Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. She wasn’t guy crazy or anything. Amanda had a level head.”
“So you think she was being straight with you?”
“She said she wanted to stay friends.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “I figured that was a lot better than never seeing her again.” His eyes mist. “Doesn’t matter now. I’m never going to see her again, anyway, am I?”
I shove my notepad into my coat pocket. “Don’t leave town, okay?”
His gaze meets mine. In his eyes I see the kind of pain a twenty-two-year-old farm kid probably can’t fake, and I feel an uncharacteristic need to reassure him.
“You guys think I did it?” he asks.
“I just want you to be available in case I have more questions.”
Leaning back in the chair, he swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I don’t have any plans to go anywhere, anyway.”
I offer my card. “If you think of anything else, call me.”
He looks at the card. “I hope you guys catch the lowlife who did that to her. Amanda didn’t deserve to die.”
“No, she didn’t.” As I make my exit, I mentally cross Donny Beck off my list of suspects.
It’s not yet eight A.M. when I arrive at the station. Glock’s cruiser is parked in its usual spot. Next to it, Mona’s Ford Escort is covered with a thin coating of snow. I wonder what new catastrophe waits for me inside.
Mona looks up from her phone when I enter. “Hey, Chief. You’ve got messages.”
“Now there’s a surprise.” I take a dozen slips from her.
Her hair is piled on top of her head with little ringlets spiraling down. Her lipstick is almost as black as her nail polish. Maroon eyeliner makes her look like she’s got a bad case of pinkeye. “Norm Johnston is getting pissed about having to leave messages, Chief. He’s like, you know, taking it out on me.”
“Did he say what he wants?”
“Your head on a platter, probably.”
I give her a look.
“Just a wild guess.”
I laugh. “Where’s Glock?”
She glances down at the switchboard where a single red light stands out.
“On the phone.”
“When he gets off, tell him to call me.” I walk to the coffee station and fill the biggest mug I can find. In my office I turn on my computer, then drape my coat over the back of my chair. I’m anxious to see if OHLEG came back with a hit on Daniel Lapp.
My hopes are dashed when I log in. If he’s alive, he’s being careful. Probably using an alias. Maybe even a stolen identity or false social security number. Under normal circumstances, I’d start flashing his photo around town. But I can’t risk raising questions. People will want to know why I’m asking about a man who hasn’t been seen for sixteen years. They’ll put two and two together, and Daniel Lapp will rise out of obscurity like some Amish version of Jack the Ripper.
I dial Norm Johnston’s number. Miller’s pond would do the job. It’s a good size body of water with a muddy bottom.
Johnston answers on the first ring. “I’ve been trying to reach you for almost two days, Chief Burkholder.”
“I’m tied up with this murder, Norm. What can I do for you?”
“The town council and mayor want to meet with you. Today.”
“Norm, look, I need to work—”
“With all due respect, Kate, you are obligated to keep us informed. We want an update on how the investigation is progressing.”
“We’re working on a couple of leads.”
“Do you have a suspect?”
“I put out a press release—”
“That doesn’t say squat.”
I sigh. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know much.”
“Then a meeting won’t take long. I’ll have everyone in the city room at noon. We’ll have you out of there in twenty minutes.”
He hangs up without waiting for a response and without thanking me. He’s still pissed about that DUI. Self-serving bastard.
“Chief?” I’m so immersed in my thoughts I didn’t hear Mona approach.
“There’s someone here to see you.”
Something in her eyes puts me on alert. Now what? I think. A moment later my sister appears in my doorway. I’ve been the chief of police for over two years. In all that time, neither Sarah nor my brother have visited me here. For a moment I almost can’t believe what I’m seeing. Then I remember my conversation with Jacob the night before.
“Hello, Katie.” Sarah wears a navy dress with a black apron and a heavy winter cape. Her blonde hair is parted severely at the center and drawn into a bun at her nape, all of which is covered by the traditional Amish kapp. She’s two years older than me, pretty and expecting her first child in just over a month.
Rising, I round my desk, pull out the visitor chair for her and close the door.
“Have a seat.” After an awkward moment, I ask, “How are you feeling?”
