Taking the man’s arm, Tomasetti helps him to his feet. “Pull yourself together, Mr. Johnston. Go with Chief Burkholder. She’s got some questions for you.”
Johnston is like a zombie. I make eye contact with Tomasetti, but I can’t read his expression. I don’t know what to do with Norm. He’s in no condition to be questioned, and I’m not very good at comforting. But he needs a friend and there’s no one else to do it so I take his arm and lead him toward the dam. “Let’s walk.”
“Chief Burkholder!”
An odd sense of relief skitters through me when I see Nathan Detrick and Deputies Hunnaker and Barton come over the crest of the dam. As recently as yesterday, I would have resented his presence. Today, everything else is secondary to stopping this killer.
Detrick reaches us, his eyes flicking from me to the body of the victim. “Holy Mother,” he says in a guttural voice.
“I’ve got officers setting up a perimeter.” I hear my own words as if someone else is speaking them. “The killer may still be in the area. Probably on a snowmobile.”
Detrick speaks into his radio. “I want every man on a perimeter around Miller’s Pond. Rockridge Road. Folkerth Road. County Road Fourteen. Subject may be on a snowmobile.” Clipping the radio to his belt, he addresses his deputies. “Get this area cordoned off. Get some tape up.” He looks at me and shakes his head. “I got here as quick as I could.”
“I appreciate it. We’re stretched pretty tight.”
His gaze drifts to Johnston, and he raises his brows.
I lower my voice. “His daughter.”
“Aw, hell.” Detrick sets his hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezes. “I’m sorry as hell, Norm.” His eyes land on me. “I can take over here, if you want to get him home.”
“Thank you.” I touch Norm’s arm. “We could use a ride to the station.”
“No problem.” Putting his fingers to his mouth, Detrick whistles for one of his deputies.
I call Norm’s wife on the way to the police station and ask her to meet us there. My call frightens her, but I will not relay news of her daughter’s murder over the phone. I can only hope she doesn’t hear about it elsewhere before she arrives.
On the drive, Norm calms down enough to talk to me. I learn that the last time he saw Brenda was around nine P.M. the night before. He called her earlier today and left a message, but she didn’t return his call. Brenda lived alone and worked as an office manager for a doctor in Millersburg. A call to the office tells me she didn’t show up for work this morning, which is unusual for the responsible young woman. That tells me the killer may have gotten his hands on her last night. This is the first step in establishing a timeline.
Lois looks up from the switchboard when we enter the police station. Her eyes widen at the sight of the Norm. Tossing me a concerned look, she mouths, What happened?
I shake my head and she doesn’t press. “Call Reverend Peterson and tell him I need him here. Mrs. Johnston is on her way. Send her right in. We’ll be in my office.”
She never takes her eyes off Norm. “Sure thing.”
Norm heads toward my office without speaking. He’s no longer crying, but his agony is palpable. I need a few minutes to gather my composure, but I don’t want to leave him alone. I follow him into my office to see him drop into the visitor’s chair adjacent to my desk.
Last night’s coffee sits like sludge in the pot. I pour a cup, but I wish for something stronger. Sliding behind my desk, I pull out a fresh pad, an incident report form and a witness statement form. “I need to ask you a few questions, Norm.”
“I can’t believe she’s gone.” His eyes fall on mine. “She was everything to me. The best thing I ever did.”
I have no words to console him. Feeling inept, I pick up my pen and look down at the form. Dread curdles in my gut when the bell on the front door jingles, telling me his wife, Carol, has arrived. I sit there, listening, my heart pounding.
I hear heels against tile and then Carol Johnston appears in the doorway. Her eyes flick from me to Norm, then back to me. She wears a green swing coat with a faux fur collar. She’s a petite woman well into her fifties, but she looks a decade younger.
“What happened?” she asks.
I think of their once-lovely daughter, the way she looked lying in the snow, her body cut to pieces, and I feel like crying.
