I pass him two sheets of paper containing the names of the Geauga County sheriff’s deputies I’ve already collected. “Run them through LEADS, see if anything pops. When you’re finished, have Mona take a look at social media.”
“You got it.”
Half an hour later, I hear the outer door open and someone walk into the reception area. I’m assuming it’s Glock bringing the pizza when Pickles appears at my door, aforementioned pizza in hand.
“I’m going to have to pick off all his pepperoni,” he tells me. “Gives me heartburn something awful.”
I withhold a smile, trying not to look surprised—or moved—by his presence. “You work the crosswalk this morning, Pickles?”
He hikes up his uniform trousers. “Didn’t have to draw my sidearm once.”
“I’m glad our grade-schoolers are so well behaved.”
He frowns. “No one agrees with the restricted-duty crap, Chief.”
“I appreciate your saying that.”
“Pencil-necked sons of bitches. Excuse my language, but it’s just a bunch of political horseshit.” He lowers himself into the visitor chair across from me and takes in the paperwork spread out on my desk. “What do you have for me?”
“It’s confidential.”
“Figured as much.” His eyes narrow on one of the documents. “Since we’re dealing with a bunch of fuckin’ cops.”
Movement at the door to my office draws my attention. I look up to see T.J. standing there, his jacket dripping rain. He raises a six-pack of pop and a bag of ice. “Where do you want this?”
I frown at him. “T.J.”
“Chief.” He hands me a shit-eating grin.
“I thought you had a hot date tonight?” I ask.
“She had something come up with her folks.” He shrugs, but his eyes skitter away and I know he’s lying.
For a moment, I’m so overwhelmed I can’t speak. By their loyalty. Their commitment to their work. Their dedication to this department and law enforcement as a whole. I’m incredibly lucky to have such a remarkable group of police officers working for me. Most of all, I’m thankful to call them not just friends, but family.
Sitting back in my chair, I look from T.J. to Pickles, try to find my voice. “You guys don’t have to do this.”
“Yeah, we do,” Pickles says.
“We do.” T.J. strolls over to my desk and takes the other visitor chair. “I take it this is confidential?”
“Nothing we talk about tonight leaves this room,” I say.
Both men nod.
“What do you have?” T.J. asks.
“A mess.” I pick up a sheet of paper and hand it to him. “Here’s what I need.”
* * *
By two A.M., the words on my computer screen are beginning to blur, and I find myself having to read passages twice just to comprehend them. I’m running out of steam. Glock has been called out twice. Once for a fight down at the Brass Rail Saloon. The other for a domestic dispute out at the Willow Bend Mobile Home Park. Otherwise, the night has been inordinately quiet—and frustratingly unproductive.
I’m thinking about calling it a night when T.J. strolls into my office and takes one of the visitor chairs. “This is kind of interesting.”
I look up, glad for the interruption. “What do you have?”
He passes two sheets of paper to me. “Last summer, a Geauga County deputy filed a lawsuit against Sheriff Jeff Crowder and the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department claiming she was targeted for retaliation after reporting that drug evidence was tampered with.”
“That is interesting.” I look down at the newspaper story and read.
DISGRACED GEAUGA COUNTY DEPUTY FILES SUIT
Twenty-seven-year-old Vicki Cascioli, who was terminated last year for “insubordination, multiple unexcused absences, and sexual harassment,” has filed a civil lawsuit against Sheriff Jeff Crowder and the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department. Cascioli, who’d only been with the sheriff’s department for eight months, claims sheriff’s deputies regularly tampered with evidence and engaged in other unlawful activities. According to Cascioli, she was a “whistleblower” and was “targeted for retaliation” by her superiors and her counterparts. Sheriff Crowder could not be reached for comment. No court date has been set.
I look at T.J. “Get me everything you can find on Cascioli, will you?”
“You got it.”
“Run her through LEADS, too. Have Mona take a look at her social media posts. See if anything pops.”
