She staggers down the hall and returns a minute later, the small key in hand. Turning, I offer my wrists. I can feel her hands shaking as she struggles to unlock the cuffs. She says something I can’t understand.
When the cuffs fall away, she goes to her knees. At first I think she’s going to pass out. Instead, she brings her hands up to her face and bursts into tears.
CHAPTER 26
Human beings are resilient creatures. That’s a good thing, I suppose, when you take into consideration the things we do to ourselves. The things we do to each other.
Cops like to believe they’re immune from all those gnarly emotions that plague the somehow lesser beings. They’ll argue the point until they’re blue in the face. Me included. We’re a tough lot, after all. We’ve seen it all. Nothing can shock us.
It’s all bullshit.
A number of psychological changes occur during and after severe psychological trauma. The shrinks have come up with all sorts of interesting terminology. Tunnel vision. Auditory exclusion. Inattentional blindness. And afterward, things like emotional numbing, post-traumatic stress disorder, and the big daddy no one likes to talk about: depression.
I don’t remember calling for an ambulance. I couldn’t tell you which phone I used or whether it was a cell or land line. I don’t recall dialing 911 or giving the dispatcher an address. I don’t remember relaying the situation or giving an address or explanation. I don’t even remember calling Tomasetti or hearing his voice on the other end of the line, though later I would learn I did, indeed, do all of those things.
When the paramedics arrived, I was inside Sidney Tucker’s house, sitting on the living room floor, holding Vicki Cascioli’s hand. Both of us were trying pretty hard not to look at the two dead cops in there with us. I should have been relieved when the knock on the door finally came, but my perceptions were skewed. Instead of relief, I felt a burst of mind-numbing terror because I was utterly certain that someone else had arrived to finish the job started by Wade Travers and Nick Rowlett.
That was a little over an hour ago. I’m sitting in the backseat of a Trumbull County Sheriff’s Department cruiser, trying to maintain some semblance of my cop persona, my dignity. Failing on both counts because I can’t stop shaking. I’ve talked to two deputies and a detective so far. As you can imagine, everyone has a lot of questions about what happened inside that house. When I asked about Vicki Cascioli, I was informed she’d been transported to the hospital with a gunshot wound. While it’s a serious injury, I’m told, it isn’t life-threatening. Wade Travers had been found outside, cuffed to his vehicle, and was taken into custody. Nick Rowlett and Sidney Tucker were pronounced dead at the scene.
At some point, one of the paramedics gave me a reflective, insulated blanket. I’m sitting in the backseat of the cruiser, watching the scene unfold through the rain-streaked windshield, when I see someone approach. An irrational wave of fear ripples through me. Then the door swings open and John Tomasetti bends and looks in at me.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “Are you hurt?”
His expression is grim and intense, infused with an array of barely controlled emotions I couldn’t begin to identify. Front and center is the slow simmer of fear and relief that he hasn’t arrived to find me in a body bag.
There are too many cops around for me to act on my own emotions. The knowledge that I came very close to never seeing him again.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
He’s already reaching for my hand, taking it in his. I can feel him shaking, the wash of fresh emotion cascading over his face. “Goddamn it.” He closes his eyes, takes a moment. “What happened?”
I give him the condensed version. “I wasn’t expecting an ambush.”
“No cop ever is, Kate.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “For chrissake.”
“Has Cascioli talked to anyone?”
“She’s got a facial wound, so she hasn’t said much. Detective that talked to her said Cascioli and Tucker were friends. She rode with him when she was a rookie. She knew he was into some unsavory things. She knew some of what was going on and had been trying to talk him into coming clean. From what I’ve gathered Tucker called her this morning, too. He knew they were gunning for him.” He shakes his head. “He was right.”
“She going to be okay?”
“She lost some teeth and she’s probably going to need some reconstructive surgery, but she’s going to make it. She’s damn lucky to be alive. So are you.”
A rush of emotion surges. The last thing I want to do is cry. I fight it, but it’s another battle I’m losing. “Tomasetti, they were cops. I never imagined … fucking cops.”