I rise. “I’m afraid I have terrible news.”
“What news?” I see the initial rush of fear in her eyes. She looks at her husband. “What is she talking about?”
“Brenda is dead,” I say.
“What?” The woman looks at me as if I punched her in the solar plexus. “That’s crazy.”
Norm rises, like a stooped old man crippled with arthritis. “Carol.”
“No!” She puts both hands against her face so quickly, I hear the slap of her palms against her cheeks. She spins, doubles over, and an elongated “Nooooo!” rips from her mouth. “Nooooo!”
I want to put my hands over my ears to block her agonized cries. Because I cannot look at Carol, I train my eyes on Norm. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“How?” she keens. “How?”
“Murdered,” Norm chokes. “The killer got her. Just like the others.”
Carol’s knees hit the floor. She raises her face and hands skyward, screaming, then buries her face in her hands. “Noooo!”
Norm goes to her, tries to help her to her feet, but she fights him off. “Brenda!” she screams. “Oh, my God, Brenda!”
Lois appears in the doorway, her eyes going to me. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Call Reverend Peterson again,” I say. “Tell him it’s an emergency.”
Nodding, she backs away.
Norm lifts Carol and eases her into the chair, but she doubles over and keens uncontrollably.
Wiping his face, Norm stands opposite my desk, vacillating as if he’s just stepped off a roller coaster. But his eyes are sharp when they land on me. “Was she raped?” he manages.
“We don’t know yet.”
He scrapes a hand over his face, his fingers digging into his eyes. “Why in the name of God hasn’t this maniac been caught?”
“We’re doing everything we can,” I offer.
Carol Johnston raises her head and thrusts a finger at me. “This is your fault!”
The words cut with the proficiency of a blade. I try not to react. But my recoil is physical.
Norm’s face crumples. “Did she suffer?”
“We don’t know.” It’s a lie; Brenda Johnston suffered plenty before she died. But I spare them the truth, if only for a short while. “They’ll need to do an autopsy.”
“Aw . . . God.” Air rushes between Johnston’s teeth. A single sob escapes him before he regains control. “Three people dead. Incomprehensible.” His voice rises. “How could this happen?”
“We’re working around the clock. Investigating this case aggressively—”
“Aggressively? Is that what you call it, you heartless bitch? You couldn’t even be bothered to call in the sheriff’s office. I had to call BCI for you. You call that aggressive?”
This scene has played out in my head a hundred times in the last two days. A worst-case scenario I knew I would face sooner or later. Even so, I don’t know how to respond, and train my eyes on the pad in front of me. “I know this is a bad time, Norm, but I need to ask you some questions.”
“I have some questions for you, too,” he says ominously. “Like why didn’t you call BCI for assistance when you first realized you had a serial killer on your hands? Why haven’t you called the FBI? You’ve mishandled this case from the get-go, you incompetent bitch.”
Something inside me curls, like a bug prodded by a cruel child. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“My daughter is dead,” he snarls. “Evidently, your best isn’t good enough.”
“Don’t go there,” I say.
He doesn’t relent. “Had you done your job, she might still be here!”
Choking out a sound of animal rage, Norm lunges at me. I have time to rise before his hands clench my collar. He shoves me against the wall hard. “I’m going to fucking fry you for this. You got that?”
“Get your hands off me.” I pry at his hands. “Now.”
Carol looks up. Even locked in her own dolor, she knows the situation is about to explode out of control. “Stop it! This isn’t helping.”
Johnston stares at me as if he wants to tear me apart. I see grief and rage in his eyes, and I wonder how far he’s going to take this. “Please try to calm down,” I say. “I know you’re upset.”
“Upset is not the right word!” Grasping my collar, he yanks me toward him, then shoves me against the wall before releasing me.
“Don’t do this,” I try. “I need your help.”
“Pacifist Amish bitch!” He spits the words as if he’s bitten into something rotten. “I’ll deal with Detrick. Not you.”