A little over an hour later, Mona rushes into my office, looking bright-eyed and a little too excited. “I think I found something.”
“Since the rest of us are striking out, lay it on me.”
She looks down at the printout in her hand. “I found an interesting archived story from two and a half years ago in the Russell Township daily newspaper.” She begins to read. “‘Nineteen-Year-Old Ohio Woman Allegedly Raped by Geauga County Deputy.’” She glances up at me. “That’s just the headline.”
“You have my undivided attention.”
She reads, “‘The victim claims she was pulled over by Deputy Wade Travers around three A.M. on a desolate road southwest of Chardon. When she failed a sobriety test, he arrested her and placed her in his car. Instead of taking her to jail, the victim claims, he offered to let her go if she had sex with him. When she refused, she alleges he pulled her from the car and raped her. The situation is under investigation by the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department.’”
“Wade Travers?” Exhaustion forgotten, I get to my feet. “I’ve met him.”
“Don’t get too excited,” she tells me. “There’s a twist.”
Mona looks down at the paper. “This story came out of the same newspaper four days later. ‘Nineteen-year-old Kelly Dennison admitted to detectives that she lied about being sexually assaulted by Geauga County sheriff’s deputy Wade Travers in the course of a DUI arrest. Travers, who had been detained and was facing termination and arrest, was reinstated yesterday.’”
“That’s interesting as hell,” I say.
“But it’s a false alarm, right? I mean, he was exonerated.”
I think about Joseph King and the purged records, the alleged affair between Naomi King and a cop. And I wonder …
“Get me everything you can find on Kelly Dennison, including contact info. Social media. Ask Glock to run her through LEADS to see if she’s got a record or warrants.”
“Will do.”
She starts to leave, but I stop her. “Oh, and Mona?”
“Yeah, Chief?”
“Nice job.”
CHAPTER 22
I was fourteen years old the last time I saw Joseph King. He’d been on my mind a lot that cold and rainy spring. All winter, I’d pined for summer. To endless afternoons spent at the creek, fishing or swimming or wading where the water ran clear and fast. I could just see the roof of the King house from my place at the kitchen sink, and while I washed the dishes in the evening, I’d find myself straining my eyes, just to catch a glimpse of him. I’d daydream that he’d emerge from the woods between our farms the way he used to with that I-don’t-have-a-care-in-the-world grin on his face and that old bamboo fishing pole at the ready.
But he never came. Things had changed over the winter. I hadn’t seen him much since his datt was killed in a buggy accident last fall. He didn’t come over anymore. When he did, it was only to help Jacob or Datt with some big project. I was never included.
Our family attended the funeral. Even at such a solemn occasion, I’d secretly watched Joseph, hoping he’d come over and talk to me so I could offer my condolences. But he’d been stone-faced and sullen and didn’t even look my way.
That had been months ago and I was still young enough, naïve enough, to believe things could be the way they were before the accident. I wanted to see Joseph laugh again. I wanted him to say things that would make my mamm frown. Most of all I wanted to go on another grand adventure—like our search for that tr
unk buried in the gravel bottom of the creek, or the exploration of some mysterious Indian burial ground.
It wasn’t to be.
I was in the horse stall mucking when I heard the barn door slide open. I glanced over the gate to see Joseph silhouetted against the daylight. My fourteen-year-old heart leapt so hard I had to put my hand to my chest. But I’d known he would come back. Now, I thought, everything would be the same and we could get back to the way it had been before.
“Joseph!” Dropping the pitchfork, I rushed from the stall, almost forgetting to close the door behind me.
He’d stopped ten feet inside the sliding door. He didn’t speak as I crossed to him, just watched me with a sort of quiet intensity, as if he didn’t quite remember who I was. He was taller now. His face had grown lean. An odd sense of self-consciousness assailed me. “I was wondering when you were going to come over,” I said, a little too breathlessly.