It’s an uncomfortable question. This isn’t the first time Sarah has been pregnant. There have been three times that I know of. Each time she’s miscarried late in the second trimester.
She smiles. “I think it is God’s will that I have this baby.”
I return her smile. She’ll be a good mother; I hope she gets the chance.
“Did you drive the buggy into town all by yourself?”
She nods, her gaze flicking away briefly, and I know she’s here against her husband’s wishes. “William is at the horse auction in Keene.”
“I see.” Waiting, I watch her struggle with some internal conflict I can’t quite identify.
“I talked to Jacob,” she says after a moment. “He told me you went to the grain elevator. That Daniel Lapp may be alive.”
“It’s only a theory.” I can’t keep my eyes from sliding to the door to make sure we’re not overheard.
She continues as if she didn’t hear me. “All these years we believed he was with God.”
God. The word burns away the last of my patience. I want to tell her the son of a bitch who raped me is burning in hell where he belongs. “Even if he’s dead, I doubt he’s with God.”
“Katie.” Her eyes meet mine. “Someone was in the barn. Three days ago.”
The hairs at my nape prickle. “Who?”
“I do not know.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I was milking and heard the hay chute door slam. When I looked, no one was there. But I saw footprints in the snow.”
“Were the tracks made by a man?”
“I think so. The shoes were large.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
“At the time I did not think it important. But now . . .” She averts her gaze, then looks back at me with nervous eyes. “Do you think it could be Daniel? Is he back and killing?”
To consider the possibility that Lapp is not only alive but a possible threat to my family adds an edgy new dimension to the situation. “I don’t know.”
“What if he is angry with us for what we did and seeking revenge?” She lowers her voice. “Katie, I do not wish to burden you with my fears, but I believe the time has come for you to tell your English police about Lapp.”
I flinch. “No.”
“You do not have to tell them . . . all of it.”
“No.” The word comes out more harshly than I intend, but I don’t take it back. “Don’t ask me to do that.”
Sarah’s gaze remains steadfast on mine. “What if Daniel returns? What if he tries to hurt me or William?” She sets her hand on her swollen abdomen. “I have this child to think of now.”
Dread curdles like sour milk in my gut. I try to think of some way to reassure her. But I have no words. Leaning forward, I take her hand and lower my voice. “Sarah, listen to me. Jacob believes Daniel died that day. I think so, too.”
“Then why were you looking for his body?”
My brain scrambles for answers that aren’t there. “All I can tell you is that I’m good at what I do. Please. Trust me. Let me handle this my way.”
My phone rings again. I look down to find three lines blinking in discord, but my attention stays focused on my sister. “You know I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.”
“How can you keep us safe when you don’t even know where he is?”
I hate it that I don’t have the answers she needs. A knock on the door draws my attention. “Sarah, I’m sorry.” I release her hand. “I have to get to work. We’ll talk more about this later.”
“I do not think this will wait.”
“Please, just give me some time.”
The door opens. Mona steps in. “Sorry, Chief, I just wanted to let you know the sheriff called.” She passes pink slips to me.
“Would you ask T.J. to escort Sarah home?” I ask Mona.
Sarah tosses me a sheepish look. “That is not necessary.”
“I’d feel better if he did. The roads are slick in spots.”
Mona offers Sarah a grin. “Come on, Sister Sarah. Let’s find T.J.”
Watching my sister walk away, I try not to be troubled, but I am. Who was in her barn and why? Is she right about Lapp? Has he targeted my family? Are they in danger? The questions taunt me with terrible possibilities.
. . . the time has come for you to tell your English police about Lapp.
Sarah’s words echo inside my head like a hammer strike against steel. I tell myself she doesn’t understand the implications of a confession on my part. That it would irrevocably harm my career. My reputation. My credibility. This case. Maybe even land me in jail. That’s not to mention the damage that would be done to my family. If Lapp is dead, it would all be for nothing.
There’s no way dredging up the past will help.
No way at all.
Ten minutes later I find Glock in his office, the phone stuck to his ear. He looks at me when I peek in and raises his finger, telling me to hold on. After a moment, he hangs up and shakes his head. “That was the BCI lab in London.”
“Any luck with the tread or footwear imprints?”
“They got a partial tread that doesn’t match any of the first responders.”
