I don’t stop until I reach the door; then I turn to him, fix him with a hard look.
“I should have stepped in that night. That I didn’t … it kept me up nights. Still does.” He blinks, looks down at the floor, then back at me. “If I could, I swear to God I’d make it right. I mean that.”
“We don’t get do-overs, Milo.” Turning away, I slide open the door, and leave him standing in the aisle.
CHAPTER 15
My exchange with Milo Hershberger weighs on me the rest of the evening. Daniel Gingerich was a sexual predator and there’s no doubt in my mind that someone killed him for it. I’m no proponent of street justice, especially the kind that entails murder. But I understand it. I’ve felt the dark pull of hatred. Fallen into the bottomless pit of shame. The questions foremost in my mind now are how many women did he rape and who knew about it?
It’s after nine P.M. I’m in my office, the paperwork and photographs and various reports from the case spread out on my desk in front of me. I’ve been at it too long and the words have become a blur. Time to go home, Kate.
My cell phone chirps. Expecting Tomasetti, curbing a quick rise of guilt for still being here when I should have left hours ago, I check the display. My pulse jumps when DEPT OF COMM pops up in the window. I snatch up the phone.
“Hi Kate, it’s Bob Schoening. I hope I’m not calling too late. I figured you’d want to hear this as soon as possible.”
“You have my undivided attention.”
“A couple of things. First of all, the latent recovered from the key at the Gingerich fire? We ran it through AFIS and struck out.”
“So they’re not in the system.”
“Correct. I also wanted to let you know that key you found at the home of Christopher Martino is, indeed, a match to the lock we recovered at the Gingerich fire.”
I sit up straighter. “Were the mason jars the same as the jars found at the Gingerich place?”
“No way to tell. The only thing I can tell you is that they’re made by the same manufacturer.”
“Did you pick up any latents?”
“We got a single decent print off one of the mason jars. As with the key, we submitted to BCI via LiveScan and they’re running it through AFIS now.”
“Twenty-four hours?”
“Give or take.”
I think about the key. “What about the key found at the Gingerich scene? The one with the print. Was it an original key? Or a duplicate?”
“The key recovered at the fire scene showed slight signs of wear. More than likely it’s one of the original keys that came with the dead bolt Gideon Gingerich purchased at the Ace Hardware store in Millersburg a few months ago. The key found in Martino’s shed was made by a different manufacturer and showed no discernible sign of wear, which means it’s a duplicate.”
I pause, my mind churning through the implications. “Did Gideon Gingerich or anyone else in the family make a copy of the key?”
“He claims he did not.”
“Is there any way I can get my hands on the duplicate key?”
“The lab guys have gone over it with a fine-tooth comb.” He pauses. “You going to try and figure out where it was made and who made it?”
“You never know when you might get lucky.” It’ll take some time, and it’s a long shot, but even with my limited manpower, I ought to be able to cover most of Holmes County.
“I’ll have it couriered over to you first thing in the morning,” he says. “One more thing of interest with regard to the keys. The dead bolt that Gingerich purchased came with two original keys, and so far no one has been able to locate the second one. Gideon Gingerich says he always left both keys on the hook in the barn.”
“Tied together with a string,” I say, recalling my conversation with him. “Lost in the fire maybe?”
“It’s possible we missed it, but not likely. We took a metal detector to the place and my guys are thorough.”
“Will you be taking another look?”
“I can send a technician out there tomorrow for another go-round.” He doesn’t sound optimistic about getting results. “Soon as I get all this written up, I’ll put it in the report and send it your way.”
I thank him and end the call. My mind is already jumping ahead to all the things I need to do. If I can get my hands on the key early tomorrow, I’ll have Mona check area hardware stores. If we can find out where it was duplicated, we might be able to find out who had it made.
Now, however, I need to get home to Tomasetti and my life. I shut down the computer and head for the door. I’m in the process of locking my office behind me when Jodie calls out my name.
“You still back there, Chief?”
“Right here,” I say as I enter reception.
“I know you’re trying to get out of here, but I just took a call from a motorist out on Hogpath Road. Says he hit a deer and it busted his windshield. Vehicle’s in the ditch.”
