Pray for Silence (22 page)

The urge to pull out my cell and dial 911 is strong, but I resist. If he needed an ambulance, he’d tell me. This is . . . something else.

I stand there, feeling helpless, my hand on my phone. I’m frightened and embarrassed for him. And I’m worried about his well-being. Slowly, his breathing regulates. The shaking subsides. A sigh escapes him as he straightens. Without a word, without looking at me, he turns away and walks into the kitchen.

Gathering my composure, I follow. He’s at the sink, splashing water on his face. “What the hell was that?” I ask.

He yanks a towel out of a drawer and pats his face dry, looking at me over the tops of his fingers. “Had you worried, didn’t I?”

“That’s not funny,” I snap. “You were in serious distress a moment ago. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

He looks away, takes a moment to toss the towel on the counter. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

“You scared me.”

“Yeah, well, I scare myself sometimes.” The lines on either side of his mouth deepen, and he sighs like an old man who bears the weight of the world on shoulders that have grown brittle and frail. “There was a time when I thought I could walk away from just about anything. I was one of those cops who could go directly from some bloody murder scene to lunch and not think twice about it. I was untouchable. Never had demons. Never felt too much. That was one of the reasons I was such a good cop. The job never got to me. I never let it.” He pins me with a grim look. “All of that changed the night Nancy and the girls were murdered.”

“That’s understandable,” I say. “But you dealt with it. You got help.”

“I let a lot of doctors prescribe a lot of pills I was all too happy to take.”

“But you’ve come a long way since then.”

“Not far enough, evidently,” he says dryly.

“I don’t know what that means. And I don’t know what it has to do with what just happened to you.”

Tomasetti scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m having anxiety attacks, Kate. I’ve been to the emergency room.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m seeing the company shrink. It’s a condition of my continued employment with BCI.”

The words hit me like hammer blows. My head is reeling. Knowing everything he’s been through, I hurt for him. “How long have you been having the anxicty attacks?” I finally manage.

“A couple of months.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Not exactly the kind of thing a guy wants to discuss with his lover.”

I think about that a moment, trying to ignore the knot in my gut. “What’s the prognosis?”

“Going to keep me on the couch awhile.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Before you go all doe-eyed on me, you probably ought to hear the rest.”

“Now, you’re really making me nervous.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a pisser.” He grimaces. “The deputy superintendent has no idea I’m here.”

That isn’t what I expected him to say. “What?”

“I’m on leave. It’s mandatory.”

“Because of the anxiety attacks?”

He sighs. “Because of ancient history.”

“Maybe you ought to tell me everything.” Despite my efforts, my voice is tight.

“A few weeks before the Slaughterhouse case, I didn’t pass a drug test.”

I’m still trying to absorb the part about the panic attacks. It’s not easy. John Tomasetti is one of the strongest, most capable people I’ve ever known. To learn he’s suffering with an anxiety disorder truly stuns me. “Is your job going to be okay?”

“The deputy superintendent says once I get a clean bill of health, I can go back, pick up where I left off.” One side of his mouth curves, but his eyes remain sardonic. “I guess the good news is they haven’t tried to put me back in the loony bin.”

I’m one of the few who know that after the murders of his wife and kids, Tomasetti spent a few weeks in a psychiatric facility.

After a moment, he gives me a sage look. “The night you called me, the night you chased someone into the cornfield . . .” He lets the words trail, but I already know where he’s going with it. “It scared the hell out of me.”

“Is that why you’re here? Because you’re afraid something will happen to me?”

“That might be part of it.”

I study the hard lines of his face, trying to see more than he will reveal. “You know nothing’s going to happen to me, right?”

His smile is rigid and false. “We’ve been cops long enough to know you can’t make those kinds of guarantees.”

Before I can refute the statement, his cell phone trills, sounding inordinately loud in the silence of the house. Snatching it from his belt, he brushes past me and answers with a curt, “Tomasetti.”

I watch as he pulls out a notebook and scribbles. “I got it. Fax the whole list to the station down here, will you? Thanks.”

Shoving the phone back into his belt, he turns to me. “The dark pickup truck you asked about?”

