Snow glitters beneath a brilliant January sky. Around me, the citizens of Painters Mill emerge from their homes and businesses like cautious animals after a long hibernation. Sidewalks are shoveled and windshields are scraped. A big John Deere tractor clears snow from the traffic circle. I can smell the doughnuts from the Butterhorn Bakery down the street.
Three cars are parked in the spaces in front of the police department. I recognize all of them. My reserved spot is empty, as if they’re expecting me. I pull in and shut down the engine. It’s the first time I’ve been back since being reinstated as chief of police. I’m unduly pleased to be here. But that’s not to say I don’t have mixed emotions about what I face inside.
Two days have passed since the terrible ordeal I went through with Nathan Detrick in that farmhouse. I’ve relived every horror a thousand times since. But I know it could have been worse. I know I’m lucky to be alive.
Nathan Detrick survived his gunshot wounds. He was transferred to a Columbus Hospital yesterday where he underwent surgery and as of this morning was listed in stable condition. The doctors say he’s going to make it. I should take some consolation in the fact that he’ll live to see his trial and prison. But I don’t think the world is a better place with him in it.
The FBI and BCI have started looking into cold cases, beginning with the Tanana River Murders in Alaska. I spoke to the SAC this morning, a veteran agent by the name of Dave Davis, who will also be checking similar crimes and missing persons reports for the time period when Detrick was a police officer in Dayton. No one knows if it’s true, but so far Detrick has confessed to having killed as many as thirty women in the last twenty-five years.
Aside from some deep bruises and lacerations, I was given a clean bill of health by the emergency room resident at Pomerene Hospital. It’s the other, not-so-visible injuries that are still giving me problems. The flashbacks are bad. The nightmares are worse. The doctor assured me they are a normal psychological response to the kind of trauma I went through. He recommended a therapist in Millersburg and assured me the nightmares would fade with time. I hope he’s right.
John Tomasetti stayed with me that first day. I spent most of the time sedated and fighting sleep. He fixed soup and coffee, refused to give me vodka when I asked for it, and talked to me when I needed it. When I tried to thank him for saving my life, he told me I was just experiencing a case of hero worship and it would probably wear off in a few days. I have no idea where our relationship will go from here. One thing I do know for certain is that I will always consider him a friend.
I reach the front door of the police station and hesitate. I’m not inordinately vain, but the bruises on my face and neck are bad. I did my best to cover them, but I’m pretty inept when it comes to makeup. All that jazz in a jar can only do so much. My lip needed three stitches and is swollen to twice its normal size. I try not to think about that as I open the door and step inside.
Mona mans the dispatch station, the headset over her ears, her eyes on the computer monitor in front of her. She looks up when the bell on the door jingles and offers me a big smile. “Chief!”
“I didn’t actually catch you working, did I?” I ask.
Flushing, she rises, comes around the desk. “Homework, actually. Sorry.” I try not to wince when she throws her arms around me. “Boy, are we glad to see you. Welcome back.”
“Media been around?” I ask.
“Took a couple of calls this morning. Most of them are calling for an interview with you. I’ve been telling them you’re not allowed to talk about the case.”
“Keep up the good work.”
I look over her shoulder to see Glock emerge from his cubicle. He’s not big on smiles, but I see the grin in his eyes as he approaches. “How you feeling, Chief?”
“Better,” I manage.
Pickles surfaces from behind Glock. “Well, I’ll be go to hell. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes. No pun on the word
“Don’t make me smile,” I say. “Pulls my stitches.”
“Not gonna be easy, seein’ how everyone’s so damn glad to have you back,” Pickles says.
I shake both men’s hands and then Mona’s. “It’s good to be back.”
The familiarity is balm for my soul and I take a moment to soak it in, hoping my emotions don’t choose this moment to betray me.
“We heard about what happened at the farmhouse,” Glock says.
“If you need anything,” Mona adds quickly.
“Just let us know,” Pickles finishes for her.
I smile at them. “Just don’t treat me like I’m some kind of invalid, okay?”
“Hell no.” Pickles laughs. “Sure as hell ain’t going to do that.”
Glock finally breaches the subject no one wanted to raise. “So how did you know to look at Detrick?”
“I didn’t, at first. One thing I was utterly certain of was that Jonas Hershberger wasn’t the killer.”
“How did you know it wasn’t him?” Mona asks.
“Kittens.”
“Kittens?”
I tell them about the litter Jonas saved when we were kids. “I think most sociopaths are born, not made. Very few are created by life events.”
“Detrick matched Tomasetti’s profile to a T,” Pickles says.
“There’s some wisdom in there somewhere,” I reply.
“If it hadn’t been for you—” Mona begins, but I cut her off.
“Don’t give me too much credit, okay?” I think of Daniel Lapp’s remains in the grain elevator. “I don’t deserve it.”
I’m saved from having to explain when the switchboard beeps. Mona rushes toward her desk to take the call, and I head toward my office. I flip on the light, and I’m surprised to see that my desktop is neat. The last time I was here, it was covered with papers from the Slaughterhouse Killer file. I realize Mona or Lois must have tidied it up for me.
I’ve barely made it to my desk when the phone rings. I look down, see Mona’s extension on the display and hit speaker.
“Chief, I just got a call from some guy out on Dog Leg Road. Says there’re loose cows on the road.”
I think of the last time we got the call about Stutz’s livestock, and I smile. “Dispatch Skid, will you? Tell him to cite Stutz this time. He’s had ample time to get that fence fixed.”
“Roger that.”
I end the call and lean back in my chair. From where I sit, I can hear Glock and Pickles arguing the pros and cons of criminal profiling. I hear the drone of the switchboard. The scratch of Mona’s radio. Being here, in this place, feels right. This is where I belong. Here, with my officers. In this town.
I’ll continue to live with my secrets. I know there are worse fates. I think of my nephews, Elam and James. I think of Sarah and the baby she’s carrying. I think of Jacob and the ugliness that has passed between us. I think of my own isolation, my inability to connect, and I realize the time has come for me to reach out. They are my family, and I want them to be part of my life.
I think of John for the dozenth time today, and I wonder where he is and what he’s doing. I wonder if he thinks of me as often as I think of him.
My phone buzzes again. I look down and see a 614 area code with “BCI” on the display. I pick up, already anticipating the sound of his voice. “I was wondering when you were going to call,” I say.
“I hear you got yourself reinstated.”
“They came begging yesterday.”
“I hope you weren’t too easy.”
“I held out for a raise.”
“Good for you.” He pauses. “I was in the neighborhood and was wondering if you’d like to go to lunch.”
“Columbus is a hundred miles away, Tomasetti. How can you just be in the neighborhood?”
“I told the brass I needed to handle some case-related paperwork down there.”
“We could probably hustle up a report or two.”
“I told them it would be an overnight trip.” He lowers his voice. “Just between us, I’ve got a big crush on the
