Breaking Silence (32 page)

I’m not so sure. Someone’s going to go to jail. But it won’t be these two little boys.

CHAPTER 20

I’ve never been good at sitting on the sidelines. That’s especially true when it comes to my job. This morning, the fact that I’ve been effectively locked out of the investigation is excruciating. Two hours have passed since Tomasetti, Ike, Samuel, and I sat in the barn and the boys shocked us with the revelation that Salome was complicit in the attempt on their lives.

I’m still reeling inside. Hurting, if I want to be honest. But most of all, I’m angry. Angry because I was lied to and manipulated by someone I trusted, someone I cared about. But I’m angriest with myself. Because I allowed this to happen on my watch. Because I so willingly believed the lies I was spoon-fed. I stood by while two little boys were brutalized by their older siblings. Worse, I felt sympathy for their would-be murderer.

I’m at the police station, feeling out of place because I’m not in uniform, pacing the hall outside the interview room, pissed because the goddamn door is closed. Tomasetti, Adam Slabaugh, Sheriff Rasmussen, and a young attorney who doesn’t look old enough to have graduated from law school are inside, questioning Salome. The need to know what’s happening is like a bamboo sliver being slowly wedged beneath my fingernail.

I’ve just reached the end of the hall, and I’m staring, unseeing, into the reception area when the door clicks open. I spin and see Rasmussen emerge, looking like he’s just been roused from a nap. His hair is mussed, as if he’s been running his fingers through it. “I figured you’d have a path worn in that floor by now,” he says.

Trying to turn down my intensity, I cross to him. “No budget for new flooring.”

He’s looking at me a little too closely, the way people do when they know something isn’t quite right about you. “How are you holding up?”

I’m so focused on learning the outcome of the interview with Salome, it takes me a moment to realize he’s asking about the shooting. “I’m fine.” I say the words with a little too much attitude. But no cop is going to admit she’s spent the last twenty-four hours bouncing off the walls. That would be the ultimate bad form after a shooting. You can drink and you can fight, but you can’t admit it’s messing with your head.

“Good to hear.”

I don’t waste any time getting to the point. “What did Salome have to say?”

“Jesus, Kate. That kid’s been through hell, that’s for sure.”

That isn’t what I expected to hear. “Did she incriminate herself?”

“Every time she started to talk, that fuckin’ attorney shut her down.” He sighs tiredly, gives me a grim look. “She claims her dad was molesting her. Going into her bedroom at night and raping her since she was twelve. She confided in Mose about it. She thinks Mose confronted their father and they might have gotten into an argument the morning Slabaugh ended up in that pit.”

“That doesn’t explain why her brothers told Tomasetti and me that she’s the one who pushed them into the pit. It doesn’t explain how the uncle got into the pit. Or why she started having sex with Mose.”

He looks at me as if I should have a little more compassion for a girl who’s been through so much, and I get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. “She says she doesn’t know how any of them got in the pit. She hinted around that maybe the uncle went in to rescue Solly and that Mose couldn’t get him out. That’s how it usually happens. One person goes in, the would-be rescuers succumb to the lack of oxygen and follow suit. An unconscious man would be very difficult for a seventeen-year-old boy to extract from that pit.” He shrugs. “If Mose had gone in after them, he probably would have ended up dead, too.”

“Do you believe that?”

“It’s hard to know what happened, since everyone is dead.”

“Not everyone.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “How did the two little boys end up in the pit?”

“Salome says Mose did it. She was afraid he might, so she threw in the ball for them to use as a floatation device just in case. But she didn’t know Mose had actually done the deed until after the fact.”

“That’s not what those boys told me and Tomasetti.”

“Look, Kate, they’re just kids. They’ve been through a lot. They’ve been traumatized, lost their parents, their brother. They’re confused. Hell, maybe they’re looking for someone to blame.” Rasmussen motions toward the closed door. “I’m inclined to cut that poor girl in there some slack. I think the judge will, too. I think there were some awful things going on in that house that no one knew about.”

I shouldn’t be surprised by this, but I am. I stare at Rasmussen, realizing with a keen sense of dismay that he’s been sucked in by Salome’s innocence and beauty, just like everyone else.
Just like me.
And all I can think is,
She’s good.