I’m still thinking about everything he just told me. The rapid shifting of gears to another topic jars me. “You got something?”

“BCI broke it down by color and by county,” he answers. “They’re faxing it to Glock now.”

“I thought you weren’t official?”

He smiles. “I have friends in low places.”

“How many vehicles?”

“Forty-two.”

“How many black and blue?”

He glances down at his notes. “Six black and eleven blue.”

I’m already pulling my phone from my belt, punching numbers. Glock picks up on the first ring. “You get the list?” I ask without preamble.

“Right here.”

“Any of the owners have a record?”

“Working on that now.” I hear computer keys clicking on the other end. “I got three. Colleen Sarkes. 2007 blue Toyota Tundra. DUI back in 2006. Another one last year.”

“Males,” I say.

“Robert Allen Kiser. Black 2009 F-250. Convicted domestic violence last year.”

“Who else?”

“Todd Eugene Long. 2006 Black Chevy. Convicted on a burglary charge a year ago.”

“Give me their addresses.”

Click. Click. Click.
“Kiser lives in town.” He pauses. “Long lives in the Melody Trailer Park out on the highway.”

The Melody Trailer Park is closest to me. “I’ll take Long. Grab T.J. or Pickles and go talk to Kiser.”

“I’m on it.”

Shoving my phone back onto my belt I turn to Tomasetti. “I’ve got a name. Let’s go.”

He’s already striding toward the door. “Saved by the bell.”

The Melody Trailer Park is ten minutes from the Plank farm. The place has been around since before I was born, but its heyday has long since passed. Back in the seventies, it was the premier location for trailer homes and RVs. Young couples and retirees made the park a showplace for the up-and-coming. But time and circumstance have a way of eroding even the most en vogue of places, and the Melody Trailer Park was unable to escape its inevitable fall from grace.

Tomasetti turns the Tahoe onto a patchwork of crumbling asphalt pocked with potholes. A row of walnut trees runs parallel with a derelict privacy fence, separating the park from a wheat field to the south. Opposite, two dozen mobile homes line the street like wrecked cars waiting for the crusher. Most of the homes are streaked with rust and black grime that’s run down from the roof. I see broken windows, flapping screens and one storm door hanging by a single hinge. Two mobile homes are missing the skirting that encircles the base to keep the plumbing from freezing in the wintertime.

Seeing this kind of poverty in my own backyard saddens me. My family and I were far from wealthy, but we weren’t poor, either. My parents always provided food and shelter, and instilled a sense of security. My life wasn’t ideal, but the problems I experienced had absolutely nothing to do with money.

“Dismal place,” Tomasetti comments.

“Wouldn’t want to live here when the temp dips below zero.”

“What’s the address?”

I glance down at my notebook. “Thirty-five Decker. I think it’s the last street.”

The final fringes of daylight fade as Tomasetti turns onto Decker. The lot numbers painted on the curb are faded, but we find number thirty-five at the end of the street. A handful of maple and sycamore trees surround a nicely kept mobile home, casting it into perpetual shadow. Fallen leaves the color of blood cover the yard and driveway. Some enterprising individual had built wooden steps and a deck off the front door. But time and the elements have bleached the wood to monochrome gray and eroded any semblance of prettiness. A black Chevy pickup with a big crease in the door is parked in the driveway.

“There’s the truck,” Tomasetti says.

I get out and head toward the front door. The steps creak as I ascend them, and I find myself hoping the wood holds. I knock and wait. In the driveway, Tomasetti peers into the truck windows. From where I stand, I see several beer cans in the truck bed. A toolbox. A length of nylon rope.

The door swings open, and I find myself facing a tall man with strawberry blond hair and a scruffy beard the color of peach fuzz. “Todd Long?” I ask.

His gaze flicks from me to Tomasetti, who’s coming up the stairs. “Can I help you?”

I show him my badge. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

He stares at my badge and his adam’s apple spasms twice. “Uh . . . what about?”

“A crime that was committed a few days ago.”

“I don’t know anything about a crime.”

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I sigh. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you yet.”

He stares at me, his eyes blinking.

“Can we come in?” I ask.

