Sworn to Silence - Linda Castillo

The storage room down the hall from my office has undergone an extreme transformation from catchall to command center. An eight-foot folding table surrounded by mismatched chairs sits in the center of the room. At the front, a half-podium squats atop a rickety card table. Next to the podium is an easel affixed with a pad. Someone nailed a dry-erase board to the wall. A single telephone sits on the floor next to the wall jack, and I realize the cabling won’t reach all the way to the table.

Glock and I are the first to arrive. I’m glad because I need a few minutes to gather my thoughts and mentally prepare. It’s important for me to appear competent and in control, particularly since the investigation has become multi-jurisdictional.

“Not bad,” Glock comments, referring to Mona’s and Lois’s ingenuity.

“It’ll do in a pinch.” I muster a halfhearted smile. “How bad is my eye?”

“It’s in full bloom, Chief. Purple’s not a bad color on you, though.”

A flurry of activity at the door snags my attention. I glance over to see Detrick and two uniformed deputies enter. I motion to the table and chairs. “It’s every man for himself.”

Detrick crosses to me and extends a beefy hand. “ME give you anything on the vic?”

His grip is firm and dry and I find myself wishing I were so calm. “Cause of death is the same as the first vic. I’ll go over everything in the briefing.”

He nods and motions to his two deputies. “I brought some manpower for you. This is Deputy Jerry Hunnaker.”

Hunnaker is slightly overweight with a cocky smirk that rubs me the wrong way. When we shake he grinds my knuckles, and I wonder if Detrick is lending me his dead weight.

The second deputy is tall and angular and looks more like a high school pole-vaulter than a cop. But his eyes are level, his expression natural and though I’ve already pegged him as inexperienced, I know he’ll be more of a help to me than the cocky shit with the grip.

“Deputy Darrel Barton.” Detrick sets his hand on the deputy’s shoulder, a proud papa introducing his favorite son.

In the few minutes I’ve spent with Detrick, the room has filled. I see Steve Ressler standing at the door and cross to him. “The press conference is at six,” I say.

“I’d like to sit in on this to see what the police are doing.”

“This is a task force meeting, Steve. Some of what we’ll be discussing is not for public consumption.”

“Or maybe you don’t want the public to know you don’t have squat on this guy.”

He looks pleased by his own audacity. I wonder how he would feel if I acted on the impulses running through me and coldcocked him. I nod toward the door. “You can voice your concerns at the press conference.”

Turning on his heel, Ressler stalks out.

I take my place at the podium and scan the group. Detrick sits at the table, flanked by his two deputies. Glock and T.J. sit opposite him, segregated by agency and loyalties. Skid and Pickles take chairs at the back of the room. Mayor Auggie Brock sits alone, looking like a new kid on the first day of school. Mona stands near the door, her arms folded at her chest. Behind her, John Tomasetti leans against the doorjamb, his overnight bag at his feet. The gang’s all here.

Pulling in a deep breath, I begin. “We are now a multi-jurisdictional task force set up by the mayor and town council.”

A hushed stir goes around the room, and I know my team is wondering why I didn’t brief them beforehand about the formation of the task force.

I fix my eyes on Auggie and continue. “We will be working in conjunction with the Holmes County Sheriff, Nathan Detrick.”

The sheriff stands briefly, then takes his seat.

“And Agent John Tomasetti with the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation out of Columbus,” I say.

Heads turn. From his place at the door, the agent nods, and I can’t help but think he really does look sort of Mafia-like.

I spend the next ten minutes summarizing the details of both murders. When I finish, I cross to the dry-erase board mounted on the wall. I write the words Persons of Interest and underline it. Everyone is expecting me to write the words Slaughterhouse Killer, but I begin with another name. Scott Brower. “He was at the Brass Rail on Saturday night. A witness reported seeing him with Amanda Horner.” I relay details about his record and his arrest just that morning, then go to my next suspect.

“Patrick Ewell.” I write the name on the board. “T.J.?”

The young officer looks down at his notes. “To recap . . . Ewell bought uh . . . rubbers at the Super Value Grocery in Painters Mill on Friday. Uh, the lubricated kind which is what the perpetrator used. Ewell paid cash, but we were able to identify him using the surveillance camera. He works at the slaughterhouse. Payroll department. I’ve since questioned him. Wife alibied him.”