“She blamed everything on Mose?” I say, hearing the incredulity in my voice.

“Not at first. In fact, she
defended
him.”

“Deception is a lot more effective when you initially defend the person you intend to hang.”

“I’m not reading it that way, Kate. She says she loved him and that he was only trying to protect her from being raped.”

I stare at him, unsettled by the news, because neither Mose nor Solomon is here to defend himself. “You realize Mose is the perfect scapegoat, don’t you?”

“I don’t think that girl in there killed her parents. Do you?”

“I think she’s capable. I think she manipulated Mose into doing it for her.”

“We don’t have any proof.”

“So why did those boys tell us Salome is the one who put them in the pit?”

The sheriff is ready with an answer. “They’re confused. Mose probably coached those boys. He beat them to keep them in line. Hit them in places where the bruises wouldn’t show. He threatened them constantly. Those boys were afraid of him.”

“That’s bullshit. Mose is dead. They know he can’t hurt them now. I think they’re afraid of
her.
”

“Look, Kate, I’m not saying the girl isn’t in this pretty deep. Sure, she made some bad decisions. She probably knows more than she’s letting on. But I don’t think she’s a cold-blooded killer.”

“She’s a classic sociopath. Those tears she’s crying all over you? They’re called ‘crocodile tears,’ in case you missed that day in the Academy.”

Rasmussen flushes red. “With all due respect, Chief, maybe you ought to take a big step back from this. I think you’re a little bit too emotionally involved.”

My jaw clamps and I hear my teeth grind. “She’s playing you. She’s playing all of us.”

“I don’t understand why you’re chomping at the bit to fry a fifteen-year-old Amish kid.”

In that instant, the terrible moments leading up to my shooting Mose replay in my mind’s eye: the truck roaring toward me, raising my weapon and firing, the windshield splintering. Then I turned and looked at Salome. Initially, I misinterpreted her expression as horror. It wasn’t until this morning that I recognized it for what it was: a chilling smile of secret satisfaction.

She was
getting off
on playing the role of victim. Getting off on seeing Mose gunned down after he’d served his purpose and she no longer needed him to further her goal. The scenario is so bitter and cold, I can’t wrap my brain around it. But I trust my instincts; I know I’m right. The question is, How do I prove it?

“I just want the truth,” I say.

“Sounds to me like you want to hang all this on an innocent girl.”

“She’s not innocent. I think she killed her parents. I think she’s capable of killing anyone who gets in her way.”

“She’s as much a victim as those two little boys.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Or maybe you think they’re in on this big conspiracy, too.”

“I think she’s got just about everyone snookered, including you.”

His flush is darker this time, and I realize behind all that good-old-boy charm, the sheriff has a temper. His gaze searches mine, as if he’s looking for some ulterior motive for the view I’ve taken on this. “We have no evidence to support anything you’ve said.”

“The word of those two boys.”

“Thoughts you may have inadvertently planted to suit your own agenda.”

I know arguing with him about this isn’t going to help my cause, so I reel in my temper and mentally shift gears. “Did you get anything back on the fingerprints found on the shovel?”

“The only prints found were Mose’s.”

I nod, but I know in my heart that was by design.

As if my thoughts are reflected in my expression, Rasmussen sighs. “In any case, we’re finished with her for now. We’re not going to charge her—”

“Not going to charge her?” Alarm shoots through me.

“She’s being remanded to the custody of her uncle. Social worker from Children Services interviewed him last evening. They did some kind of home study. He’s probably going to get approved for permanent custody.”

“Her brothers are terrified of her. I told them they’d be safe. Now she’s being sent home to her uncle?”

“The judge doesn’t want to separate the siblings. He spoke with those boys, Kate. They’re no more afraid of their sister than I am.”

“I overheard the boys talking. I’m telling you: They’re afraid of her.”

“Well, you’re entitled to your opinion, but I’d say this one is out of your hands.”

Frustration is like a sizzling charge of dynamite inside me. “Damn it, she’s a danger to those kids.”

