Pray for Silence (31 page)

“Sometimes the Amish do fight back. Instinct. Self-preservation.”
I did.

“There’s no way they could have known what he had in mind. They probably thought he was going to rob them. Once he bound their hands, it was too late.”

“How did he film and kill them at the same time?”

“Tripod. You saw the marks in the floor.” His eyes narrow. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

“I don’t think Long did the murders alone.”

“We have no evidence to support an accomplice.”

“What if Long didn’t commit suicide?”

“How many shots have you had?”

“I’m serious. What if someone staged the scene to make it look like suicide?”

“And you’re basing that premise on what?”

“Gut.”

Tomasetti frowns. “Not very concrete.”

“I think it’s worth consideration.”

“Maybe.” He sighs. “Do you have someone in particular in mind?”

“James Payne. He’s certainly capable.”

“We don’t have shit on him. No connection to Long.”

“And what about Barbereaux? I’m playing devil’s advocate here, but his name came up twice in the course of the investigation. We were able to connect him to Mary through the shop. And then there’s the wine bottle.”

“Pretty loose connections. And circumstantial, by the way.”

“I think it warrants looking into.”

“Kate, Painters Mill is a small town. People’s lives intersect. Lots of young people hang out at Miller’s Pond and drink.”

“I don’t think Long was smart enough to produce pornographic videos and sell them online.”

“You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to sell pictures of underage girls on the Internet. Any scum with a modem and an IQ over ten can do it. It’s sort of a seller’s market.”

Even through the haze of alcohol, frustration climbs over me like a clingy little beast. “How do you feel about the snuff angle? Do you think it’s viable?”

“I think it’s a theory with nothing to back it up.”

We sit there, thinking for a full minute, then I ask, “Did you get anything on the Web site owners?”

“We got as far as the Philippines. We’re waiting for more info, but I’m not holding my breath. They’re cooperating, but it could take a while.”

I shake my head. “I can’t see Todd Long walking into that farm house and killing seven people. That takes a certain kind cold-bloodedness. Long was a scumbag, a manipulator, a rapist, but he was a follower. I don’t think he had that kind of bold in him.”

I can tell by the hard set of his mouth, the way he’s looking at me that Tomasetti doesn’t buy into my theory. “Let’s say you’re onto something,” he says. “How many people do you think were involved?”

“I think there was an accomplice.” I consider that a moment. “If the semen isn’t a match to Long, then we’ll know there was at least one other person involved. Any word on the results yet?”

“Lab says four to six days. I tried to push them, but they’re working under a backlog right now.”

I don’t want to wait that long, but of course I don’t have a choice. “I don’t believe Long is the man Mary wrote about in her journal.”

Tomasetti pins me with a doubtful look. “What makes you think that?”

I flush, embarrassed because I’m tossing out some pretty radical theories when I’ve had too much to drink. “In the video, even though she’s drugged, I see the revulsion on her face when she’s with Long. But the man she wrote about in the journal . . . she was in love with him. There’s a difference.”

He peels at the label on the beer bottle. “I’ll be honest with you, Kate. I think you’re in this too deep. I think you’re looking for things that aren’t there. Do yourself a favor and close the case.”

“The town council probably won’t give me much choice. If the tourists don’t come here, they’ll go to Lancaster County.”

“Ah, small town politics.” He shrugs. “If something changes, you can always reopen it.”

He’s right, but I say nothing. I’ll close the case. Officially, anyway. But I’ll keep looking. If I find out someone else was involved, I’m going to bring them to justice even if I have to mete it out myself.

I see Tomasetti struggling with something he wants to say, and I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. “Are you going to let me drive you home?” he asks.

“I’m thinking about it.”

“I’ve missed you.”

For the first time, I’m thinking more about the man across from me than the case or my own woes. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the fact that we haven’t been together for two months, but I want to spend the night with him. I want to forget about everything else for just a little while.

“I’ve missed you, too.” I reach across the table and take his hand. “We’re going to be okay.”

“In that case,” he says, “let’s get the hell out of here.”