“Cascioli said it’s been going on the entirety of her career. When she spoke out, they smeared her and got her fired. They threatened her, tried to intimidate her.”
I think of my visit to her apartment. All the locks on her doors. The punching bag. The pistol tucked into her waistband. “She’s not the kind of woman easily intimidated.”
He grimaces. “Look, Kate, BCI is taking over the investigation. This is going to be a big deal. They’re moving now, going to try to figure out how deep the corruption goes.”
“Cascioli told me it goes all the way to the top,” I tell him.
He gives me a sage look and I realize he can’t talk about it or say anything more. His silence has nothing to do with his trust in me, but is because of his strong ethics, his professionalism, and his code of honor. It’s the kind of man he is. It’s one of many reasons I love him.
“This was about Joseph King,” I tell him. “The murder of Naomi King.” I close my eyes against another round of tears. “Tomasetti, he was innocent. They destroyed him.”
He nods. “It’s going to take some time and a lot of unraveling, but I’ll make sure the truth is told. All of it.” He looks behind him as if taking in the scene, and I realize I’m not the only one whose emotions are running high.
“Joseph King’s family,” I say, “the Amish community … they need to know.”
“Scoot over.” Taking a final look around, he gets into the car with me and slams the door.
“Tomasetti…”
“Stop talking.” He pulls me into his arms, holds me tightly against him, and presses his face against mine. His whiskers scraping my cheek, his lips brushing mine. “I couldn’t handle it if something had happened to you. Kate, you came this close…”
“I’m sorry I scared you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I put you through that. I know how—”
He silences me with a kiss. It’s too intimate and goes on too long. But I sink into it. I cling to him, absorbing his strength, taking comfort, putting the moment to memory.
After a minute, he pulls away. “Don’t let this shake your faith. In cops. In law enforcement. I mean that.”
“I won’t.” Still, I’m glad he said it.
“Tomasetti, there are two cops standing outside the car.”
Sighing, he pulls away, gives my hand a final squeeze. “Stay put. Lots of people want to talk to you.”
“I know the drill.”
“You up to it?”
“I am now.”
“Let me know if anyone gives you any shit.”
He opens the door and gets out, leaving me alone with my thoughts, the ghosts of my past, and the knowledge that somehow everything is going to be all right.
EPILOGUE
Drizzle floats down from a sky the color of cast iron when I pull onto the narrow gravel shoulder in front of the graabhof. I sit there for a moment, watching the procession of buggies pull in and park, the young hostlers taking hold of the reins and leading the horses forward so that all the buggies are lined up neatly. It’s a scene vastly different from the one that played out six days ago when Joseph King was laid to rest.
This is an unusual gathering. It’s not a funeral, more like an after-the-fact memorial service. I’m profoundly moved that the Amish community turned out; some hired drivers and traveled from as far
away as Painters Mill and beyond to pay their final respects.
Families with children, couples, the young and elderly alike leave their buggies and approach the plain headstones where Joseph and Naomi King will lay side by side for all of eternity.
Shutting down the engine, I get out of the rental car and make my way through the gate. I spot Jonas King, his brother Edward, and Logan standing apart from the crowd. Jonas raises his hand and I wave. I see Bishop Fisher and his wife, Salome, standing near the headstones. The bishop notices my approach and gives me a nod. I stop before reaching him. This gathering isn’t about me, and I remind myself I’m an outsider here. This is about Joseph and Naomi King, gone before their time. It’s about their children, the Amish community as a whole, and setting the record straight.
The crunch of tires over gravel draws my attention. I glance behind me to see a white van pull up to the gate. The rear passenger door slides open. I recognize my brother, Jacob, and his wife, Irene, immediately as they disembark. I’m surprised to see that my sister, Sarah, rode with them as well. My chest swells at the sight of them as they start toward me. We shared so much in the years we lived next door to Joseph King. I wonder if their memories are as crystal and happy as mine, if their regrets as deep.
