Page 78 of Fallen

Setting my chin in my hand, I flip the page and come to my statement on the death of Dane Fletcher. Doc Coblentz ruled on the cause and manner of death. Suicide caused by a single gunshot wound to the head. According to Sheriff Rasmussen, Fletcher’s wife and kids left Painters Mill to stay with her parents in Pittsburgh. Last I heard, they won’t be coming back.

I skim my incident report, not wanting to revisit the moment he pulled the trigger. Instead, I focus on the section that recounts my final conversation with Fletcher.

Claimed she got pregnant that night. Had a kid.

Of all the things he told me the night he died, that’s the one that stops me cold. Was Rachael Schwartz provoking him? Trying to inflame him? To what end? Make him suffer? Pay him back for what he did to her? Did Fletcher reach his limit? Follow her to that motel and proceed to bludgeon her to death?

In all likelihood, that’s exactly what happened.

Even if Rachael did become pregnant, does it change the dynamics of the case? The answer is a resounding no.

The last thing I’ll ever do is defend the likes of Dane Fletcher. What he did to a young Amish girl—and possibly others—is indefensible. He was a dirty cop. A liar. A phony. A danger to the community he’d sworn to serve and protect.

But was he a killer?

You want the truth?… keep looking.

Gathering the contents of the file, I stuff everything into the folder, drop it into my laptop case, and head for the door.

CHAPTER 34

I call Tomasetti from the Explorer as I back out of my parking spot in front of the station. He picks up on the first ring. “I was about to send out a search party,” he says. “But I don’t think anyone would have a difficult time finding you these days.”

“I guess I’m officially busted,” I say, keeping my voice light despite my mood. “If it’s any consolation, I’m on my way home.”

“The day is looking up.”

In that moment, I’m unduly happy that I have him in my life, to keep me grounded. Remind me of what’s important. “I was wondering if you had a chance to talk with Jennifer Fletcher,” I say. “About the bat.”

“I did,” he tells me. “Two of their boys are in Little League. She bought two Rawlings aluminum-alloy bats in the last couple of years. They still have those bats; they still use them, and they have never owned a wood Louisville Slugger.”

“Would have been nice to tie that up.” I reach the edge of town and head north on US 62, toward home.

“Sometimes even the most open-and-closed cases don’t tidy up the way we’d like them to.” He pauses. “Wood bat like that one is common. Fletcher could have picked it up at a thrift store. Something like that.”

I’m northbound on US 62, running a few miles per hour over the speed limit, headlights illuminating the blur of asphalt. Tall trees rise from a berm on my right. Left, through a veil of new-growth trees, I see the black expanse of a field.

“Not like you to get sidetracked by something like that,” he says, fishing.

“This is one of those times when I don’t want to be right.”

“So you’re still having doubts about Fletcher?”

“Yeah.”

I’m just past Township Road 92 and closing in on Millersburg, fifteen minutes from home and concentrating on the call, when the steering wheel yanks hard to the right. The Explorer shudders. Something thumps hard against the undercarriage. Out of the corner of my eye I see a dark chunk fly past the passenger window. Tire, I think, and I stomp the brake.

“Shit.”

The Explorer veers left. My police training kicks in; I turn in to the skid. No room for error. An instant to react. The guardrail slams into my left front quarter panel. A tremendous crash! sounds as I plow through. I’m flung against my safety harness. Jerked left and right. A dozen trees thrash the windshield and hood as I careen down the hill. The windshield shatters. Dirt and glass pelt my face and chest. The Explorer nosedives. Straight down. Too fast. Too steep. I’m slung violently against my shoulder harness.

The Explorer hits a trunk the size of a telephone pole. The airbag explodes as the vehicle jumps right, then rolls to a stop. The windshield has been punched in, draped over the dash like a crystal blanket. I hear spring peepers. Cool night air pouring in. In the periphery of my disjointed thoughts, I hear Tomasetti calling my name.

“Kate! What the hell…”

The engine is running. Bluetooth still working. I don’t know where my cell phone landed. “I’m okay,” I hear myself say.

“What the hell is going on?” he shouts. “What happened?”