Tomasetti’s gone when I wake. That surprises me because I’m a light sleeper. But having gone without any measurable sleep for the last few days, I was exhausted. Or maybe I just sleep better when he’s beside me. The thought scares me a little bit.

He never says good-bye when he spends the night. The first couple of times it bothered me. Then I came to realize he doesn’t linger because neither of us is very good at the morning-after thing. We’re too cautious about revealing too much, laying too much of ourselves on the line, keeping all those dark secrets safe from a lover’s prying eyes.

He always seems to leave a small piece of himself behind. I still feel his presence in my bed, in the house, on my body, in my mind. The echo of his voice. His rare laugh. The lingering scent of his aftershave. The softness of his mouth. The urgent touch of a lonely man. This imprint of him stays with me for days sometimes. At first it was disconcerting, but I’ve grown to like it. Already, I find myself wondering when I’ll see him again.

Though it’s only six
A.M
., I quickly shower and dress. Thoughts of the Plank family don’t creep into my mind until I’m driving to the station. Even then, the hard edges are gone this morning. It’s a step in the right direction.

I arrive at the station to find Mona’s Escort parked in its usual spot. Skid’s cruiser is parked next to it, and I know he’s probably finishing up his reports before he calls it a day. Glock will arrive in an hour or so toting either bagels or doughnuts from the Butterhorn Bakery. Mona will complain about the calories. Lois, T.J. and Pickles will arrive and another typical day will begin.
We’ll talk about the murders and deal with the media. I’ll call Auggie and officially close the case. My small department and I will go back to refereeing domestic quarrels, bar fights and corralling wayward livestock. Usually the normalcy, the routine of that would be a comfort to me. This morning, it makes me feel as if I’ve swept something smelly under the rug.

I walk in to find Mona sitting at her station, tapping her fingers to a Gin Blossoms tune that’s cranked up a little too loud. “Hey, Chief. You’re in early this morning.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” I cross to the dispatch station, reach over and turn down the radio. “Any messages?”

“Media mostly. From yesterday afternoon. Wanting to know about the Long thing.” She passes half a dozen pink messages to me. “Sorry about the radio. I didn’t realize it was so late. I mean early.” She grins. “Night shift flew by.”

Since the messages are media-related, I hand them back to her. “Let them know I’ll have a press release later this morning.”

“Sure thing.”

At the coffee station, I pour a cup and carry it to my office. While my computer boots, I go to the record storage box next to the file cabinet and carry it to my desk.
T. Long Suicide
is written in bold red marker on the side. The box contains only a fraction of what we found at the scene; most of it was sent to the BCI lab for processing. Still, I want to go through everything with a fine-tooth comb before closing the case.

Inside the box, I find the evidence log Mona put together. The preliminary report from Doc Coblentz. A manila folder contains a photo record of the scene. A plastic bag filled with pornographic photos of Mary Plank. In addition, there are two boxes of disks. All are copies; the originals were sent to the BCI lab. The first box is marked
Viewed
. These are the ones Glock, John and T.J. went through yesterday. The second box is marked
To Be Viewed
. These are the ones I need to look at this morning.

I set the box on my desk. Reviewing them is the last thing I want to do. I know the images that wait for me—rape and depravity—will negate whatever optimism Tomasetti left with me. But even though Long is dead and the case will soon be closed, all the evidence must still be examined.

Rising, I close my office door and slide the first disk into my computer.
The drive whirs. I open Windows and click Play. The video opens to a sparsely furnished, windowless room. Stark white walls. A single bulb hangs down from the ceiling. A twin-size bed with an iron headboard and smaller footboard stands in the center of the room. Mary Plank is on the bed, lying on her side. She wears no makeup, but someone painted her mouth red. Her eyes are glazed. She wears a light blue dress, a white apron, gauzy
kapp
and ankle boots. I try to take in these details with the unaffected eye of a cop. But my chest tightens at the sight of her.

A man clad in blue jeans and wearing the jester mask enters stage right.
Bastard,
I think and I find myself glad Long stuck that gun in his mouth. He crosses to the mattress and kneels beside Mary. Leaning close, he whispers something in her ear. She smiles at him, then looks at the camera. “We’re going to be playing a sexy game today,” she says.

