Page 66 of Fallen

Rasmussen had wanted to call Fletcher and ask him to meet us at the sheriff’s office, probably to save him from any questions he’ll likely get from his wife. But due to the seriousness of the allegations, Tomasetti and I thought it would be better to catch him unaware. The plan is to pick him up here and transport him to the sheriff’s office so he can answer our questions in the privacy of an interview room. The only thing I know for certain at this moment is that the hours ahead are going to be difficult for everyone involved.

“I’ll get him.” Rasmussen has just started down the sidewalk when the door opens.

Dane Fletcher steps onto the porch. His smile falls when he sees the expression on Rasmussen’s face. He looks past the sheriff, his eyes holding mine for an instant, and I see a skitter of fear whisper across his features. He knows, I think, and a hard pang of disappointment joins the chorus of emotions banging around inside me.

“Mike?” he says. “What is this? What’s going on?”

“We need to talk to you, Dane.” The sheriff reaches him and the two men shake hands.

“About what?” the deputy asks.

“Dane?”

At the sound of the female voice, I look toward the back door to see a pretty woman of about forty standing in the doorway, holding open the storm door. Her expression is more curious than worried as she presses her hand against her very pregnant belly.

“Hey, Mike,” she says to the sheriff, oblivious to the undertones zinging among the rest of us.

“Hi, Jen.” Rasmussen raises a hand to her. “Tulips looking good,” he says conversationally. “I need to borrow the old man for a few hours. Can you spare him?”

She grins. “As long as he comes home with ice cream, we’re good.”

“I’ll get it.” Fletcher doesn’t look at his wife as he says the words.

“Barbecue this weekend!” she calls out.

Rasmussen has already turned away and started toward his cruiser. No one else responds.

At the sheriff’s office, I sit in the Explorer, my hands on the steering wheel, and I watch Fletcher and Sheriff Rasmussen cross the parking lot and enter the building. The sense of betrayal is a knot in my gut. At the moment, that knot is so tangled and tight that I can barely draw a breath. In my mind’s eye, I see the way Fletch looked at me when he came out of the house. I’d had misgivings about the allegations against him. I thought maybe the four of us would walk into the interview room and somehow Fletch would convince us he had nothing to do with what happened to Rachael when she was seventeen—or her murder. But I saw the flash of fear and guilt etched into a face well trained to remain neutral, and the truth of that moment is so powerful I’m queasy.

I think about what he did and the anger inside me roils. Not only did he betray the badge, but he betrayed himself and everyone who loves him. His family. His friends. And every single cop who’s ever considered him a brother.

A knock on the window startles me from my reverie. I glance over, see Tomasetti standing outside the Explorer. Quickly, I settle my emotions and get out, aware that his eyes are on me.

“I’d ask what you’re thinking,” he says, “but I’m not sure I want to know.”

“You don’t.”

“I wouldn’t want to be in Fletcher’s shoes.”

“You could never be in his shoes.” The statement comes out harshly, but I let it stand.

Thoughtful, troubled, we start toward the building. “Those women who filed complaints against him?” I don’t look at Tomasetti as I speak. “He sexually assaulted them. He abused his position. I think he sexually assaulted Rachael Schwartz. Tomasetti, for God’s sake, I think he murdered her.”

“She was blackmailing him,” he says. “He got tired of paying.”

I nod, trying to get myself into a better frame of mind for the impending interview. I don’t quite manage.

“That’s a powerful motive.” Tomasetti shrugs.

“He had a lot to lose,” I add.

There’s more to say, but we’ve reached the building. Through the door window, I see Rasmussen and Fletcher talking to the duty deputy. Tomasetti pushes open the door and we walk inside.

Twenty minutes later, the four of us are sitting in an interview room with a beat-up table and four plastic chairs. Rasmussen and Fletcher are on one side of the table, Tomasetti and I on the other. Life and experience have given me the tools I need to keep my emotions in check. Even so, I’m barely able to look at Fletcher. I’m too angry to be sitting here, partaking in a potentially life-altering interview of a peer. But this is my case. I don’t have a choice.

When the small talk ends, Fletcher sits back and makes eye contact with each of us, his final gaze landing on Rasmussen. “So are you going to tell me why I’m here or are you going to make me guess?”

Rasmussen tosses me an it’s-your-show scowl and spits out my name. “Kate.”