Текст книги "The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel"

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 4

It’s nearly 4 A.M. when I arrive home, exhausted and in need of a shower. Once the coroner’s office transported the body to the morgue, Glock and I spent three hours searching both the barn and the house. As is always the case when murder is suspected, the question of motive is forefront in our minds. That question was addressed, at least in part, when we found eighty bucks and a gold class ring lying in plain sight on a night table. In the study, there was a sleek MacBook Pro, which I sealed in an evidence bag and sent to the lab. A flat-screen television in the living room. All those items are coveted by thieves: they’re valuable, easy to transport, and quick to sell. And I was able to comfortably rule out robbery as the motive.

One item of interest that we didn’t find at the scene was Dale Michaels’s cell phone. I even dialed the number, hoping to hear the ring, but to no avail. Often, it’s helpful to know with whom the victim spoke in the days and hours before death. According to his daughter, the cell phone should have been somewhere on the premises. Did he leave it somewhere? Lose it? Or did someone take it?

Another thing we couldn’t explain was the locked house. If Michaels had been working or tinkering on some project in the barn, why would he lock the door? Crime is relatively low in Painters Mill and, for the most part, throughout Holmes County. Neither Glock nor I could think of a logical reason why Michaels would lock the house if he was going to the barn. In addition, there was no evidence that he’d been working on any kind of project in the barn. There were no tools out of place, nothing being repaired. We finally landed on the possibility that he may have been in the barn to feed and water the chickens. Still, why lock the house?

It was after 2 A.M. when the CSU arrived. I’d turned the scene over to them and was about to leave when I realized we hadn’t yet looked at Michaels’s Lexus. It was there that I found our first clue: blood in the trunk. Initially, we had surmised Michaels was accosted in the barn, shot, and while he was incapacitated, hanged from the rafters, all of which would have taken a good bit of time and effort. The discovery of blood in the trunk—which was later determined to be human—changed everything and raised a slew of new questions.

If the blood is determined to be Michaels’s, how did he end up in the trunk of his own car? Did someone accost him on the highway, put a bullet in him, throw him in the trunk, then transport him back here and string him up in the barn?

We also discovered tire tracks in the barn. The crime scene unit took plaster copies of the tread, but they looked to be a match to Michaels’s Lexus. Because the vehicle was part of the crime scene, I had it towed to the sheriff’s department impound, where it will be processed by the CSU.

Because of the late hour, I’d considered spending the rest of the night at my house in Painters Mill, if only for a shower and a couple hours of sleep. I still own the place and most of my furniture is still there, including my bed and a few linens. But by the time I left the scene, all I could think about was getting home and spending a few hours with Tomasetti.

The house is dark except for the back porch light and the bulb above the stove, which he keeps on for me when he knows I’ll be arriving home late. I let myself in, anticipating a shower, a warm bed, and the feel of him solid against me as I drift off to sleep. The aroma of homemade spaghetti—onions, green peppers, and garlic—still lingers when I enter the kitchen, and I smile because I like this new life I’ve stepped into. The domesticity. Having someone I can count on. Someone I look forward to seeing at the end of the day. Someone I love …

Leaving my boots next to the door, I set my keys on the counter and drape my holster and jacket over the back of a chair. I’m midway to the stairs where our bedroom is when a voice comes out of the darkness.

“Kate.”

I startle and spin. I spot Tomasetti’s silhouette against the living room window. He’s standing ten feet away, something in his hand. I have a sort of sixth sense when it comes to his frame of mind, and I know immediately something has changed since I left a few hours ago. There’s an edge in his voice that unsettles me. Something else in the way he’s standing there, not moving.

I start toward him, suddenly needing to touch him. To make sure he’s really there. That he’s okay. That we’re okay. “I thought you’d be sleeping.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

I stop a couple of feet from him, wishing I could see his face. That’s when I notice the bottle in his hand. The careless way he’s holding the neck. I smell cigarettes and whiskey on his breath and I know whatever it is that has changed, it’s bad. “What’s wrong?”