Carol Johnston looks as if every bone in her body is broken as he takes her arm and they start toward the door.
That’s when I notice Tomasetti standing in the hall. He’s watching me, but I can’t read his expression. He steps aside to let the couple pass.
I stand behind my desk, staring, but seeing nothing. For the first time in the course of my career, I feel incompetent. I’ve faced intolerance before. But bigotry isn’t what churns like shards of glass in my stomach. Had you done your job, my daughter might still be here. The truth of those words guts me. Putting my face in my hands, I sink into my chair. Vaguely, I’m aware of Tomasetti entering my office, but I don’t look at him. I feel old and as broken as Carol Johnston looked.
Sighing, Tomasetti settles into a chair. “Ugly scene.”
I’m so engulfed in my own misery I can’t respond.
“The perp got away,” he says. “He made it to the road, and we lost him.”
Another layer of disappointment settles on top of a hundred others. “Did you get anything useful?”
“Glock and a crime scene tech from BCI are working on footwear impressions and some imprints of the snowmobile’s skis. We think it might have been a Yamaha. Won’t know for sure until they match treads.”
I raise my head and meet his gaze. “I’ll get started on a list of people in the area who own Yamaha snowmobiles.” But I’m still thinking about the Johnstons. “Doc Coblentz show up?”
“They were moving the body when I left.”
“Did someone get photographs?”
“We got it covered.”
I sink back into my dark thoughts.
After a moment, he says, “Don’t let what he said get to you.”
My phone rings, but I ignore it. “Why not? He’s right.”
His eyes narrow. “About what?”
“I should have called for help.”
“Why didn’t you?”
The ringing stops. Seconds tick by. “Because I screwed up.”
“Why didn’t you call for assistance, Kate?”
I stare blindly at my desk blotter, but all I see is Brenda Johnston’s torn body lying in the snow. Her organs strewn about like trash.
He tries again. “Talk to me.”
I shift my gaze to Tomasetti. “I can’t.”
“Cops make mistakes, Kate. We’re human. It happens.”
“It wasn’t a mistake.”
My response puzzles him. For the span of several minutes, neither of us speaks. My phone rings again, but I don’t answer. I’m a vacuum inside, as dark and cold as space. I have nothing left.
“I’m the last person who has the right to lecture anyone on right or wrong,” he says.
“Is that some kind of confession?”
“Look, if you know something about this case that you haven’t told me, this would be a good time for you to open up.”
The temptation to let everything pour out is strong, but I can’t do it. I don’t trust him. I don’t even trust myself.
After a moment, he sighs and rises. “Why don’t you let me drive you home so you can get some sleep?”
I try to remember the last time I slept, realize I can’t. I don’t even know what day it is. The clock on the wall says it’s nearly six P.M. and I wonder where the day went. The need to work eats at me even as exhaustion fogs my brain. I’m fast approaching a state in which I’ll become completely in effective. But how can I rest knowing there’s a killer out there, stalking my town?
I rise. “I have my own vehicle.”
“You’re in no condition to drive.”
“Yes, I am.” Only then do I realize I’m not going home.
CHAPTER 24
The setting sun peaks out from behind a wall of granite clouds as I head for the Explorer. The wind is calm, but I checked the weather report online. We’re in for some serious snow tonight. I snatch up my cell phone as I slide behind the wheel. Glock picks up on the first ring. I’m inordinately relieved to hear his voice. “Please tell me you got at least one good impression,” I begin.
“Footwear impressions stink. But we got a decent one from the snowmobile.”
Hope flutters in my chest, but I bank it because it makes me realize how desperate I am. “Did the lab give you a time frame?”
“Tomorrow. Late.”
“Did anyone get a look at him?”
“One of Detrick’s deputies thinks he saw a blue Yamaha. Perp wore a silver or gray helmet.”
There are hundreds of snowmobiles in the area. “Tell Skid I want a list of all Yamaha snowmobiles registered in Holmes and Coshocton Counties. Narrow it down by color. Blue. Silver. Gray. I want background checks and alibis on the owners.”
