I can hear Salome screaming, but I’m not sure if it’s real or inside my head. I should go to her. She’s been through hell, more than any fifteen-year-old should have to bear. The last thing she needs to see is her lover’s shattered body. But I can’t make myself move. I can’t do anything because I’m frozen in a hell of my own making, staring at the dead body of the seventeen-year-old Amish boy I just shot.
“Chief Burkholder?”
I turn to see a young paramedic standing a few feet away. His partner stands next to him, his eyes going to the body in the truck. “We’re going to have to get in there and check his vitals.”
I blink and step aside quickly. “I think he’s gone.”
“Looks that way, Chief, but we still need to verify.”
“Of course.”
The other paramedic glances at the .38 in my hand. “You okay, Chief Burkholder?”
My collarbone aches, but my own pain seems so minuscule in comparison to what’s happened here, I can’t bring myself to mention it. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t go anywhere. We’re going to need to check you out. Make sure you’re okay.”
Only then to do realize I’ve got tears on my cheeks. I’m gripping the gun so hard, my knuckles ache. When I look down, my hand is shaking as if I suffer from some form of palsy. I know the sheriff’s office will be taking my weapon from me. Cops never like that, but it’s protocol whenever there’s a fatality shooting. The BCI lab will test it, make the official determination that my bullets caused the death of Mose Slabaugh. I’ll be put on administrative leave. Not because I did anything wrong, but because I killed someone. They’ll urge me to seek counseling. I’ll resist. There will be a hearing. But it was a righteous kill.
One of the paramedics goes around to the driver’s side. I didn’t notice the fire truck arriving, but they’re here, because there’s a firefighter in full gear next to him. I know there are things I should be doing. But I’m not capable of much at the moment. My brain is misfiring, like an engine missing most of its spark plugs. I can’t stop shaking. I watch the two men pry the door open. Mose’s body nearly falls out, but the paramedic catches the dead boy by his shoulders. I see blood on blue latex gloves. Gray skin and staring eyes. And then the two men lower the body to the ground. The paramedic checks the carotid for a pulse, then places a stethoscope against the boy’s chest.
Not wanting Salome to see the body, I glance left, where I last saw her. She’s crumpled on the ground, her face and hands in the dirt. Her body quakes with sobs that sound more like screams. She looks small and pale and broken lying there. Her dress and hair are wet. Her fingers are curled in the mud, black under her nails. I want to go to her, comfort her, tell her it’s going to be all right. But I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure I’m capable of saying anything at the moment.
I’m relieved when I see Glock striding toward her, bending, setting his hands on her shoulders. But his eyes are on me. “I’ve got her,” he says, and it’s as if he’s reading my mind. “I’ll take care of her.”
“Kate.”
I turn at the sound of my name. Tomasetti stands a few feet away, looking at me as if I might shatter into a million pieces and he’s not sure he can contain them all. More than anything, I want to go to him. I want him to put his arms around me and make all this pain go away. I want to sink into him and never leave, because right now I know that’s the only safe place in the world.
“He’s dead,” I tell him.
He looks down at the gun in my hand and crosses to me. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t think I am.”
“I don’t think you are, either.” Never taking his eyes from me, he reaches out and eases the .38 from my grasp. “They’ll need your weapon.”
“I know.”
“Rasmussen will want to talk to you.”
I nod. “That’s fine.”
Sighing, he looks past me at Mose’s wrecked truck. Both doors of the vehicle are open, and I know he can see the paramedics preparing to load the corpse onto a gurney. “He try to run you down in the truck?” he asks.
“I should have run. Let him go. I should have taken cover in the—”
“That’s a crock of shit, Kate. He would have killed you if you hadn’t stopped him, and you know it. Don’t tear yourself up over this.”
“God, Tomasetti.” I lower my face into my hands. “God.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
When I don’t look at him, he wraps both hands around my wrists and gently pulls them from my face. When I still don’t make eye contact, he puts his hand beneath my chin and forces my gaze to his. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he repeats. “You got that?”
I look into his eyes. He stares back. He’s so solid and unflinching and kind. It’s a huge comfort knowing that he’s not judging me, that he doesn’t blame me. “It feels like I did,” I say.
“I know it does. It’s not easy taking another person’s life. But that’s part of the job sometimes.”
“I don’t know if I can handle that.”
“You can.”
I feel the burn of tears behind my eyes. The last thing I want to do is cry. Talk about bad form for a female cop. I swipe frantically at my eyes. “How are Ike and Samuel?”
“They’re going to be fine. Ambulance took them to the hospital. They’ll probably spend the night.”
When I close my eyes, I see their small bodies floating in the manure pit. “How could Mose do that to his little brothers?”
Tomasetti shakes his head. “That’s probably something we’ll never know.”
“I didn’t see this coming,” I tell him. “Why didn’t I see it coming?”
“Because you’re human.” He sighs. “None of us saw this.”
That’s not what I want to hear, but I let it go. “I want to talk to Salome.”
“Glock is with her.”
“I need to talk to her.” I start to move around him, but he stops me.
“Kate, paramedics are going to check you out, then I need to take you to the sheriff’s office. Rasmussen is obligated to talk to you.” He sighs. “So am I.”
Only then does it dawn on me just how difficult the next hours will be. There will be interviews and forms and a thousand questions. I don’t care about any of it. All I want to do is see the children, Ike and Samuel and Salome. I want to be the one to tell them what happened to their brother. At the very least, I want to be there when they get the news. But I know that won’t be the case. As of five minutes ago, I’m no longer a cop. Not until the shooting is fully investigated and I’m cleared of any wrongdoing.
I barely notice when the young paramedic crosses to where we stand. While Tomasetti looks on, he runs through the standard emergency medical protocol, taking my blood pressure and asking about any pain. My collarbone hurts plenty, but I don’t mention it. There’s no way I’m going to the hospital.
When he finishes, he looks at Tomasetti and proceeds to talk about me as if I’m not there. “She looks fine, but you might want to run by the ER before taking her home.”
“I’ll do that.”
I wait until the paramedic is out of earshot before saying, “I’m not going to the hospital.”
Tomasetti sighs. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I want to see the kids,” I say.
“I know. You can’t. Not right now.”
“I’m fine, damn it.”
“We need to talk to Rasmussen. File a report.”
When I don’t respond, Tomasetti motions toward his Tahoe, which is parked haphazardly twenty yards away. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the sheriff’s office.”
That’s the last place I want to be. Of course, I don’t have a choice. They’re going to take my badge, my weapon. Strip away my title. They’re going to pass my caseload to my subordinates. I know it’s temporary. But it doesn’t feel that way.
“I hate this,” I say.