“Joey Ferguson walked today.”

The words strike me with the force of a physical blow. Joey Ferguson is the last living person involved with the murders of Tomasetti’s wife and children three years ago in Cleveland. According to the evidence and witness statements, he hadn’t participated in the assaults on Nancy Tomasetti or the two preteen girls, Donna and Kelly. But he’d driven the getaway car and he’d helped set the house on fire afterward. The fire that ultimately killed them. The trial had been over a year ago. Tomasetti had taken the stand and painted a horrific picture for the jury, telling them what he found the night he came home to a burning house. That when he’d left that morning, he’d been a husband and father of two. When he arrived home that night, his family was dead, murdered by a career criminal intent on intimidating a cop who’d dared cross him. The media had capitalized on every minute of it, running photo after photo of Tomasetti’s pretty wife and his curly-haired little girls, sensationalizing a brutal triple murder that had destroyed a family, shocked the country—and sent Tomasetti spiraling out of control.

But the evidence against Ferguson was sketchy. We’d been relieved and left with a sense of closure when he was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder and sentenced to thirty years in prison. But his high-profile, high-powered attorney immediately appealed. Tomasetti hadn’t talked about it. Not once. We didn’t discuss it or let it into this new life we’ve built for ourselves. But I know he followed the proceedings.

“What?” I blurt. “How?”

“He got off on a chain-of-command technicality.”

For an interminable moment, I can’t speak; I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to reconcile this or help him deal with it, and I’m filled with a sense of injustice and impotence.

“I’m sorry.” I reach for him, but he moves back slightly. “What can I do?” I ask.

“Thanks, Kate, but I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. It’s done.”

For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the tap of rain on the roof. The water running through the spouting. The slap of it against the ground as it overflows gutters that are clogged with leaves. And for the first time in the four months that I’ve been living here with him, I feel something lonely and cold surround me.

I reach for the lamp on the end table.

“Don’t,” he says.

I motion toward the bottle at his side. “That’s not going to help.”

“Yes, it is.” His laugh is a harsh sound. “I know that bucks conventional wisdom, but believe me, it’s helping.”

“I know you’re hurting—”

“That’s not quite the right word.”

I don’t agree with him. A man can’t endure the kind of hell he did without pain becoming a constant in his life. But I don’t argue. “Tell me what to do.”

When he doesn’t respond, I gesture in the direction of the door. “Let’s sit on the porch and talk.”

“I’m not in the mood to be psychoanalyzed.”

“Then we can just sit.”

“I’m not very good company right now. Why don’t you go on upstairs and get some sleep?”

“I’m not leaving you alone.”

He utters another laugh. “I don’t think that’s up to you.” As if realizing the words were harsher than he intended, he softens. “Look, I’m all right. I just need some time alone to think. That’s all. You’ve got an early morning. Go to bed. I’ll join you in a while.”

I stand there, debating, trying to figure out who needs whom, because at that moment my need for him is twisting my gut into a knot. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m okay. I can handle this. I’ve handled worse.” He shrugs. “I don’t want to bring this to what we have here. Just give me some space, all right?”

It’s difficult, but in the end I opt to honor his request. “I’m going to take a shower.”

When he leans close and presses his mouth against mine, his lips are cold.

*   *   *

I wake before daybreak to find Tomasetti gone. At some point during the early morning hours—without coming into the bedroom to say good-bye—he got into his Tahoe and left. Usually, if for whatever reason we don’t connect during the day, he’ll leave a note next to the coffeemaker. That’s become our routine for touching base when we don’t actually see each other. This morning there’s no note. He didn’t even make coffee. The house is cold and damp, and when I walk into the kitchen, I’m accosted by an unbearable sense of aloneness.

I make a pot of coffee, lingering longer than I should in the hope he’ll return. When I dump yesterday’s grounds in the trash, I find the empty bottle of Crown Royal along with a half a dozen cigarette butts. Neither are a good sign.

