everyone else on speed dial.”
“Text messaging.” Sliding behind her desk, Mona pulls the headset over her head. “It’s faster.”
“Our official response is ‘no comment,’ ” I tell them.
Mona puts her hand over the mouthpiece of her headset. “What’s your unofficial response?”
“We don’t know shit.”
She gives me a smile.
“I’ll have a press release ready this afternoon.” I turn my attention to Lois. “Glock’ll get that window for you.”
“If he can’t get it open, I guess he can always shoot it.” She gives the window a final whack, then gives me a sage look. “You guys have any idea who killed that poor family?”
“The devil himself, more than likely,” I say and head toward my office.
An hour later, I’m sitting behind my desk thinking about murder. Ten months ago, I faced my first truly unfathomable case. The Slaughterhouse Killer investigation tested me to my limits, both professionally and personally. But while the case was a tough one, the fact that we were dealing with a serial murderer made him predictable to a degree. I knew his motive. His modus operandi. I knew he couldn’t stop. And I knew that eventually his dark compulsion would lead him to make a mistake. The case nearly cost me my life, but in the end, I got him.
This case promises to be different. I don’t have any parameters to guide me. No motive. No suspect. All I have to work with is a slaughtered family, a crime scene that has been stingy with evidence, and a jumble of unanswered questions.
“You look like you could use this.”
I start at the sound of Glock’s voice and look up to see him standing just inside my office, holding a brown paper bag from the diner. “If you’re angling for a raise, you’re on the right track,” I say.
“Being married has taught me two things, Chief.”
I smile. “Just two?”
He smiles back. “Understanding a woman begins with knowing what she wants even before she asks.”
“Not bad.” I take the bag from him. “What’s the second thing?”
“When in doubt, bring food.”
“You’re a wise man, Glock.”
“My wife thinks so.” He takes one of two visitor chairs. “Some of the time, anyway.”
I smell chili as I unpack the Styrofoam bowl, paper napkin and plastic spoon. The rest of my team shuffles in. Skid looks like he hasn’t slept for two days. I know third shift has been hard on him. It was the only way I could think of to discipline him for mishandling a drunk-and-disorderly case a couple of months back. Pickles smells like cigarette smoke and looks as content as a sixth grader at recess as he drags in a chair. T.J. brings up the rear. He’s my youngest officer and the only one of us who’s had any decent sleep.
I address him first. “You up to speed on this?”
“Skid filled me in.” He whistles. “Unbelievable.”
I speak to all of them now. “On the chance the killer is an outsider, someone passing through town, I contacted the State Highway Patrol.”
“You think that’s the case?” Glock asks. “Or do you think he’s local?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh, frustrated by the lack of leads. “We have to assume he’s local for now.”
Four heads bob nearly in unison.
I turn my attention to Glock. “CSU find anything?”
Glock scoots his chair closer. “Tomasetti sent two technicians. They were still working the scene when I left. Found a slew of latents. Some could be from the family. Blood evidence was done. Got a partial off the bloody print on the door.” He looks down at his notes. “They found two slugs so far, including the one in the basement that went through the floor. Looks like the fucker who did it picked up his brass.”
“Of course he did,” I say dryly. “They able to get footwear impressions?”
“They were working on that. Tech thinks they’ll get some decent impressions.”
“Any latents on the instruments found in the barn?” I ask.
“Smears.” Glock frowns. “No prints.”
“That sucks,” Skid says.
“Hair?” I ask, hopeful. “Fibers?”
“Both. They vacuumed the house and the tack room in the barn. Bagged everything and sent it via courier. Won’t know anything until tomorrow at the earliest.”
“Keep on the footwear thing. If we can figure out what kind of shoe and match it to someone in town . . .”
“You bet.”
“Have the bodies been transported?” I ask.
“Paramedics were loading up when I left the scene. Doc Coblentz borrowed a resident from Cuyahoga County to assist with the autopsies. They’re going to work through the night.”
“That will speed things up.” In the back of my mind, I wonder if Tomasetti will drive down. I wonder if I should have filed an official petition for assistance. “Were the techs able to give you a caliber from the slugs?”
“Not definitively,” Glock says. “But it was a small caliber. Probably a twenty-two. Could be a thirty-two or nine millimeter. They’re sending the Beretta to the lab for testing.”
I address Glock. “They get a serial number?”
“Filed off,” he says.
“That’s interesting,” says Skid.
“Yeah.” I scan the faces of my team. “What else do we have in terms of evidence?”
“The instruments in the barn,” T.J. begins.
“The speaker wire,” Skid adds.
“Until the lab gets back to us,” I tell Skid, “why don’t you call around, see who sells speaker wire here in town?”
He nods.
“Anyone find any money?” I ask. “Valuables? Was anything grossly out of place or broken?”
The men shake their heads. “Aside from the bodies, there didn’t seem to be a damn thing outta place,” Pickles says. “Nothing looked as if it had been tossed.”
I tell them about my conversation with Bishop Troyer. “Bonnie was evidently concerned about her daughter, but no one knows why.”
“Might be a good idea to talk to her friends,” Glock says.
“Can you follow up on that?” Get me a list? I ask. “I’m going to talk to the owner of the shop where she worked.” I look at my team. “We need a motive.”
“Murder for the sake of murder,” Glock says. “It looks like whoever did it went in there to kill.”
“And torture,” Pickles adds. “Seems like that was a big part of it.”
I nod. “I agree.”
“What about robbery?” Skid looks around the room. “Maybe the murders were an afterthought. They went in for money or valuables, saw those two girls . . .” He shrugs. “Acted out some kind of twisted fantasy.”
It’s a stretch, but I’ve had too much experience with the utter senselessness of murder to dismiss it out of hand.
T.J. speaks up for the first time. “Do the Amish use banks?”
“Some do. Some don’t.” The perfect assignment for him comes to me. “See if the Planks had an account at Painters Mill Credit Union or First Third Bank and Trust. If the bean counters balk, get a warrant from Judge Seibenthaler.”
“Will do.”
I look at Pickles; I’m thinking about drugs now, a silent scourge that affects many small towns, no matter how postcard perfect the facade. Back in the 1980s, he worked undercover and singlehandedly busted one of the biggest meth labs in the state. Despite his age, he’s always ready for action, the more the merrier, and if he gets to pull his sidearm, it’s an bonus. “You still on top of our friendly neighborhood meth guys?”
