief?”

“Better,” I manage.

Pickles surfaces from behind Glock. “Well, I’ll be go to hell. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes. No pun on the word sore, Chief.”

“Don’t make me smile,” I say. “Pulls my stitches.”

“Not gonna be easy, seein’ how everyone’s so damn glad to have you back,” Pickles says.

I shake both men’s hands and then Mona’s. “It’s good to be back.”

The familiarity is balm for my soul and I take a moment to soak it in, hoping my emotions don’t choose this moment to betray me.

“We heard about what happened at the farmhouse,” Glock says.

“If you need anything,” Mona adds quickly.

“Just let us know,” Pickles finishes for her.

I smile at them. “Just don’t treat me like I’m some kind of invalid, okay?”

“Hell no.” Pickles laughs. “Sure as hell ain’t going to do that.”

Glock finally breaches the subject no one wanted to raise. “So how did you know to look at Detrick?”

“I didn’t, at first. One thing I was utterly certain of was that Jonas Hershberger wasn’t the killer.”

“How did you know it wasn’t him?” Mona asks.

“Kittens.”

“Kittens?”

I tell them about the litter Jonas saved when we were kids. “I think most sociopaths are born, not made. Very few are created by life events.”

“Detrick matched Tomasetti’s profile to a T,” Pickles says.

“There’s some wisdom in there somewhere,” I reply.

“If it hadn’t been for you—” Mona begins, but I cut her off.

“Don’t give me too much credit, okay?” I think of Daniel Lapp’s remains in the grain elevator. “I don’t deserve it.”

I’m saved from having to explain when the switchboard beeps. Mona rushes toward her desk to take the call, and I head toward my office. I flip on the light, and I’m surprised to see that my desktop is neat. The last time I was here, it was covered with papers from the Slaughterhouse Killer file. I realize Mona or Lois must have tidied it up for me.

I’ve barely made it to my desk when the phone rings. I look down, see Mona’s extension on the display and hit speaker.

“Chief, I just got a call from some guy out on Dog Leg Road. Says there’re loose cows on the road.”

I think of the last time we got the call about Stutz’s livestock, and I smile. “Dispatch Skid, will you? Tell him to cite Stutz this time. He’s had ample time to get that fence fixed.”

“Roger that.”

I end the call and lean back in my chair. From where I sit, I can hear Glock and Pickles arguing the pros and cons of criminal profiling. I hear the drone of the switchboard. The scratch of Mona’s radio. Being here, in this place, feels right. This is where I belong. Here, with my officers. In this town.

I’ll continue to live with my secrets. I know there are worse fates. I think of my nephews, Elam and James. I think of Sarah and the baby she’s carrying. I think of Jacob and the ugliness that has passed between us. I think of my own isolation, my inability to connect, and I realize the time has come for me to reach out. They are my family, and I want them to be part of my life.

I think of John for the dozenth time today, and I wonder where he is and what he’s doing. I wonder if he thinks of me as often as I think of him.

My phone buzzes again. I look down and see a 614 area code with “BCI” on the display. I pick up, already anticipating the sound of his voice. “I was wondering when you were going to call,” I say.

“I hear you got yourself reinstated.”

“They came begging yesterday.”

“I hope you weren’t too easy.”

“I held out for a raise.”

“Good for you.” He pauses. “I was in the neighborhood and was wondering if you’d like to go to lunch.”

“Columbus is a hundred miles away, Tomasetti. How can you just be in the neighborhood?”

“I told the brass I needed to handle some case-related paperwork down there.”

“We could probably hustle up a report or two.”

“I told them it would be an overnight trip.” He lowers his voice. “Just between us, I’ve got a big crush on the chief of police.”

My lip hurts, but I smile anyway. “I hear the diner’s got a pretty decent pot roast.”

“In that case I’ll pick you up at the station in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be here,” I say, and disconnect.