“Katie.” His voice was deeper. It was the voice of a man, not the boy I’d splashed in the face with water. Certainly not the boy I’d beat in a footrace the day he walked me home from school.
I didn’t know how or when it happened, but he was a stranger to me. I didn’t know him. I didn’t know what to say to him.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Fine.” He angled his head. Relief swept through me when I thought I saw the hint of a smile. “Du gucksht gut.” You look good. “You’ve gotten pretty.”
“You, too.”
He smiled then, but it was a fleeting twisting of his mouth that wasn’t reflected in his eyes.
It was a silly thing to say. Boys weren’t pretty. My face heated, but I forged ahead. “I haven’t seen you much.”
He shrugged. “Been busy. Is Jacob around?”
“He’s putting new chicken wire on the coop. Something got in and killed two hens last night. Our best layers.”
He nodded. “Damn coyote probably.”
I was inexplicably nervous and reminded myself this was Joseph. But it was as if there were another person in the room with us. A person I didn’t understand and didn’t necessarily trust.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted.
“I came to tell you good-bye.”
“Good-bye?” I choked out a laugh. “You’re not going anywhere.”
It was a stupid thing to say, but he laughed. “We’re moving to Geauga County.”
“But…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I couldn’t grasp the meaning of what he’d said. He couldn’t move away. It would ruin everything. All my plans for summer. “When?” I managed, hoping against hope he was kidding.
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” he told me.
The words hit me like a sucker punch. I actually took a step back, brought my hand up to my stomach. “But … why?”
Glancing toward the door, he shrugged. “Mamm has family there. My grandparents. An aunt and uncle. After Datt … She wants to be with them.”
I blinked at him, overwhelmed with an emotion I couldn’t identify. “But … what about us?” Realizing how that sounded, I quickly added, “I mean, all of us. Jacob and me and…” I ran out of breath, struggled to get oxygen into my lungs. “We’re your family, too.”
“I don’t have any say in the matter.”
“But … we were going to spend the summer together. Like before. You and me and Jacob. We were going to swim and … what about the trunk? I mean, in the creek? We have to find it, bring it out, and find out what’s inside.”
His smile was so sad it brought tears to my eyes. “There is no trunk,” he said after a moment. “I made it up.”
That he would lie about something so important infuriated me. He was making fun of me, I realized. Purposefully hurting me and getting a good laugh out of it.
“I’m not a kid anymore,” he said.
I stood there, mortified and humiliated because at some point I’d begun to cry. I’d never let him see me cry. Not even the time I ran into the barbed-wire fence and cut my arm and Mamm had to take me to the doctor for stitches. I always made sure Joseph knew I was tougher than that. Crying was for girls and I wasn’t just any girl.
“Katie.”
I knew it was irrational to be angry with him. I knew better than to feel so betrayed. But when you were fourteen, it wasn’t easy to hold those kinds of emotions inside. “Why don’t you just go ahead and go then,” I told him.
“You don’t mean that.”
Rolling my eyes, I brushed the tears from my cheeks. “I never liked you anyway.”
“I can tell.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Same here.”
“I have to get back to work.” I backed toward the stall, bumping my leg on the wheelbarrow full of muck.
He started toward me. “I didn’t make it up.”
I sidestep the wheelbarrow and stop. “You mean about the buried trunk?”
“It’s there. In that deep pool. You’re going to have to find it on your own this summer.”
He stopped a scant foot away from me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was aware of a hissing sound. I almost couldn’t believe it when I realized it was my own quickened breaths.
He looked down at me and smiled.
A thrill like I’d never experienced before in my life rushed through me, from the top of my head all the way to my toes. It was like an electrical shock that short-circuited my brain so that I couldn’t formulate a single, rational thought.
Then his hands were on my shoulders. I looked at him, a small part of my brain disbelieving he could be so tall. My heart breaking because we wouldn’t be spending the summer together and I cared a lot more about Joseph King than I did that stupid buried trunk.