It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice, and it shocks me. It’s girlish and innocent with the slow inflection of the Amish. Smiling, she reaches for Long. He brushes his knuckles across her check, and I see a connection between them I hadn’t noticed before. The music begins. An old Van Halen song, “Running with the Devil.” As he undresses her, I focus on camera work, realize it’s steady, probably being shot from a tripod.

I fast-forward through the disk, pausing only when something catches my attention. In terms of an accomplice, my efforts net zero. By the time the disk plays out, I’m shaking with outrage and disgust. I feel dirty and upset and unbearably guilty.

Popping out the disk, I mark it as
Read,
and place it with the other disks that have been viewed. I don’t let myself think or feel as I slide the second disk into the drive. I steel myself against the black dread rising inside me. The voice inside my head telling me I can’t do this. But I don’t stop. I close the drive and click Play.

My pulse jumps when I recognize the Plank farmhouse. The living room. I see the two tall windows, the same lacy curtains. The lighting is bad, probably from some type of battery-powered light. The camera work is jerky, similar in style to
The Blair Witch Project,
telling me someone is manning the camera. I wonder if this video was shot the night of the murders. Or had Long been at the farmhouse before? And where are the Planks?

The screen goes black for an instant, blinks white, and then the kitchen looms into view. The camera work smoothes out, and I realize he must have set up a tripod. I can see the edge of the table from this angle. The back door. The cabinets and sink. It looks like unedited video. Long appears, adjusting the camera or maybe testing the lighting. He looks into the lens as if he doesn’t realize the camera’s turned on. He’s got a serious look on his face. Is he angry? I wonder. Scared? Intent on killing? Is he about to fly into a rage?

The screen fades to black. The words
Death in an Amish Farmhouse
appear in red, Gothic-style lettering that reminds me of some high school horror film project. The screen goes scratchy. An instant later the image of Amos Plank lying on the floor flashes in stark black and white. I see a pool of shiny black blood. An open mouth and staring eyes . . . The image lasts for only an instant, but it’s enough to make me queasy.

The camera pans back to the Plank kitchen. No movement. No people. That’s when I realize I’m probably looking at unedited clips that were cut or not used. I think of the title and wonder if I’m seeing snippets of a snuff film. . . .

Staving off a rolling wave of revulsion, I stare at the screen, looking for clues. Doc Coblentz estimated the Planks had died between ten
P.M.
and midnight. It would have been dark. My eyes go to the back door, but the lighting inside reflects off the darkened window. I hit a couple of keys and zoom in. One hundred and ten percent. One hundred and twenty-five. I squint at the screen. The window is dark. It’s nighttime.

That’s when I notice the pale oval on the other side of the glass. At first I think it’s a reflection. The person behind the camera. I hit the zoom again, taking it up to one hundred and fifty percent. The resolution goes grainy. But I’m almost certain someone is standing
outside
the back door, looking in. I can see the dark shadows of eyes. The line of a mouth.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

I hit Speaker and speed dial Tomasetti’s cell. He answers on the first ring with his usual growl.

“Do you know someone at BCI who can magnify and improve video?” I ask without preamble.

“I’m still on the road. What’s up?”

I tell him about the face in the window. “When I zoom, I lose resolution, so I’m not getting a clear image.”

He sighs. “I’m about twenty minutes from the lab.” He rattles off an e-mail address. “One of the technicians is a friend of mine. Send the file as an attachment. I’ll swing by and we’ll take a look at it.”

An awkward pause ensues and I realize both of us are thinking about last night. We didn’t get much sleep. Tomasetti breaks the moment and we fall back onto common ground. “You still think there was an accomplice?”

“I don’t know.”

“That would change a lot of things.”

“It would mean there’s a killer running loose in my town.”

The line between us hisses. “I’ll get back to you as soon as we have something.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

They are two of the longest hours of my life. I’m nearly finished reviewing the disks when my phone jangles. I look at the display, but it’s Lois, not Tomasetti. Snarling beneath my breath, I hit Speaker.