Sworn to Silence

“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?