I tell myself not to worry and remind myself that Tomasetti is a strong man with a good head on his shoulders. Chances are, he went to his office at the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation in Richfield because he couldn’t sleep and wanted to get a jump on his day. But I am worried. I know Tomasetti. He’s come a long way in the three years since his family was killed. But I’m ever aware that he has a dark side. An unpredictable side that, in the past, has been triggered by pain and injustice and all those gnarly emotions in between.

I’m the only person in the world who knows what he did in the months following the deaths of his wife and children. I know he turned to pills and alcohol—and spent some time at a mental health facility. I also know he took the law into his own hands and the killers paid hard for what they’d done. The knowledge isn’t a burden; I’m glad he trusted me enough to share it, but this morning it’s at the forefront of my mind. Right or wrong—moral or not—I’ve learned to live with what he did. Maybe because I understand his motives. Because I know he’s a good man, and like him, I see the world in stark black-and-white.

The need to call him is powerful, but some inner voice advises me to wait. A call from me now would be seen by him as evidence of my lack of trust, an admission of my fear that he’s going to fall off some emotional cliff. But the truth of the matter is that I don’t fully trust him.

I arrive at the police station at 7 A.M. to find my third-shift dispatcher, Mona Kurtz, sitting cross-legged on the floor near her desk, several files spread out in front of her. She’s wearing her headset and tapping her foot against the floor to Florence and the Machine’s “Dog Days Are Over.” She looks up when I enter and grins sheepishly. “Hey, Chief.”

“Morning.” I pull a stack of message slips from my slot.

“You’re in early this morning.”

“Murder makes for a busy day.” I glance through my messages. “Anything else come back on Dale Michaels?”

“Guy didn’t even have a speeding ticket.” Rising, she reaches for a manila folder next to the switchboard and passes it to me. “I started a file, but there’s not much there.”

“What about the Hochstetler file?”

“Jodie couldn’t find it. She thinks it’s locked up in your office.”

Tucking the file under my arm, I stop at the coffee station to fill my cup and then head to my office. I’m doing my utmost not to think about Tomasetti, but even with an unsolved homicide on my hands, I’m not doing a very good job of it.

At my desk, I open the file and find Glock’s report along with a couple of dozen photos of the scene. I read the report twice and then take a few minutes to look at each photo. Of the body. The scene. And the mysterious Amish peg doll, including a shot of the name inscribed on the base. HOCHSTETLER. And I know this is one of those cases that won’t give up its secrets easily.

I go to the file cabinet, kneel, and tug open the bottom drawer. At the rear, where several cold case files are collecting dust, I find the Hochstetler file and take it back to my desk. It’s a thick folder containing dozens of reports from several law enforcement agencies. The Holmes County Sheriff’s Department. The Ohio State Highway Patrol. The Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation. And, of course, the Painters Mill PD. Ronald Mackey had been chief back in 1979. Homicide investigative procedures have improved since, but he did a good job with documentation and included several dozen Polaroid photos of the victims—what was left of them—and the scene.

I read the reports first. Forty-two-year-old Willis Hochstetler owned Hochstetler Amish Furniture, which he ran out of the home he shared with his wife, Wanetta, and five children. In the early morning hours of March 8, one or more individuals went into the home, probably looking for cash. In the course of the robbery, Willis Hochstetler sustained a fatal gunshot wound. At some point thereafter, the house caught fire—possibly from a lantern. Four of the children perished in the fire. According to the sole survivor, fourteen-year-old William, there were at least three men in the house, possibly more. They were armed with handguns and covered their faces so he was unable to identify them. When they left, they took his mother, thirty-four-year-old Wanetta, with them. The Amish woman was never seen or heard from again.

According to the coroner’s report, the four children died of smoke inhalation. It was also determined that Willis Hochstetler died of the gunshot wound, which he sustained before the fire. I pick up the photos. They’re faded, but I can see enough to know there wasn’t much left of the house—or the victims. In the back of the file, Chief Mackey made a notation that William Hochstetler was taken in by an Amish couple and later adopted by Jonas and Martha Yoder, taking their name.

