Page 81 of Fallen

It’s after midnight by the time Tomasetti and I arrive at the farm. He did his utmost to talk me into making a trip to Pomerene Hospital. Only after a paramedic with the fire department gave me a thorough field assessment did he concede. The BCI crime scene unit truck arrived on scene an hour before we left. The Ohio State Highway Patrol. It’s a big deal when someone takes a shot at a cop. Every law enforcement agency in the area is on alert.

Because the scene is large and out of doors—with the complication of rough terrain—the odds of picking up some piece of evidence that will identify the shooter or his vehicle is doubtful. Our best hope lies with the discovery of forensic evidence from the firearm used. A spent cartridge from which we could conceivably pick up a fingerprint. Or a bullet or fragment from which we could recover striations. Both are possibilities, but no one is holding their breath.

I sustained a few bruises in the course of the wreck, so I took a hot shower upon arriving home. Tomasetti heated soup, and I downed a couple of preemptive ibuprofen. I planned on a good night’s sleep, getting a fresh start in the morning, and hopefully finding the son of a bitch who tried to kill me. I should have known my overactive mind would throw a monkey wrench into the mix.

It’s after one A.M. now. I’m at the kitchen table, my laptop open and humming. The Rachael Schwartz homicide file is spread out in untidy piles, the logic to which only I am aware. I’ve filled two pages of my trusty yellow legal pad with theories and conjecture, and a fair amount of chicken scratch. Whatever pinpoint of information I’m looking for continues to elude me.

The truth of the matter is that with the suicide of Dane Fletcher, the case is tied up as tidily as a case can be. Fletcher had motive, means, and opportunity. In spades. When he got caught, he took the easy way out and killed himself. Maybe Tomasetti is right. I’m wasting my time. My gut steered me wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.…

So who saw fit to take a shot at me earlier? And why does the thought of closing the case feel so damn wrong?

“Because I don’t think he did it,” I whisper. It’s the first time I’ve said the words aloud and they sound profane in the silence of the kitchen. But as averse I am to admit it, I’ve drawn the conclusion that Fletcher didn’t murder Rachael Schwartz. There’s something else there. Something I missed.

Something.

Sighing in frustration, I page through several reports and set them aside. I come to the copies of the texts between Rachael and Fletcher, read them again.

In case you’re thinking about going all batshit … don’t forget I got that insurance policy.

That one stops me.

Fletcher’s words replay in my head. Claimed she got pregnant that night. Had a kid. Said she had proof it was mine. Called it her “insurance policy,” and she was going to wreck my life.

Then, he’d told me there was no kid. She was a pathological liar. A fucking sadist. All she wanted was money. Ruining me was the icing on the cake.

“So why the hell did you keep paying?” I mutter.

Did Rachael Schwartz have something else on him? Some hidden guarantee that would pay off if something happened to her?

In case you’re thinking about going all batshit … don’t forget I got that insurance policy.

“What else did you have on him?” I whisper.

A sealed envelope tucked away in some lockbox that would explain everything when found? A lawyer poised to step forward upon word of her death?

Frustrated, I set the text messages aside and continue on. My handwritten notes on my conversations with Dan and Rhoda Schwartz are paper-clipped together. I pull them apart and read, hit the passages I highlighted in yellow.

… she came to see us after Christmas, not before …

There’s nothing sinister or mysterious about Rhoda changing her story simply because she remembered a detail she’d overlooked that changed the timeline of when she’d last seen her daughter.

I come to the brown envelope where I’d tucked away the old photo of Rachael Schwartz and Loretta Bontrager. They were barely into their teens. Loretta looking awkward and shy and plain. Rachael too pretty for her own good. Even at that tender age, her smile was knowing, her eyes challenging and bold.

I get that antsy sensation at the back of my neck, a sort of pseudo déjà vu that’s prickly and uncomfortable. I snatch up my reading glasses, look at the photo a little more closely.

A strange sense of … familiarity whispers at the back of my brain. Of course, I’ve seen the photo before. Plus, I knew Rachael when she was that age. Neither of those things explains the quick snap of recognition.

I set down the photo. I pick it back up.

A young Rachael Schwartz stares back at me. A pretty strawberry blonde with a nose for trouble and a complete inability to follow the rules.

I straighten so abruptly I hit my knee on the underside of my desk.

The image of Fannie astride the horse and loping across the pasture plays out in my mind’s eye. I don’t have a photo of the girl; most Amish don’t take photographs of their children—unless they’re breaking the rules. But I recall the way Fannie had looked at me. The punch of shock that follows leaves me breathless.

The two look nothing alike. Rachael had light hair with blue-green eyes. Fannie is dark haired with brown eyes—like Loretta. While their physical attributes are as different as night and day, in that instant I recognize the one trait they seem to share.

Attitude.