Breaking Silence

device just in case. But she didn’t know Mose had actually done the deed until after the fact.”

“That’s not what those boys told me and Tomasetti.”

“Look, Kate, they’re just kids. They’ve been through a lot. They’ve been traumatized, lost their parents, their brother. They’re confused. Hell, maybe they’re looking for someone to blame.” Rasmussen motions toward the closed door. “I’m inclined to cut that poor girl in there some slack. I think the judge will, too. I think there were some awful things going on in that house that no one knew about.”

I shouldn’t be surprised by this, but I am. I stare at Rasmussen, realizing with a keen sense of dismay that he’s been sucked in by Salome’s innocence and beauty, just like everyone else. Just like me. And all I can think is, She’s good.

“She blamed everything on Mose?” I say, hearing the incredulity in my voice.

“Not at first. In fact, she defended him.”

“Deception is a lot more effective when you initially defend the person you intend to hang.”

“I’m not reading it that way, Kate. She says she loved him and that he was only trying to protect her from being raped.”

I stare at him, unsettled by the news, because neither Mose nor Solomon is here to defend himself. “You realize Mose is the perfect scapegoat, don’t you?”

“I don’t think that girl in there killed her parents. Do you?”

“I think she’s capable. I think she manipulated Mose into doing it for her.”

“We don’t have any proof.”

“So why did those boys tell us Salome is the one who put them in the pit?”

The sheriff is ready with an answer. “They’re confused. Mose probably coached those boys. He beat them to keep them in line. Hit them in places where the bruises wouldn’t show. He threatened them constantly. Those boys were afraid of him.”

“That’s bullshit. Mose is dead. They know he can’t hurt them now. I think they’re afraid of her.”

“Look, Kate, I’m not saying the girl isn’t in this pretty deep. Sure, she made some bad decisions. She probably knows more than she’s letting on. But I don’t think she’s a cold-blooded killer.”

“She’s a classic sociopath. Those tears she’s crying all over you? They’re called ‘crocodile tears,’ in case you missed that day in the Academy.”

Rasmussen flushes red. “With all due respect, Chief, maybe you ought to take a big step back from this. I think you’re a little bit too emotionally involved.”

My jaw clamps and I hear my teeth grind. “She’s playing you. She’s playing all of us.”

“I don’t understand why you’re chomping at the bit to fry a fifteen-year-old Amish kid.”

In that instant, the terrible moments leading up to my shooting Mose replay in my mind’s eye: the truck roaring toward me, raising my weapon and firing, the windshield splintering. Then I turned and looked at Salome. Initially, I misinterpreted her expression as horror. It wasn’t until this morning that I recognized it for what it was: a chilling smile of secret satisfaction.

She was getting off on playing the role of victim. Getting off on seeing Mose gunned down after he’d served his purpose and she no longer needed him to further her goal. The scenario is so bitter and cold, I can’t wrap my brain around it. But I trust my instincts; I know I’m right. The question is, How do I prove it?

“I just want the truth,” I say.

“Sounds to me like you want to hang all this on an innocent girl.”

“She’s not innocent. I think she killed her parents. I think she’s capable of killing anyone who gets in her way.”

“She’s as much a victim as those two little boys.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Or maybe you think they’re in on this big conspiracy, too.”

“I think she’s got just about everyone snookered, including you.”

His flush is darker this time, and I realize behind all that good-old-boy charm, the sheriff has a temper. His gaze searches mine, as if he’s looking for some ulterior motive for the view I’ve taken on this. “We have no evidence to support anything you’ve said.”

“The word of those two boys.”

“Thoughts you may have inadvertently planted to suit your own agenda.”

I know arguing with him about this isn’t going to help my cause, so I reel in my temper and mentally shift gears. “Did you get anything back on the fingerprints found on the shovel?”

“The only prints found were Mose’s.”

I nod, but I know in my heart that was by design.

As if my thoughts are reflected in my expression, Rasmussen sighs. “In any case, we’re finished with her for now. We’re not going to charge her—”

“Not going to charge her?” Alarm shoots through me.

“She’s being remanded to the custody of her uncle. Social worker from Children Services interviewed him last evening. They did some kind of home study. He’s probably going to get approved for permanent custody.”

“Her brothers are terrified of her. I told them they’d be safe. Now she’s being sent home to her uncle?”

“The judge doesn’t want to separate the siblings. He spoke with those boys, Kate. They’re no more afraid of their sister than I am.”

“I overheard the boys talking. I’m telling you: They’re afraid of her.”

“Well, you’re entitled to your opinion, but I’d say this one is out of your hands.”

Frustration is like a sizzling charge of dynamite inside me. “Damn it, she’s a danger to those kids.”

“I’ve got to go.” Looking annoyed, not wanting to deal with this monkey wrench on a golf day, Rasmussen glances at his watch. “She asked to see you. Her attorney said it would be okay so long as you’re in there as a civilian.”

Surprise ripples through me. I figured I’d be the last person she wanted to see. “Sure.”

He sighs. “To be perfectly honest, Kate, maybe you shouldn’t go in there.”

“I’m glad that’s not your decision to make.”

Shaking his head, he turns and walks away.

I watch him disappear into the reception area; then I turn toward the interview room. I can feel my heart thrumming in my chest. Nerves tie my stomach in a knot. Over the years, I’ve conducted hundreds of interviews. I’ve faced people who would just as soon have slit my throat as look at me. It’s strange, but I don’t ever remember being as apprehensive as I am today.

All eyes sweep to me when I enter the room. Tomasetti sits at the head of the table, slouching in his chair, doodling on a small spiral pad. Adam Slabaugh sits to his right, staring into a Styrofoam cup as if it holds the secret of the universe. Salome sits beside him, clutching a tissue, looking small and pale and … lost. She’s wearing blue jeans and a white sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big. She looks inordinately out of place here—too young, too pretty, and far too innocent to be surrounded by cops asking questions about murder.

A few feet away, her attorney leans against the wall with a BlackBerry stuck to his ear, a shepherd keeping watch over his accident-prone flock. I’ve met him at some point, but I don’t remember his name. He’s a nice-looking young man with a ruddy complexion sprinkled with freckles, reddish hair, and a matching goatee. He’s overdressed in a gray suit that looks custom-made, but it’s matched with a Walmart tie. I can smell the Polo aftershave from where I stand.

He offers me a cocky smirk as he shoves the BlackBerry into an inside pocket. “Chief Burkholder, I’m Colin Thornsberry, Miss Slabaugh’s attorney.”

Since I’m not pleased to meet him, I simply nod.

“Normally, I wouldn’t allow an officer with your kind of … personal involvement to speak to my client, but she asked to see you. Her uncle agreed it would be okay. Since this is an informal meeting…” He shrugs. “Here we are.”

I give him my best “Eat dog shit” look as I cross to the table and sit across from Salome.

“Nothing inappropriate, please,” the attorney adds. “My client has had a tremendously difficult couple of days.”

Not as difficult as her parents, uncle, and brothers, I think. But I don’t say the