Now, William and his wife, Hannah, own Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm. I’ve stopped by there a dozen times since I moved back to Painters Mill, to buy apples or cider or apple butter, all of which are delectable. It’s a good way for me, as chief, to keep a finger on the happenings within the Amish community.

I close the Hochstetler file, and pull out the photos of the Amish peg doll. Why was the figurine left inside the mouth of the victim? Is there some connection between the two cases?

I call out to Mona. “Did you get anything back on Michaels’s neighbors?”

“Did I ever.” She enters my office with another file in hand and passes it to me. “I guess you never know who you’re living next door to.”

“Until you run him through LEADS, anyway.” I open the file and look down at the printout. Sure enough, Kerry Seymour had amassed an extensive record as a younger man. An assault charge in 1985. Burglary conviction two years later. Drunk and disorderly. Two DUIs. He did eight months in Mansfield for a felony assault in 1999.

“Busy man in his youth,” I say dryly.

She motions to the folder. “I put contact info and Glock’s old incident report in there, too.”

“Thanks.” I look at the report. True to Belinda Harrington’s assertion, Dale Michaels had filed a complaint, claiming Seymour’s dogs were loose and digging in his trash. Seymour was issued a citation and that had been the end of it. Or was it?

*   *   *

I blow most of an hour returning e-mails and phone calls. At 8 A.M., I’m back in my Explorer and heading toward the home of Dale Michaels’s neighbors. Kerry Seymour and his wife live on a small tract of land just south of the Michaels property. I pull into the asphalt driveway and park next to a maroon Ford F-150. The house is a redbrick ranch that looks professionally landscaped or else someone has a green thumb. Ahead is a good-sized metal building with an overhead door. A chain-link dog kennel with a concrete run is located on the south side of the building, but there are no dogs in sight.

Drizzle floats down from a cast-iron sky as I leave my vehicle and take the sidewalk to the house. I open the storm door and use the brass knocker, which is, not surprisingly, in the shape of a dog’s head. The door opens a few inches and I find myself looking at a middle-aged woman wearing a pink robe over flannel pajamas. Lower, two Labrador noses sniff at me through the opening.

“Mrs. Seymour?” I ask, showing her my badge and identifying myself. “Is Kerry Seymour home, ma’am?”

“He’s here.” She looks past me as if expecting to see the SWAT team preparing to swoop in. “He do something wrong?”

“Not that I know of,” I say. “But I’d like to ask both of you some questions.”

The door opens the rest of the way. Mary Ellen Seymour is holding a coffee mug in one hand, a magazine tucked beneath her arm. At her feet, the two dogs stare at me, panting.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Your neighbor, Mr. Michaels, was killed last night.”

“Killed? Oh my God. How?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Mary Ellen?” A man wearing striped pajamas and a ratty-looking robe enters the foyer. He’s tall and thin, with a narrow face framed by a horseshoe mustache. He comes up behind his wife, sets his hand possessively on her shoulder. “What can I do for you?”

The woman doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Kerry, Mr. Michaels next door is dead! Can you believe it?”

“Dale? Dead?” Brows knitting, he rubs his hand across his chin. “Damn.”

I purposely didn’t reveal how Michaels was killed. It doesn’t elude me that he didn’t ask.

“His daughter found him last night,” I tell them, watching them carefully for any outward signs of previous knowledge or nervousness. “I’d like to ask you some questions,” I tell them. “May I come inside?”

“Oh. Sure.” Glancing down at the dogs, the woman sets down the magazine and points. “Greta! Dagmar! Go!”

Canine toenails click against the tile floor of the entryway as the animals trot off. When the dogs are gone, the woman motions me in. I step into a small entryway jammed with a console table that’s too big for the space. To my left is a living room crowded with plaid furniture, a gurgling aquarium full of iridescent orange fish, and walls painted 1980s blue.