“Jacob.” I nod at my brother as he and his wife approach. “Irene. Wie geth’s alleweil?” I ask. How goes it now?
“Mir sinn zimmlich gut,” Jacob says. We are pretty good.
“I’m glad you came,” I say.
“Yaeder mon set kumma,” Irene puts in. Everyone ought to have come.
“Knowing the truth about Joseph…” Jacob shrugs. “It was the right thing to do.”
My sister joins us. “Hi, Katie.”
“Sarah.” I step forward and give her a hug. “Thank you for coming.”
She eyes the small crowd standing near the headstones. “It’s a shay samling, Katie.” A nice gathering.
“Good turnout, too,” Irene puts in.
I feel my brother’s gaze on me and look his way. Our eyes meet and in that instant I know we’re remembering the way it used to be. We’re kids again and life was one big adventure. In the span of a few short summers, we learned so much about the way the world worked, learned even more about each other. It’s a rare moment, our moment, one we haven’t shared for a very long time.
“It’s been too long since you and I have seen each other,” Jacob says.
“I think it’s time we remedied that,” I reply.
He looks past me, at the mourners who’ve gathered among the headstones. “I walked past that old swimming hole yesterday,” Jacob says in Deitsch. “That old dead tree we used to jump off of is gone, but the water’s still deep.”
“You didn’t happen to see an old trunk sticking out of the gravel bottom, did you?” I ask.
“No.” He smiles. “But I looked.”
Raw emotion flashes on my sister’s face. “I hadn’t thought of that in years.”
For the span of a full minute, we stand there, embroiled in our thoughts, remembering a thousand innocent summer days and friendships that transcend even death.
As if realizing he’s ventured into dangerous territory, my brother looks down at the ground. “I’m glad you put all this together, Katie. It’s good for everyone to know the truth.” He nods at his wife, and the three of them start toward the place where the Kings are buried.
“Katie!”
I glance toward the line of buggies to see little Sadie King running toward me, her dress swishing around her legs. Behind her, the rest of her siblings and her aunt and uncle climb out of the buggy.
“Sadie.” Kneeling, I open my arms and she flings herself into my hug. “I’m so pleased all of you could make it.”
“Aunt Rebecca says Datt was a good man and we shouldn’t miss this. She said everyone was wrong about him. And now that he’s living with Jesus he can be with our mamm and finally be happy.”
I don’t know exactly what the children were told, but I’m glad their aunt and uncle put to rest any doubts they had about the decency of their father.
“Your aunt is a wise woman,” I tell her.
The four remaining children approach tentatively. They’re more reserved than Sadie, partly because we’re in the graabhof. Amish children are taught from an early age that it’s a solemn, sacred place and they are to be on their best behavior. No running or laughter. I think about Sadie’s loose relationship with the rules and it makes me smile.
The oldest, Becky, moves closer and offers her hand. “Thank you for trying to save our datt,” she says earnestly.
“It was the right thing to do,” I tell her. “I wish I could have.”
The girl’s brows knit as she considers my answer. I find myself hoping she’ll recall more good than bad when she remembers her father.
Sadie pulls away and smiles at me. “I’m going to say good-bye to my datt now,” she says, and starts toward her parents’ graves. “Bye, Katie.”
“Bye, sweetheart.”
Levi is next. Making eye contact with me, the little boy grins and keeps moving, too shy to speak, walking right past me. A man of few words, and I think he must take after his mamm.
Little Joe stops next to me and gives a serious, resolute nod. “I’m just like my datt,” he says seriously. “That’s what everyone says.”
“You look just like him,” I say. “Beheef dich.” Behave yourself.
He grins and turns to catch up with his siblings.
“Katie.”
I turn my attention to Rebecca and Daniel Beachy. They’re both clad in black, their best church clothes. Despite the harsh words between us last time I was at their farm, they stop to chat and I’m pleased to see them.
We exchange handshakes. “I’m glad you came,” I tell them. “I’m glad you brought the children.”
“Thank you for finding the truth about Joe,” Daniel tells me.
I nod. “Everyone needed to know.”
