Page 75 of Fallen

I hate it that I’ve put myself in the position of defending an admitted dirty cop. Even so, I can’t shake the sense that not all of the pieces are settling into the proper circles and squares the way they should.

“Why tell me to keep looking?” I say.

“Because he didn’t give a damn about anyone, including himself,” he tells me.

I know this is one of those times that no matter what I say, I’ll not convince Tomasetti that the situation warrants a more thorough looking-into. To be honest, I’m not certain of it myself. But if I’ve learned anything over the years, it is to listen to my gut. Right now, my cop’s instinct is telling me to, at the very least, keep my options open.

I swear to God I didn’t kill her. You want the truth?… keep looking … make sure my wife knows.

It’s as if Dane Fletcher is standing outside the window, whispering the words. The thought sends a shiver through me.

“I’m going to dig around a little,” I say. “A couple days. See if there’s anything else there, that we haven’t looked at.”

Tomasetti finishes his whiskey and sets down the glass, gives me a dubious look. “Do you need anything from me?”

“Fletcher’s son plays Little League. Take the bat we found to Jennifer Fletcher,” I tell him, referring to the murder weapon. “If she recognizes it, I’ll close the case.”

He nods, but I can tell by his expression he doesn’t agree with my theory and he doesn’t think my request is a very good idea. “I’ll pay her a visit tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 33

The final vestiges of an afternoon storm simmer in a sky the color of a bruise as I turn in to the lane of the Schwartz farm. The place looks exactly the same as the last time I was here. The same Jersey cows graze in the pasture to my right. The field across the road is still in the process of being plowed and readied for seed. Same team of horses. Same young boy behind the lines. Life goes on, as it should. As it always does.

I find the couple on the front porch. Dan is sitting in a rocking chair, legs crossed, a pipe in his mouth, a glass of iced tea sweating on the table next to him. Rhoda sits in the rocking chair next to him, the parcel of a recently started afghan in her lap. They’re not happy to see me. They don’t rise or greet me as I climb the steps, and they watch me as if I’m some vermin that’s wandered up from the field.

“Guder nochmiddawks,” I say. Good afternoon.

“You come bearing bad news again, Kate Burkholder?” Dan’s voice is amicable, but there’s a hardness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

I take the jab in stride.

Rhoda pats her husband’s hand to quiet him. “Would you like cold tea, Katie? I made a pot and if Dan drinks any more, he’ll be up half the night.”

“I can’t stay.” I take the final step onto the porch, go to the Adirondack chair across from them and I sit. “I wanted to give you an update on the investigation.”

Dan picks up his tea and sips. The needles in Rhoda’s hands still. With the music of birdsong all around, I tell them about Dane Fletcher and the turn of events leading up to his death.

“We heard about that policeman,” Rhoda says.

“Everyone’s talking about it,” Dan adds.

“Such a horrible thing.” She shakes her head. “We knew there was some connection to Rachael. We sure didn’t know the rest of it. Mein Gott.” My God.

I’m loath to tell them the rest, but I know it’s better for them to hear it from me rather than through the grapevine, where facts are scarce and the story grows with every telling.

Leaving out as many of the sordid details as possible, I tell them about what happened on that back road when Rachael was seventeen. Because the investigation is ongoing, I forgo speculation and anything not yet confirmed. It’s not easy. But they deserve the truth even when I know it will break their hearts all over again.

“I’m sorry,” I say when I’ve finished. “I know that was difficult to hear. But I thought you’d want to know.”

Rhoda looks down at the knitting in her lap as if she doesn’t quite remember why it’s there. “She never told us,” she whispers.

“She was baptized that summer,” Ben says quietly.

“Left us in the spring,” Rhoda adds. “April, I think.”

I don’t know what to say to any of that. I’m not big on the whole closure thing. When you lose a loved one to violence, the closing of the case does little in terms of easing the pain. As I stare into the Amish woman’s eyes and see the silent scroll of agony, I curse Dane Fletcher.

“The investigation is still open, and the sheriff’s office has stepped in to help, but we’ll likely close it soon.”