Pray for Silence

I wait until the sound of her shoes fade and then I pick up the satchel. Tugging open the drawstrings, I upend the bag and dump its contents onto my desktop. I’m not expecting some earth-shattering revelation. But I find myself hoping the drive will give us something to work with.

A mirror, a tube of lip gloss, two crinkled dollar bills, a single dried flower, a quarter and a flash drive tumble onto my desktop. Ordinary items any young woman might have in her purse. Except the drive, and my cop’s radar begins to wail.

“Flash drive might be interesting.” Tomasetti states the obvious.

“What the hell is an Amish girl doing with a flash drive?” I wonder aloud. “The Planks didn’t have a computer or electricity.”

“And why would she leave it at the shop?”

“Good question.”

“Let’s take a quick look-see, then I’ll courier everything to the lab,” he tells me. “I’ll call ahead, make sure it gets priority.”

His unofficial status flicks through my mind, but I don’t say anything. I’m too focused on the items laid out in front of me.

Quickly, I don a pair of latex gloves, thumb the lid off the drive and slide it into my computer. A couple of keystrokes and my virus protection software deems it safe. I go to the drive and pull up the first file.

“Could be photos,” Tomasetti says.

“A face would be nice.”

“That’d be way too easy. And not necessarily incriminating.”

“Unless they’re inappropriate. Even if we can’t get him on murder, we might be able to get him on statutory rape or child pornography.” I’m aware of Windows Media Player spooling up on my screen. Tomasetti watching my every move. I use the mouse and click the Play button. Images materialize. Music. The punch of shock freezes me in place when I recognize Mary Plank’s face. “That’s her.”

Vaguely, I’m aware of Tomasetti coming around my desk to look at the screen. I can’t take my eyes off the images playing out. I see Mary Plank clad in traditional Amish clothing. She’s lying on a bed draped with a pink spread. I see a backdrop of cheap motel fare. Bad artwork. Mismatched lamps. Built-in night table. Chainsaw rock and roll.

We watch as a male enters the room. I can only see his back, but I take note of his appearance. White male. Late twenties. Light hair. Slight build. He’s wearing blue jeans and an untucked navy shirt. On the bed, Mary raises her head and looks at him. Her eyes are unfocused. Drugged, I think, but the revulsion on her face is unmistakable, and a slow burn of outrage spreads through me because I know whatever is about to take place isn’t consensual.

The male bends to her, kisses her hard on the mouth. She tries to twist away, but he pushes her back and begins to tear at her clothes. The sound of fabric ripping is drowned out by the blare of guitar and bass drum. Nausea seesaws in my gut when her pale flesh looms into view. I don’t want to bear witness to what happens next. But I can’t look away.

She still has the angular body of a pubescent. Gangly arms and skinny legs. Small breasts. Plain underclothes. She makes a halfhearted attempt to cover herself, but the man is relentless. Fisting her hair, he shoves her backward onto the bed and comes down between her legs. He shoves his jeans down to his knees. Then he’s pumping into her. Her legs flying apart with every thrust. Child-like hands clutching the sheets. Tears streaming from heavy-lidded eyes. For a moment I’m afraid I’m going to throw up the coffee I just drank.

“Show us your face, you cowardly son of a bitch,” Tomasetti growls.

But the man’s face is angled away from the camera. All we can see is his profile.

“Do you recognize him?” Tomasetti asks.

Here I am—a cop—and the obvious question didn’t even register. I’m too blown away by what he’s doing to her. A fifteen-year-old kid. An innocent girl. An Amish girl. “No.”

“We need a fuckin’ ID. What about your guys?” Rising, Tomasetti starts toward the door. “This is a small town. Someone might recognize him.”

I know it’s a stupid reaction, but all I can think is that I don’t want any of them to see her like this. I try hard to shake off the emotions curdling inside me. “Get Glock and T.J. in here.”

Tomasetti disappears into the hall. Thankful I have a few minutes to regroup, I pause the video. I’m in the process of bagging the rest of the items when Glock, T.J. and Tomasetti enter.

I tell them about the flash drive. “It’s tough to watch, but we’re trying to identify the male.”

“You think this is about the murders?” T.J. slides into a visitor chair.

I nod. “She’s a minor. This is pretty hard-core stuff.”

“There’s a motive for you.” Glock remains standing. “You think he’s local?”

“Maybe.” Tomasetti comes around my desk and stands next to me. “Play it.”

Using my mouse, I click the Play button.

The four of us stare at the screen, frightened kids watching a terrifying horror flick. My initial shock transforms into rage as the images play out. I notice more details this time around. Mary Plank isn’t just drugged; she’s stoned out of her mind. Unable to move. Unable to protect herself. I see a total disconnect from reality in her eyes.

“Why would she keep something like this?” I wonder aloud.

“Why would she keep it at the shop of all places?” T.J. throws in. “Pretty public place.”

“Maybe she was afraid someone would find it at the house,” Tomasetti adds. “So she took a chance, kept it at the shop.”

“Maybe she was going to take it to the police,” Glock offers.

We stare at the screen. The man appears. The angle and lighting are better now. He’s tall. Thin. Faded blue jeans. Strawberry blond hair. A weird flicker of recognition snaps through my brain.

“I’ve seen him before,” I say.

Tomasetti jabs a finger at the monitor. “That’s Long!”

Todd Long. The man we talked to just last night.

Rising, I grab my keys and jacket and address Glock. “I’m going to pick him up.”

Glock and Tomasetti exchange a boys-club look that puts my teeth on edge. They think I’m going to go vigilante on Long. In some small corner of my mind, I acknowledge the possibility is there. Rage pulses inside me like a pressure cooker on the verge of blowing. I want to make him pay for drugging and raping a fifteen-year-old girl.

“I’ll go with you,” Tomasetti says.

I know he will stop me, but I’m too damn angry to appreciate it. The self-destructive side of me wants to tell him to stay out of it. But the part of me that is a cop realizes any misconduct on my part could jeopardize the case.

“Fine,” I snarl.

“He might be at work,” Glock says. “You want me to swing by there?”

“Take T.J. or Pickles with you.” I look at Tomasetti, hoping the dark impulses jumping through my mind don’t show on my face. “Let’s go,” I say and we head for the door.

CHAPTER 20

I break every speed limit in the book on the way to the Melody Trailer Park. Making a big arrest is always a thrill, particularly for a violent suspect that has been elusive. I can feel our collective adrenaline zinging around the inside of the cab. Beside me, Tomasetti grips the armrest. He looks excited—too excited considering his superiors have no idea he’s here. It’s a subject we should have dealt with already. I won’t risk screwing up this case. I know from experience if some defense lawyer gets his claws on that kind of information, he’ll use it to get his client off, guilt be damned.

The Explorer’s tires screech when I make the turn into the trailer park. Pulling up to the curb two lots down from Long’s place, I hit my mike. “This is 235. I’m 10-23.”

Glock’s voice crackles back. “I’m 10-23 at his place of work. Long didn’t show up today.”

“Get over here.”