The couple doesn’t invite me to sit, so I go to my first question. “Did either of you notice anything unusual over at Mr. Michaels’s place in the last few days?” I ask. “Did you hear or see anything? Any visitors or strange vehicles in the area?”

“We can’t really see his house from ours.” Kerry Seymour points through the storm door at the row of blue spruce trees that obscures the view of the Michaels house. “I planted them four years ago. For privacy.”

He adds the final word in a way that tells me the trees have more to do with complete separation than simple privacy, and it makes me wonder just how serious the issues between them had been. “I understand there have been some problems between you and Mr. Michaels,” I say.

“We’ve had a few skirmishes over the years.”

“What kind of skirmishes?”

“Our dogs got out a couple of times. He called the law on me.”

“They’re good dogs,” Mary Ellen adds quickly.

“I know about the citation,” I tell them. “Any other problems? Arguments?”

“I called the County on him once for burning trash during a burn ban.” He rubs his thumb and forefinger over his mustache. “That guy never liked me.”

“Any particular reason?” I ask.

He stares at me, and I notice red blotches at the base of his throat.

“I know about your record,” I tell him.

As if unable to bear the tension, Mary Ellen pipes up. “Mr. Michaels threw some trash on our side of the fence once. Pop cans. Kerry went over and asked him about it and he denied it. Said our dogs had gotten into his trash and the wind blew it over.”

“How long ago was that?” I ask.

“Two weeks ago,” she says.

Kerry glowers at his wife and she swallows hard. I raise my brows and wait.

“I had a few words with him a couple of weeks ago,” he admits.

“About what?”

“In addition to his bogus trash complaint, he said our dogs were barking and keeping him awake at night.”

“They sleep inside with us,” Mary Ellen says quickly.

I ignore her. “Did any of these confrontations ever get physical?”

His wife laughs. “Of course not.”

I don’t take my eyes off Kerry.

He tosses me an I-know-where-you’re-going-with-this smile that isn’t friendly. I’ve met plenty of cop-haters in my time. People who, for whatever reason, detest anyone in law enforcement, and Kerry Seymour fits the mold to a T. “You got something to say, just say it,” he says.

“I’d appreciate it if you just answered my question.”

“I never laid a hand on the guy.”

I nod. “When’s the last time either of you saw Mr. Michaels?”

“Last week,” Mary Ellen blurts. “Wednesday morning. I was on my way into town to see the eye doctor in Painters Mill—Dr. Driver—and Dale was getting his mail at the end of his lane.”

I turn my attention to her husband. “And you?”

“I don’t recall. Couple of weeks, probably.”

“Can both of you account for your whereabouts for the last two days?”

“Kerry was at work.” Mary Ellen fingers her coffee cup nervously. “He works for the railroad. Eight to four thirty.”

“Do you work, ma’am?”

“I’m the gardener, maid, and cook.”

“What about the last couple of evenings?” I ask.

“We were here. Both nights.”

“Can anyone else vouch for that?” I ask.

“Well, no,” she admits. “But he was here.”

The dogs have inched their way over to us. Feeling a cold, wet nose against my hand, I reach down and stroke the head of the nearest Labrador, which is sitting at my feet. “Pretty dogs.”

“Thank you.” She beams, and I’m instantly forgiven for asking such impolite questions.

Her husband isn’t quite so magnanimous. “So am I a suspect?”

“I’m still in the information-gathering stage of the case, Mr. Seymour.” I pet the other dog to give the couple a moment to consider everything that’s been said, everything they’ve learned about their now-deceased neighbor. “Is there anything else you can add that might help us figure out who might’ve done this?”

Kerry sighs. “Look, I barely spoke to the man. Didn’t know him.”

“Did either of you ever see or hear him arguing with anyone?” I ask. “Or do you know of any arguments or disputes?”

Mary Ellen shakes her head. “As far as I know, the only people he yelled at was us. Cussed me out once because Greta pooped in his yard. Shook me up something awful.”