“I’ve got to go.” Looking annoyed, not wanting to deal with this monkey wrench on a golf day, Rasmussen glances at his watch. “She asked to see you. Her attorney said it would be okay so long as you’re in there as a civilian.”

Surprise ripples through me. I figured I’d be the last person she wanted to see. “Sure.”

He sighs. “To be perfectly honest, Kate, maybe you shouldn’t go in there.”

“I’m glad that’s not your decision to make.”

Shaking his head, he turns and walks away.

I watch him disappear into the reception area; then I turn toward the interview room. I can feel my heart thrumming in my chest. Nerves tie my stomach in a knot. Over the years, I’ve conducted hundreds of interviews. I’ve faced people who would just as soon have slit my throat as look at me. It’s strange, but I don’t ever remember being as apprehensive as I am today.

All eyes sweep to me when I enter the room. Tomasetti sits at the head of the table, slouching in his chair, doodling on a small spiral pad. Adam Slabaugh sits to his right, staring into a Styrofoam cup as if it holds the secret of the universe. Salome sits beside him, clutching a tissue, looking small and pale and … lost. She’s wearing blue jeans and a white sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big. She looks inordinately out of place here—too young, too pretty, and far too innocent to be surrounded by cops asking questions about murder.

A few feet away, her attorney leans against the wall with a BlackBerry stuck to his ear, a shepherd keeping watch over his accident-prone flock. I’ve met him at some point, but I don’t remember his name. He’s a nice-looking young man with a ruddy complexion sprinkled with freckles, reddish hair, and a matching goatee. He’s overdressed in a gray suit that looks custom-made, but it’s matched with a Walmart tie. I can smell the Polo aftershave from where I stand.

He offers me a cocky smirk as he shoves the BlackBerry into an inside pocket. “Chief Burkholder, I’m Colin Thornsberry, Miss Slabaugh’s attorney.”

Since I’m not pleased to meet him, I simply nod.

“Normally, I wouldn’t allow an officer with your kind of … personal involvement to speak to my client, but she asked to see you. Her uncle agreed it would be okay. Since this is an informal meeting…” He shrugs. “Here we are.”

I give him my best “Eat dog shit” look as I cross to the table and sit across from Salome.

“Nothing inappropriate, please,” the attorney adds. “My client has had a tremendously difficult couple of days.”

Not as difficult as her parents, uncle, and brothers,
I think. But I don’t say the words.

He brushes his fingertips across Salome’s shoulder. She offers him a faint smile. Then he withdraws his BlackBerry and strides over to the window, texting like a fixated high school student.

I turn my attention to Salome. Myriad emotions rush through me in a torrent when our gazes meet. She’s been crying; her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. Even knowing everything that I do about her, there’s a part of me that’s moved. A part of me wants to go to her, believe in her, protect her from all these big bad cops and an attorney who looks at her as if she’s a piece of meat. But with four people dead, I don’t have the luxury of sticking my head in the sand.

I’m aware of Tomasetti watching me, but I don’t look at him. I hear the lawyer speaking with quiet authority into his BlackBerry. But all of my attention is focused on the girl sitting across from me. She doesn’t know about my conversation with her brothers. She has no idea I suspect her of cold-blooded murder. She still believes I’ve come here to beg her forgiveness for killing her lover.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I begin.

She sends me a small, uncertain smile. “I didn’t know if you’d come. I’m glad you did.”

I match her smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” She looks down at her hands, little-girl hands. For the first time, it strikes me how incongruent they are with the rest of her, with everything that’s happened, everything she’s done.

“Do you need anything?” I ask.

She raises her gaze to mine. Her eyes are soft and benign and so utterly lovely, I can’t look away. “I just wanted to tell you … I mean, about what happened … with Mose.” She visibly swallows, blinks back tears. “I’m not mad. And I don’t blame you. I know you were only doing your job.”

“Thank you,” I tell her. “I’m glad you don’t hold it against me.” Silence weighs heavy for a moment, like the electrically charged air right before a crack of thunder. “I was afraid he was going to hurt you.”

“He never hurt me. He would never do that. He loved me.”

“I know.”

“He was trying to protect me. He was … confused.”

“I understand.”

Thornsberry passes close, listening, so I pause.