My heart sinks. “Where’s Skid?”
“He just responded to a fight call out at the Brass Rail. Reporting party said there was a knife involved, so he’s going to be tied up for a while.”
Thinking of Tomasetti, I sigh. “I’ll take it. Give that motorist a call back and see if he needs medical attention or a wrecker.”
“Will do.”
“Where on Hogpath Road?”
“Just past the Painters Creek Bridge.”
“Got it. See you tomorrow.” I go through the door and into the night.
Hogpath Road is a narrow strip of asphalt banked by cornfields on both sides. The farms are both Amish and English, but they’re large and some of the houses are more than a mile apart. The Painters Creek Bridge is about two miles south of Painters Mill. Deer like to graze along the floodplain where the grass is plentiful and they have the cover of the trees that flourish there. Occasionally they wander onto the road. Two years ago a woman from Portsmouth was killed after striking a deer, overcorrecting, and plowing into a tree.
I spot headlights in the distance as I approach the bridge. They cut through the dark at an odd angle, telling me the vehicle isn’t level. Flipping on my emergency lights, I idle across the bridge and park on the shoulder, about thirty feet from where the vehicle faces me from its place in the ditch.
“I’m ten-twenty-three,” I say into my lapel mike.
“Everyone okay out there, Chief?”
“Not sure just yet. No sign of the driver. I’m going to take a look.” I slide my Maglite out of its pocket. “Did you ten-fifty-one?” I ask, referring to the dispatch of a wrecker.
“Wrecker’s on the way.”
“Roger that.”
Leaving my headlights and emergency lights on, I get out and look around. The other vehicle’s lights are blinding; I can’t make out the make or model. The driver is nowhere in sight.
“Painters Mill Police Department!” I call out. “Everyone okay?”
“I hit a deer!” comes a male voice.
“Hang tight, sir,” I tell him. “I’ll be right there.”
I’m well off the road, but it’s fully dark and there’s a blind curve behind me. The last thing I need is for some fool to fly across the bridge and plow into both of us, so I hit my fob, pop open the rear door, and grab four flares. I break open two and drop them well behind the Explorer. Two more in the middle of the lane outside my driver’s-side door.
Using my Maglite, I start toward the vehicle. I’d assumed the driver would have gotten out and walked over to me by now. “Sir, are you injured? Do you need an ambulance?”
“I’m okay. Just shook up.”
I catch a glimpse of a silhouette. The driver is still behind the wheel, fiddling around with something on the seat. No passenger. “Could you step out here please?” I call out.
No response.
I shine my beam on the vehicle, getting my first good look. It’s a pickup truck, not in the ditch, but parked at a steep angle a few feet off the shoulder. The truck is an extended-cab with a long bed. Dark blue or
maybe black. That’s when I notice the missing front license plate.
I stop walking and sweep the beam to where I’d last seen the driver, but he’s gone.
“Sir? Can you step out here and talk to me?”
No answer.
The hairs at my nape stand up. Where the hell did he go?
I hit my shoulder mike. “Ten-seven-eight. Get Skid out here. Expedite.”
Never taking my eyes from the vehicle, sweeping the beam left and right, I walk backward, toward my Explorer. “Driver! Show yourself!”
My hand slides down to my service revolver. I thumb off the leather strap, tug it out. All the while I’m keenly aware that I have no cover. That I’m visible in the headlight beams.
The crack of a gunshot splits the air. I hear it ping into the Explorer behind me. Every nerve in my body jerks taut. A thousand alarms blast in my brain. A hot slash of adrenaline sears my belly.
“Shit. Shit.”
I turn, run headlong toward the Explorer. Vaguely I’m aware of my flashlight beam playing crazily against the trees ahead. Insects flying in the beams.
I hit my lapel mike. “Shots fired! Shots fired! Shots fired!”
I’m scant feet from my vehicle when a second gunshot rings out. Then a third. I reach the Explorer, my hand against the hood. I’m midway to the rear when something slams into my left forearm. A sledgehammer sharpened to a razor point, swung by a four-hundred-pound sumo wrestler. Pain zings down my arm; my fingers go numb. My boots lose purchase on the gravel, and I go down hard, land on my left hip.