I break in. “Wives have been known to lie to protect their husbands. He remains a person of interest.” I give T.J. a pointed look. “What about the other two condom guys?”

“They’ve been identified. Willie Stegmeyer and Bo Gibbas.”

“Have you talked to them?”

“Ran out of time, Chief, but they’re next on my list.”

I jot the names on the board. I feel myself hesitate before I write Slaughterhouse Killer. “I don’t like the label, but since most of you are familiar with it, we’ll go with it.” I scan the room. “As all of you know, the killings we’re dealing with now are similar to four murders that occurred in the early nineties. I’m not convinced we’re dealing with the same killer, and I caution you not to make assumptions this early in the game. We could have a copycat. I base that possibility on the hiatus between killings.”

I see divergence on the faces of my audience and add, “The possibility that the killer was incarcerated or injured or even changed locales exists. But keep an open mind and don’t be afraid to think outside the box.”

I glance down at my assignment sheet. “Here’s where we are in terms of investigation. Officer Skidmore is working with DRC to get the names of convicts incarcerated during that sixteen-year period.” I glance at Skid. “Report?”

He sits up straighter, but it doesn’t help his disheveled appearance. From where I stand, I can see his eyes are bloodshot. His hands aren’t quite steady when he picks up a sheet of paper. “I entered official inquiries yesterday.” He names several Ohio counties and cities. “DRC gave me priority, so we should hear back this afternoon or first thing tomorrow.”

Tomasetti pipes up from his place at the door. “I can expedite your inquiries with DRC.”

Skid nods. “That’d be great.”

I continue, “Expand your search to hospitals, both medical and mental. I want to know if there were any males between the ages of twenty and forty hospitalized with debilitating injuries, such as from a car accident or serious psychological problems that required institutionalization.”

Skid whistles. “Might take awhile. Lotta crazy people out there.”

A few snickers erupt.

I turn back to the dry-erase board. “Similar crimes.” I write the words on the board. “Pickles, I’ve got queries going with OHLEG, but I know sometimes for whatever reason data doesn’t get entered. I want you to make some calls to local police departments. Look for murders involving a knife, the cutting of the throat, carving on the abdomen, and sex crimes involving a knife. Start with the surrounding eight-county area. Hit the bigger cities, too, including Columbus, Massillon, Newark, Zanesville and Cambridge.”

Pickles looks at me as if I’ve just told him he won the lottery. “You got it, Chief.”

I glance at Detrick’s cocky deputy. “Hunnaker, Doc Coblentz says foreign-object rape was involved with both victims. There’s a possibility this suspect is impotent. I want you to check with area urologists and get a list of men treated for erectile dysfunction.”

Hunnaker shifts in his chair and tries not to look embarrassed.

The second deputy, Barton, whispers, “Don’t worry, Hun, you can leave yourself off the list.”

Laughter rumbles through the room. I don’t join them, but the humor eases some of the tension.

Sheriff Detrick nods as if he approves. “What about doctor/patient confidentiality? Won’t that be a problem?”

“Not if we can get a warrant.” I look at Auggie Brock, purposefully putting him on the spot. “Don’t you play golf with Judge Seibenthaler?”

Auggie can’t hold my gaze. “Judge doesn’t know a damn four iron from a putter,” he says.

That earns him a few laughs, but the mood remains somber. “Call him,” I say. “See if you can get warrants if we need them.”

I address Barton. “I want a list of all registered sex offenders for the same counties and towns I mentioned earlier. Most police departments have lists online.”

Nodding, he jots in a small notebook. “Pedophiles, too?”

“That, too.” I turn my attention to Glock. “Tread and footwear imprints.”

The former Marine leans back and addresses everyone with the cool competence of a CEO talking to a group of high school seniors. “I just got off the phone with BCI. Second batch of evidence has arrived at the lab and is being processed as we speak. We’ve got priority.” He gives Tomasetti a pointed look, telling everyone Super Agent raised his magic wand and lit a fire. “With regard to the first batch of tire imprints and footwear impressions, they ran a comparison analysis and we got a partial tread. They’re trying to match it up with a manufacturer now. If they can do that, they’ll work on finding the retailer.”

“Retailer might be able to get us a name.” Detrick states the obvious.

“Especially if he paid by check or credit card,” Glock adds.

