Breaking Silence

“I hate it, too,” Tomasetti concurs. “But it’s going to be okay.”

As we walk toward his Tahoe, I glance over at Salome. She looks like a sad little ghost sitting in the passenger seat of Glock’s cruiser, a blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes meet mine, and I see a clutter of terrible emotions in their depths: grief, betrayal, hopelessness. But there are other emotions, too—thoughts and feelings I can’t even fathom—too many for me to sort through at the moment. For a crazy instant, I’m tempted to break free of Tomasetti, run to her, and tell her I didn’t have a choice.

Instead, I get into Tomasetti’s Tahoe, and we start toward the sheriff’s office.

CHAPTER 18

Killing someone changes you in ways most people can never understand. It stains your soul with an ineffaceable darkness. It burdens your psyche with a weight that will crush you if you let it. It adds a disconsolate component to your persona that shadows every facet of your life, like the total eclipse of a good sun by a bad moon, and you’re stuck in that darkness forever. And no matter how much good you do in an effort to make up for that black transgression, you know it will never be enough.

I’m standing alone in that darkness tonight. It’s unforgiving and covers my soul from end to end. That my victim was a child only deepens the black crevasse that’s split my mind right down the middle. The weight of it is slowly smothering me.

The degree of dysfunction a cop experiences after the use of deadly force depends on the cop. Some are capable of distancing themselves completely. Others can’t handle it and turn to alcohol or other vices. More than a few cops’ marriages end up in divorce. Others end up eating a bullet to end their misery. I’m one of the lucky ones; I fall somewhere in the middle. I don’t feel very lucky tonight.

The first night is always the worst, when you’re alone and tired and the images from the day are fresh in your mind. The instant you made the conscious decision to kill runs through your head over and over again, like some bad movie with a skip. That’s when the second-guessing begins, and you ask yourself, Could I have done something differently? The if onlys usually follow. If only I’d seen it coming. If only I’d waited a few more seconds. If fucking only. I can’t escape it. Mose is still dead, and his blood is still warm on my hands.

He isn’t the first person I’ve killed. When I was fourteen years old, an Amish man by the name of Daniel Lapp came into our farmhouse and raped me. I grabbed my datt’s rifle and shot him in the chest. It was a clear case of self-defense. Of course, when you’re fourteen and traumatized beyond anything you’ve ever imagined, it doesn’t matter. I had committed the consummate sin, and I would pay for my offense against God the rest of my life.

My datt covered up the crime, swore all of us to silence, and the entire incident was swept under the rug. I’ve learned to live with my demons, but it’s not a comfortable cohabitation. To this day, I can’t drive past the old grain elevator where Lapp’s bones are slowly turning to powder without remembering what he did. Without remembering what I did. What all of us did.

After the shooting this morning, Tomasetti drove me to the sheriff’s office in Millersburg. Rasmussen, Tomasetti, a representative from the Ohio State Highway Patrol, and I spent four hours in an interview room, where they took my statement. Though the men did their best to reassure me that I hadn’t done anything wrong, I felt as tainted and guilty as a criminal. I had, after all, taken the life of a seventeen-year-old boy. The irony that he was Amish doesn’t elude me.

For four hours, I answered the same questions a hundred different ways, a hundred times over. I ranted and cursed and slammed my fist down on the tabletop. I did everything cops do in situations like this. Everything but cry, anyway. That’s the one thing I haven’t been able to do.

They stripped me of my gun and relegated me to administrative duty. With pay, of course. After the debriefing, Tomasetti drove me home. Wise to the ways of guilt, he did his best to keep me talking. I didn’t cooperate and fell into a black silence that echoed inside me like a scream. He wanted to stay with me. I wanted him to stay, too. More than I could admit, more than he could know. But the case had just busted wide open; we both knew he had to work.

The Slabaugh case now takes precedence over the hate crimes, though Tomasetti will work both with equal fervor. The cops will want to know if Mose killed his adoptive parents and uncle. They’ll want to know if Salome was involved. If she was, they’ll want to know to what extent. Good luck with all that, Tomasetti.

It killed me to stay behind. More than anything, I needed to see this through. This is my case. My town. It was my goddamn bullet that killed Mose. I wanted to finish this. Too bad, Kate.

Of course, none of that matters, because when a cop is on leave, he’s basically no longer a cop. He’s a civilian and is treated as such. The only thing Tomasetti asked of me before he left was that I lay off the booze. I figured we both knew he should have taken the bottle with him. Thank God he didn’t, because the demons came knocking the instant he closed the door.

It’s almost 10:00 P.M. now. The pain in my shoulder is back, so I took three aspirin from a bottle that expired two months ago. So far, it’s not helping, but then maybe I deserve to hurt tonight. I’ve showered and put on a ratty pair of sweats and a T-shirt from my academy days. I turned on the TV, turned it back off. Did the same with the radio. I wish I could do it with my mind. Turn it off, crank down the volume, unplug the damn thing. I’m wired, but exhausted. I can’t sit. Can’t stand. Can’t eat. Can’t sleep. It’s like my skin is too tight. My mind is wound like a top and at any moment it’s going to spiral out of control.

For the first time in a long time, I wish I could cry. It’s as if the tears are stuck in my throat and they’re slowly choking me. At the same time, the fist lodged in my chest is twisting my heart and lungs into knots, until I can’t draw a breath. Even though the temperature hovers around freezing outside, I throw open the kitchen window and stand by the sink, sucking in great mouthfuls of air. I need Tomasetti, but I won’t call him. I swore long ago the one thing I would never be is the clinging-vine female.

On a brighter note, in the last couple of hours every member of my small police force has called at least once: Glock, Mona, Lois, Pickles, T. J., even Skid, who doesn’t have a compassionate bone in his body. We ended up talking about the weather. They’re my officers, but they’re also my friends. My family. They believe me when I tell them I’m all right. I say it so often, I almost believe it myself. Then that fist inside me tightens and I realize I’m about as okay as a dog that’s just been run over by a bus.

By midnight, my resistance wears down, and I go to the cabinet above the fridge and pull out the bottle of Absolut. The intellectual side of my brain knows alcohol won’t help. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s going to make everything worse. But some nights are simply too dark to face without the sustenance of booze.

Snagging a glass from the cabinet, I set it on the counter and pour. Cold air spills in through the open window. That reminds me I can still breathe, and I’m comforted by that. I barely taste the vodka when I drink, so I pour again.

After the second shot, I take my tumbler and the bottle to the living room. Settling onto the sofa, I top off my glass. I’m a woman on a mission, bound for oblivion, and by God I’m going to get there. I tip the bottle, fill the glass halfway, and take a long pull. Pour and drink. Pour and drink.

But when I close my eyes, I’m back on that dirt road. Mose is in the truck. Silver rain slashes in the beam of the single headlight. I’m aware of the gun in my hand, the roar of the engine in my ears. Salome’s screams echoing in my head.

You could have let him go, a little voice says. You could have let him run.

“Kate.”

The sound of Tomasetti’s voice yanks me back to the present. I open my eyes. He’s standing above me, his expression concerned. That’s when I realize I’m lying on the floor, with absolutely no idea how I got here. I see my glass a few feet away, lying on its side in a puddle of vodka.

The first thought that registers is that I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t want him to know I’ve been drinking. I struggle to a sitting position and the room dips violently right and then left.

He kneels beside me. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

“S’okay.”

“Sure it is.” He sets his hand on my back. “Are you all right?”

“I’m good,” I reply, but my words are slurred.