My heart rolls into a staccato. “Can they match it with a manufacturer?”
“Their tire guy is working on it.” He shrugs. “Fifty-fifty chance of IDing the tread.”
The news isn’t great, but I’ll take anything positive at this point. “I’m going to talk to Scott Brower.” Brower was at the Brass Rail the night Amanda Horner disappeared. He’s of particular interest because he’s got an arrest record, one of which involved a knife. “Wanna come?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. You buying breakfast?”
“As long as it’s fast.”
Ten minutes later we’re in my Explorer heading toward Mr. Lube, where Brower works as a mechanic. Next to me, Glock finishes his breakfast burrito and stuffs the napkin into the bag.
“Any luck with Donny Beck?” he asks.
Shaking my head, I tell him about my conversation with the kid. “I don’t think he did it.”
“He got an alibi?”
“I still need to verify, but I think it’ll pan out.”
“Maybe we’ll have better luck with Brower.”
Mr. Lube operates out of a ramshackle garage located in the industrial district near the railroad tracks. The parking lot is part asphalt, part gravel and covered with dirty snow, most of which hasn’t been cleared. A blue Nova, circa 1969, sits on concrete blocks. Next to it, a man in brown coveralls has his head stuck beneath the hood of a truck.
I park near the overhead door and we exit the vehicle. Glock huddles more deeply into his uniform jacket. “I hate snow,” he mutters.
A buzzer sounds when we open the door. Behind the counter, a heavyset man with a bad case of rosacea looks up from a box of doughnuts. “Hep ya?”
“I’m looking for Scott Brower.” I show him my badge and try not to notice the goop in the corner of his mouth.
“What’d he do now?”
“I just want to talk to him. Where is he?”
“Garage out back.”
Glock and I turn simultaneously.
“If he did somethin’ I wanna know about it!” the man yells.
I close the door behind us without responding. We follow trampled snow to the rear. The steel building looks as if it survived a tornado—barely. A piece of sheet metal has torn loose and flaps noisily in the wind. I hear the drone of a power tool inside. Hoping Brower is alone, I shove open the door and step inside.
An electric heater blows hot air that stinks of motor oil and diesel fuel. Light filters down from an overhead shop light. Steel shelves line three walls. Pinned above the workbench, a 1999 calendar depicts two nude women engaging in oral sex. Every square inch of space is taken up with either tools or junk. Standing at the table saw in the center of the room, Brower muscles a blade through steel. Sparks fly and scatter.
I wait until he finishes the cut before speaking. “Scott Brower?”
He looks up. To my surprise he’s a nice-looking man. He has a baby face. Puppy-dog eyes. A child’s nose. A bow mouth that’s surprisingly feminine. He’s thirty-two years old but looks younger. His eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. “Who’s askin’?”
“The cops.” I show my badge. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“About what?”
“Were you at the Brass Rail Saturday night?”
“So were a couple hundred other people. Last time I checked that wasn’t a crime.”
I grind my molars, but keep my voice level. “Did you talk to a woman by the name of Amanda Horner?”
“I talked to a lot of chicks. Don’t recall no Amanda.”
“Let me refresh your memory.” Never taking my eyes from his, I pull out a photo of a dead Amanda Horner lying on a gurney. “Now do you remember?”
He doesn’t flinch at the sight of the dead woman. “So that’s what this is about. The chick who got herself killed.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“I don’t recall.”
“You think a trip to the police department would help your memory?”
His gaze darts to the door. “Hey, man—”
“I’m not a man,” I snap. “I’m a police officer, so stop being a dipshit and answer my questions.”
“Okay.” He raises his hands. “Look, I hit on her. We flirted. I swear, that’s all.”
I’m aware of Glock moving around the garage, looking in the trash barrel, opening a toolbox. I’m thankful I have him here to back me up. I don’t like Scott Brower. I don’t trust him. And I’ll bet behind that baby-face façade he’s a nasty son of a bitch.
“You got a temper, Scotty?”
His gaze goes wary. “Sometimes. If someone fucks with me.”
“Did Amanda fuck with you?”
“No.”
“Did your boss at Agri-Flo fuck with you?”
His face darkens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You threatened to cut her throat. Ring a bell?”