Glock clears his throat. “Ah, Detrick already put two of his deputies on that, Chief.”
Uneasy surprise quivers inside me. “All right. I’ll follow up with Detrick.”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the media showed up after you left. Steve Ressler. Crew from Columbus. A couple of radio stations. That fuckin’ Detrick prettied up for the cameras and held a press conference right there at the pond.”
“How did it go?”
“He didn’t say shit, but he looked good doing it.”
I sense there’s more coming.
“One of the reporters asked about you,” he adds. “Detrick made like he didn’t know where you were. Like he was covering for you or some shit.”
“I was with Johnston. I notified next of kin.” I hate it that I feel the need to defend myself.
“You don’t have to explain. Watch that fuckin’ Detrick, though. He’s a glory-grabbing son of a bitch.”
This development worries me. I feel the case spiraling out of my control. Detrick raising questions about my credibility. Tomasetti edging closer to the truth. My life hanging in the balance.
“How’s the Johnston family?” Glock asks.
I tell him about the scene at the station.
“Norm’s got a big mouth. You think he’s going to make trouble for you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was just the grief talking.” Ahead, pink-rimmed storm clouds roil on the western horizon. “Thanks for the heads up on Detrick. I’m going to try to get some sleep.”
I hit End. I want to call Norm, but I know his wounds are still too fresh. I wonder if he’s spoken to Detrick and filed a complaint against me, and I hit the speed dial for the sheriff’s number. I get voice mail. A good sign that he’s avoiding me. I know Detrick won’t hesitate to use me as a fall guy if this case doesn’t come together soon. I should be thinking about damage control. About my career and covering my ass. But I’ve never done my job based on the perceptions of others. I don’t intend to start now.
I hit Doc Coblentz’s number. “Do you have a prelim yet?”
“I just got her onto the table. My God, Kate. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”
“Anything carved onto her abdomen?”
“With the evisceration, I haven’t been able to tell yet. There’s a lot of damage.”
??
?Throat cut?”
“Like the others.” He blows out a breath. “I’m not sure that’s what killed her.”
“He changed his MO?”
I’m surprised when the doctor’s voice quivers. “I believe the evisceration may have been antemortem.”
All the blood seems to rush from my head. I’ve never fainted, but I’m so shaken by the news I have to pull over. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then I ask, “Do you think he might have medical training?”
“I doubt it. The incisions are crude. He just butchered her.”
“Was she raped?”
“I haven’t gotten that far.”
“Anything else?” I ask.
“A crime scene tech from BCI was here earlier. He took nail scrapings and swabs. We measured the incised wounds and he took some photos. He mentioned he might try to identify the type of chain used from the bruise pattern on her ankles.”
A thought occurs to me. “Did anyone find her clothes?”
“Not a shred.”
“I think he’s keeping the clothes.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He’s keeping them as trophies.”
“That’s your area of expertise, not mine.”
“When will you do the autopsy?”
“First thing in the morning.”
I don’t want to wait that long, but it’s my desperation talking. People need to eat and sleep and go home to their families. “Will you give me a call? I’d like to be there.”
“Kate, I don’t know why you do that to yourself.”
I wonder if maybe it’s one of many ways I choose to punish myself. For what I did. For what I didn’t do. “See you in the morning.”
I end the call. Around me, dusk hovers low and gray. To my right, a group of plain children wearing traditional Amish garb—black coats and flat-brimmed hats for the boys, headscarves for the girls—play an impromptu game of ice hockey on a pond next to the road. For an instant, the scene sweeps me back to my own childhood. A time when I was never alone and had no concept of loneliness. My life was filled with family, worship, chores—and playtime every chance I got. Before the day Daniel Lapp introduced me to violence, I was a happy and well-adjusted Amish girl. My life was carefree and full of promise. Those simple days seem like a thousand lifetimes ago.