I can tell he doesn’t want to let us in. But he can’t seem to come up with a good excuse for refusing. Reluctantly, he steps back and opens the door. “Sure.”

I step into the living room. The trailer is too cold for comfort and smells
of cigarette smoke and burnt pizza. Todd Long is about six feet tall with a lean build and big, slender hands. His pale complexion and strawberry blond hair makes for a nice contrast with the navy Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt and faded jeans. His face is an interesting one with high cheekbones, a chiseled mouth that would put Marlon Brando to shame and eyes the color of a deep-water lake on a sunny day.

“What’s this all about?” His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti. He seems nervous. I wonder what he’s got to be nervous about.

“Someone reported seeing a truck like yours out by the Plank farm the night that family was killed,” Tomasetti begins.

“What?” Long’s face goes even paler. “Like mine? I wasn’t there.”

“You know about the murders?” I ask.

He turns slightly to face me, a deer being approached by wolves from different directions. “I heard about it on the news. That was some bad shit.”

“Where were you Sunday night?” Giving us only half of his attention, Tomasetti strolls into the kitchen.

“I was at the Brass Rail.” Fast answer with no hesitation.

“Can someone vouch for you?” I ask.

“Sure. I was with a buddy of mine.”

“Who?” Tomasetti asks. “We need names.”

“Friend of mine by the name of Jack Warner. The bartender might remember me, too.”

I pull out my pad and jot down the name. “What time were you there?”

“I got there at about nine. Stayed till closing.” His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti. “Look, I didn’t know those people. Hell, I don’t know
any
Amish folks. I sure as hell don’t have any reason to hurt ’em.”

In the kitchen, Tomasetti opens a couple of drawers, peeks inside. “Anyone borrow your truck recently?”

“No one borrows my truck.” He watches Tomasetti open the refrigerator. He wants to tell him to stop snooping; I see it in his eyes. But he doesn’t have the balls.

Tomasetti nails him with a hard stare. “I understand you’re on probation.”

Long blinks, runs slender fingers through tousled hair. “Yeah. I did something stupid a long time ago. Did my time.”

“You know you can go back to prison for lying to the cops, don’t you?”

“I don’t have any reason to lie to you guys. I was at the bar all night. I swear. You can check.”

Tomasetti shows his teeth. “We will.”

“Any particular reason you’re so nervous?” I ask.

Long swings around as if he’s expecting me to attack him from behind. “Cops make me nervous.”

“Why is that?” I ask.

“Because you guys charged in here like I did something wrong.” Long’s nervousness is giving way to indignation now. “I’ve kept my nose clean ever since I got out.”

“Do you own a firearm?” I ask.

He blinks at me. “I’m on probation.”

In my peripheral vision, Tomasetti rolls his eyes. “Is that a yes or no?”

“I sold my guns when I got busted. Needed the money to pay my lawyer.”

“What kind of guns?”

“Deer rifle. Revolver that belonged to my grandfather.”

I jot it in my notebook. “Who did you sell them to?”

“Pawnshop in Mansfield. I think I’ve still got receipts.”

“Dig them out,” I say. “We may need them.”

“Okay.”

“Do you work?” Tomasetti asks.

“I’ve been with the railroad for going on two years.”

“What about a girlfriend?” I ask.

“What kind of question is that?”

“One you have to answer,” Tomasetti snaps.

“No one regular.”

A thought occurs to me, so I jump in with the next question. “Do you know a guy by the name of Scott Barbereaux?”

Long makes a show of thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe I went to school with him.”

“You need to be more definitive,” I say.

He looks at me as if he’s not sure what the word means. “I think I did go to school with him.”

“Were you friends?” I ask.

Long shakes his head. “He was always sort of a jock. You know, played football and shit. I was . . . more of a hood, I guess.”

Tomasetti stares hard at him. “You telling us the truth?”

Long can’t hold his gaze, and fixes his eyes on the floor. “I don’t have any reason to lie. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“If I find out you told even one teeny weeny little lie,” Tomasetti says conversationally, “I’ll come back, and I’ll make you regret it. Are you clear on that?”

I see sweat on Long’s forehead and upper lip. His gaze meet’s Tomasetti’s then skitters away. “I got it.”