Pain registers like a blast furnace against my skin. I flop onto my belly. I lose my grip on the Maglite, make a wild grab for it, watch helplessly as it rolls out of reach.
I scramble to my hands and knees, clutching my .38, animal sounds tearing from my throat. I speed-crawl to the rear of the Explorer. Hunker down, my back against the bumper.
“Fuck!” I’m panting when I grapple for my mike. “Shots fired! Hogpath Road!” I scream. “Need assistance! Shots fired!”
I risk a look around the edge of the bumper. No movement. No sign of the driver. I try to ascertain the make and model of the vehicle, but I’m blinded by the headlights. Sliding lower, I glance beneath the Explorer, spot my flashlight on the ground, a couple of feet from the left front tire. Too risky to reach. Traffic coming over my radio registers in my mind. Backup is on the way. All I have to do is stay put.…
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to stay calm. But I’m vulnerable, especially if there’s more than one shooter. I can’t see shit because of the headlights. Worse, while the Explorer’s engine or frame will stop a bullet, a round will go right through other parts of the vehicle. Pain pounds like a jackhammer in my forearm, keeping time with a pulse that’s raging out of control. I lift it and look, try to gauge the damage. All I can see is the black glint of blood on my shirt, dripping into the gravel like gobs of tar.
I look beneath the vehicle again. No sign of anyone on the other side. No sound of footsteps. Maglite is still there, out of reach, pointing the wrong way.
Two more shots clang against the Explorer. My nerves jump like electrical wires. In the back of my mind, I wonder if the shooter has a rifle, if he’s coming around to get me. I scramble to the passenger side of the Explorer, peer out. I see someone pass in front of the headlights of the truck. A male. Six feet tall. A hundred seventy-five pounds. Rifle in hand. Ten yards away. Too close. Raising my weapon, I fire two shots in quick succession.
“I’m a police officer!” I scream. “Drop your weapon! Do it now! Drop it!”
Vaguely, I’m aware of a dozen codes coming over my radio. I hear a car door slam. I scramble to the other side of the Explorer, keeping my vehicle between us. I’m on the ground, my back against the rear quarter panel. I peer around the bumper. No movement. No one there.
The truck’s engine revs and I know the driver is coming for me.
I scuttle to the right front tire of the Explorer in time to see the vehicle lurch forward. The headlights play crazily against the trees as the tires bounce over rough ground. When the vehicle reaches the road, rubber barks against asphalt, then the tires grab. The truck jets backward—ten, twelve, fourteen yards—and skids to a halt. The driver cuts the wheel. Gears grind, then the vehicle leaps forward.
I fire two shots, but my aim is off. Panic hovers at the fringe of my brain. The kind of panic that can lead to deadly mistakes, and I struggle to keep my head, stay calm.
“Easy,” I whisper. “Easy. Easy. Easy.”
Engine screaming, the driver does an abrupt U-turn. Tires sliding, the vehicle spins, and I know he’s going to run. Gravel flies, pings against the Explorer. Through the rise of dust, I see the red of taillights. Taking aim, I fire my last two rounds.
“You son of a bitch!” I grapple for my shoulder mike. “Suspect is eastbound on Hogpath Road! Pickup truck. Extended cab. Blue or black. Long bed. Male driver is armed!”
My radio is a cacophony of calls. Every cop within twenty miles and regardless of jurisdiction is on his way to assist. When a shots-fired call goes out, you drop everything and you haul your ass to the scene.
I hear sirens in the distance. Around me, the fields and woods seem unnaturally quiet. My Explorer is still running. Insects swarm in the headlights. I get up. Unsteady on my feet. I walk around to the driver’s side, spot my Maglite on the ground, and pick it up.
Something dark hits the ground next to my boot. At first I think it’s a bug, then realize my forearm is bleeding. I’ve yet to get a look at it. I don’t think anything is broken. Still, it hurts plenty.