He looked at me in a way I’d never been looked at before. In a way that thrilled and alarmed in equal measure. Raising his hand, he cupped the side of my face. “I’m going to miss you, runt.”
The words brought another round of tears. I couldn’t imagine not seeing him again. I stood there, humiliated, fighting the deluge, but failing.
“Shush.”
He leaned close, angled my chin up with his palm. The next thing I knew his mouth was on mine. Tentatively at first and then his lips were pressed hard against mine. I tasted the salt of tears. I squeezed my eyes shut, torn between running and trying to absorb the moment, because I knew it was somehow momentous.
His arms went around me. “I’ll write—”
“Katie!”
Jacob.
I shoved hard against Joseph’s chest, reeling backward with so much force I stumbled over my own feet and nearly fell.
My brother stood just inside the door, fists clenched at his sides, staring at Joseph. “What are you doing?”
Joseph stepped back, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Saying good-bye to Katie.”
Jacob’s eyes flicked from Joseph to me, but the energy was all for Joseph. “Go inside, Katie.”
I barely heard him over the wild rush of blood through my veins. My heart pounded so hard I was dizzy. I could still feel the warmth of Joseph’s lips against mine. The guilt of what I’d let happen pressing down with such force I could barely breathe.
I didn’t respond; I couldn’t move. I stood my ground, trying not to cry, not succeeding.
Jacob tightened his mouth and strode over to me. “Go on.” Setting his hand on my shoulder, he nudged me toward the door.
Joseph moved so quickly I barely noticed him coming. One moment I was thinking about arguing with my brother, the next Joseph grasped his arm, spun him around, and punched him hard in the face.
“Joseph!” I screamed.
Jacob’s head snapped back. He went down hard on his back, his arms flying over his head. For an instant he didn’t move. I heard myself cry out his name. Then he sat up, shook his head. Blood streamed from his nose, dribbled over his mouth, and pattered against the front of his shirt.
It was the first time I’d ever witnessed a fight; the first time I’d been exposed to any kind of violenc
e. The ugliness, the utter wrongness of it, frightened me on a level so deep I felt sick.
Using his sleeve, Jacob wiped blood from his nose. He got to his feet, his eyes on Joseph. “I think you should leave.”
I couldn’t stop staring at them. In some small corner of my mind, I kept expecting them to crack up with laughter, turn to me and laugh even harder because the joke was on me. But these two people I thought I knew so well, people I trusted and loved, suddenly seemed like strangers.
My legs were shaking so hard, I wasn’t sure I could stand on my own power, so I went to the stall door and leaned. I watched as Joseph crossed to my brother and stuck out his hand for a shake. Jacob held his gaze, but did not accept it.
The parody of a smile spread across Joseph’s face.
Stepping back, he turned his attention to me.
There were a thousand things I wanted to say to him. But Jacob was watching and the words tangled on my tongue. The only sound that emerged was the cry of a puppy spending its first night alone.
“See you around,” Joseph said, and stalked from the barn.
* * *
Wu schmoke is, is aa feier.
It’s an old Amish saying that translates to: Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. I’m a firm believer in the axiom, which is why I was up early despite a late night, and am now on my way to talk to twenty-one-year-old Kelly Dennison, whose last known residence was in the township of Novelty, Ohio.
It’s not yet noon when I make the turn off of Sperry Road and head north on Ohio 105. The narrow stretch of beat-up asphalt is rural and crowded with trees, the branches thick enough to turn the otherwise bright morning to dusk.
Glock ran Dennison through LEADS last night. She has no warrants, but did thirty days in the Geauga County jail on a first-degree misdemeanor of making false allegations against a peace officer. She works second shift at a nearby retirement home. I’m hoping to catch her this morning before she leaves for work.
Normally, I’d be in uniform and have another officer with me. The problem is this is not an official investigation; I’m basically working on a hunch and I’m outside my jurisdiction. That’s not to mention my restricted-duty status. However you cut it, I’m treading on thin ice.