“I wish we’d had as much faith in him as you did,” Rebecca says. “We should have.”
“You couldn’t have known you’d been lied to by the police.” I didn’t tell them—I didn’t tell anyone—about Naomi’s indiscretions. Bishop Fisher and I discussed it and decided it’s a secret best buried with her.
Rebecca’s smile is fraught with what looks like regret. “We told the children he was a good man.”
“They told me.” I glance toward the kids as they make their way toward their parents’ graves. “They’ve endured a lot and they’ve handled it with courage and grace. Joseph and Naomi would have been proud.”
Daniel nods.
“Thank you,” Rebecca whispers, her voice thin. “I’d best get over there before Sadie starts coaching the bishop on how best to deliver a sermon.”
I watch them walk away, trying not to feel blue, but I know there’s a good chance I may never see the kids again. They’re part of Joseph King. His legacy. And it’s a part of my past that’s gone forever.
The hiss of tires on asphalt draws my attention. I glance over to see Tomasetti’s Tahoe pull up and park behind my Explorer. I wasn’t sure he’d have time to meet me here; he’s been working around the clock on the investigation into the murders of Sidney Tucker and Nick Rowlett.
Something goes soft in my chest when I see him get out. He rounds the front of the vehicle and opens the passenger door. Curiosity sparks when I see Vicki Cascioli slide gingerly from the passenger seat. The right side of her face is heavily bandaged. Even from twenty yards away I can see that her eye is blackened. She moves with the slow deliberation of a woman three times her age.
I hold my ground and wait for them to reach me.
Tomasetti speaks first, his eyes taking in the length of me. “Chief Burkholder.”
The words are ridiculously formal, since we’ve been living together for over a year now. Despite the melancholy curling in my gut, I smile. “Agent Tomasetti.”
I turn my attention to the woman beside him, ta
king in the pale complexion, the watchful, uncomfortable eyes. There are a few small cuts on the left side of her face. Bruising at her throat. Tension seems to emanate from her entire body.
The three of us exchange handshakes.
“Ms. Cascioli,” I say. “How are you feeling?”
“One surgery down, a few more to go.” Her voice is low, her mouth barely opening, and I realize because of her injuries it’s difficult for her to speak.
“Kate, I hope it’s not inappropriate for us to be here,” Tomasetti begins.
I glance back to where several dozen Amish have gathered at the graves of Joseph and Naomi King. I’d wanted to stand with them, to pay homage in my own way, to say good-bye to Joseph King. But I know Cascioli just finished her initial deposition with BCI, and I’m hungry for news about the investigation.
“It’s okay.” I motion toward our vehicles. “Let’s talk over there so we don’t bother anyone.”
We go through the gate to stand next to the Tahoe. “How did the deposition go?” I ask Cascioli.
“I told my story,” she says. “What I knew. When I knew it. How I believe all of it went down.”
I glance from her to Tomasetti and back to her. “What happened to Sidney Tucker?”
She squares her shoulders. A sigh hisses between her lips. She’s shoring up her resolve, I realize, her emotions.
“He was a good man,” she tells me. “A good cop. Not perfect, but…” She shrugs. “When Peggy got sick he just stopped trying. He let himself get sucked into some things he shouldn’t have.”
“Things like what?” I ask.
“I rode with Tuck for four months, when I was a rookie. He showed me the ropes, taught me a lot. We butted heads the first week or so. In fact, I think he pretty much hated me.” She starts to smile, but ends up wincing in pain. “The more time we spent together, the closer we became. I think he sort of saw me as his surrogate daughter or something. I loved Tuck. He was funny and competent and over the months he became like a father to me. I hated to see him retire, but … he wanted out.
“Anyway, I’d heard stories about Rowlett and Travers. You never know what to believe, so I asked Tuck about it. He wasn’t a big talker, kept a lot to himself, but I think he needed to tell someone what he knew. I think he felt guilty because he’d looked the other way while Travers and Rowlett crossed the line. Tuck had violated his own code of honor and it wasn’t sitting too well.”