I need an ambulance, but I don’t make the call. Instead, I lean against the Explorer’s front fender. I holster my .38 and tug out my phone. I let gravity take me down to a squatting position. Using my uninjured hand, I reach for my lapel mike.
It’s over.
CHAPTER 16
There’s something about getting your ass shot off that conjures a whole new perspective. Not only about being a cop, but about life in general. It makes you think about the things that really matter.
Four hours have passed since I was hunkered down behind the Explorer while some crazy shit did his utmost to kill me. I spent the first hour or so sitting in the backseat of Skid’s cruiser while officials from three different law enforcement agencies—the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, the State Highway Patrol, and of course BCI—took turns questioning me about what happened. No, I didn’t get a good look at the shooter. Yes, he was male. I didn’t see anyone else. I didn’t get the make or model of the truck. I didn’t get a plate number; evidently, he’d removed it beforehand. Basically, once I left my vehicle, someone opened fire and the situation went to shit. I think those were my exact words.
Tomasetti drove me to the Emergency Department of Pomerene Hospital, where my left forearm was X-rayed—no broken bones, thank God—and my “minor” gunshot wound was treated. I received a tetanus shot, four stitches, prescriptions for antibiotics and painkillers, and a dozen or so proclamations of how lucky I am.
So far, I’ve taken all of it on the chin. The cops who questioned me went to great lengths to let me feel like a cop. Like I hadn’t screwed up or been careless. They let me know in no uncertain terms that they weren’t going to let the crazy fucker get away with taking potshots at one of their own.
Law enforcement takes that sort of thing damn seriously. Every agency in this part of Ohio is on high alert and actively looking for the shooter. Even now, there’s a part of me that wants to be out there with them, pissed off, pumped up, and on the hunt. Of course, none of that’s going to happen.
It’s one A.M. now, and I’m home safe and alive with the man I love. Tomasetti is saying and doing all the right things. He made me take one of the painkillers the doc prescribed. He’s filling the silence with very un-Tomasetti-like small talk. He warmed a can of soup, got me into the shower and into bed. He gently reprimanded me for being out there in the middle of nowhere after dark. Of course, the
words were tempered with the knowledge that it’s what I do for a living. He even made me laugh because we decided I could use the shooting to my advantage to help convince the town council I need another full-time officer. One of a long list of things I love about John Tomasetti is his sense of humor.
I’m lying in our bed, propped against pillows with my arm elevated, my laptop open in front of me. Tucked beneath the pretty summer quilt my sister made me for my birthday last year, I’m wearing one of Tomasetti’s old Cleveland Division of Police T-shirts. The pain in my forearm has faded to a dull ache. I wish the knot of foreboding that’s taken up residence in the pit of my stomach could be so easily banished.
Someone nearly killed me tonight—and they’re still out there. Is it about the Gingerich case? Was it a warning—some twisted effort to keep me from digging any deeper? A steady stream of names have cycled through my mind in the last hours. Mark Petersheim. Elam Schlabach. Milo Hershberger. Sam Miller. All of them had reason to want Daniel Gingerich dead. Are any of them desperate enough—cold-blooded enough—to murder a cop?
“You’re still awake.”
I look up from my laptop to see Tomasetti stride into the room. I watch as he crosses to the window and opens it. An orchestra of sound floats in on the cool night air. The frogs from the pond, crickets, and soft hoots from the family of owls that lives in the cottonwood tree at the water’s edge. They are the sounds of my youth. Sounds we hear every night as we sleep. They’re sounds that I appreciate now more than I ever have in my life.
“Any word on the shooter?” I ask.
“I talked to Rasmussen,” he says. “Every agency in the four-county area is out in force. Nothing yet.”
“Were they able to get tire tread impressions?” I ask. “Any brass?”
“They got brass.” Tossing me a frown, he slides into bed beside me. “Not sure about impressions.”
“They trace the call?”
“We got the tower. Still working on the rest.”
“This wasn’t random,” I say after a moment.
His gaze meets mine and he scowls. I can tell by his expression he doesn’t like the ramifications, but he doesn’t disagree.