“Or surveillance cameras.” I look at Mona at the back of the room. She’s fiddling with the buttons on her sweater. “Mona?”

Her attention jerks to me. She looks excited, pleased to be called upon. She’s not a cop, but for the first time, that doesn’t matter. I’ve got the perfect assignment for her.

“I want you to put together a list of evidence,” I begin. “I also want a photo log made. You can look online for examples of how they’re typically done.”

“I saw it on an episode of Murder Files.” A murmur of chuckles goes around the room and she bites her lip.

I give her a smile. “How are you coming along on the abandoned properties list?”

“I’ve got twelve homes and two businesses so far,” she replies.

Auggie speaks up. “You might check with the county tax collector on that. Maybe bankruptcy court.”

“Okay.” Sliding into a chair, she scribbles furiously. “Got it.”

“This is a priority.” I address Mona. “Give what you have to Sheriff Detrick.” I glance at the sheriff. “Can the sheriff’s office start checking these properties?”

“Absolutely,” he replies.

T.J. starts to raise his hand, realizes the gesture is juvenile and quickly lowers it. “Chief, have you thought about bringing in a profiler?”

I look at Tomasetti. His poker face reveals nothing about what he is thinking or feeling. I find myself wishing I could read him.

“I’m working on a profile now,” he responds. “I should have something by the end of the day.”

I glance down at my notes. Throats are cleared and boots shuffle restlessly against the floor as I describe the instrument of torture Doc Coblentz found inside the second victim.

“There’s a photo of it in the file. It looked homemade. Like maybe this guy made it in his garage or shop. He may have some electrical knowledge.”

Detrick leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me intently. “We gotta get this sick son of a bitch, people. I think everyone in this room knows he ain’t going to stop now that he’s got a taste for it.”

I look at Detrick. “We could use extra patrols in the area.”

“You got it.”

I turn my attention back to the group. “I’ve called a press conference for this evening,” I say. “Six o’clock at the school auditorium. You should be there.”

I scan the faces. “One more thing I want to impress upon everyone in this room. We are not releasing the fact that this killer carved Roman numerals onto the abdomens of both victims. Do not discuss anything we’ve talked about today. Not with your wife or girlfriend or boyfriend or your dog. Is everyone clear on that?”

I see vigorous nods from all in the room. Satisfied I got my point across, I step away from the podium. “Let’s go to work.”

CHAPTER 17

I arrive at the high school with two minutes to spare. I’d hoped to avoid the media, but I’m too late. Several news vehicles are camped out in the rear lot near the bus-loading zone. Even in the dim light of the sodium vapor street-lamp, I recognize the ProNews 16 van.

I park in a faculty space and head toward a lesser-used side door. To my relief, it’s unlocked. The hallway is warm and smells of paper dust and some industrial-strength cleaner that’s supposed to smell like pine but doesn’t. The auditorium lies straight ahead. I hear the crowd before I see it. Trepidation presses into me when I spot the television crew from Columbus dragging in reflective lights and camera gear.

I duck into a secondary hall that will take me to the rear of the auditorium. I see Detrick standing outside the stage doors, staring down at a small spiral notebook. An actor memorizing his lines minutes before curtain on opening night.

He spots me and lowers the notebook. “You like cutting it close, don’t you?”

“This is not my cup of tea.” It’s an understatement; I’d rather shoot off my little toe than deal with the media.

“Lots of cameras,” he comments. “Couple of radio stations, too.”

All I can think is, Shit. Detrick, on the other hand, looks like some daytime superstar about to accept an Emmy. I see a sparkle of face powder on his bald head and pin lights of anticipation in his eyes, and I remind myself he is a politician first, a lawman second.

He gives me a sage look. “I’ve been a cop for a long time, and I’m good at it. But I’m a good politician, too, and I’ve never met a camera that didn’t like me.” He smiles in a self-deprecating way. “If you want me to handle the media side of this for you, I’m up to the job. I know you’ve got your hands full, and you can’t be in two places at once.”

It crosses my mind that this is his first step in hijacking my case. I know that sounds paranoid. But in the public eye, perceptions are everything. When it comes to television cameras, Detrick will outshine me like the sun outshining the moon. But he’s right. I need to work the case, not make nice with some twenty-something journalist looking for his big break.