Page 109 of Breaking Silence

Tomasetti pulls Salome back from the table by the scruff of her neck and looks at me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

“You’re bleeding.” Slabaugh pulls a couple of tissues from the box on the table and hands them to me.

“Thanks.” I blot at the burning sensation at my left temple, and the tissue comes away red.

“She’s obviously going to need psychiatric evaluation.”

All heads turn toward Colin Thornsberry, Salome’s attorney. He looks like he just survived a tornado—barely—and I wonder if this is his first brush with a violent offender. He’s looking at Salome as if he doesn’t want to get too close.

The door swings open and I see Glock standing there at the ready. His eyes sweep the room, lingering on me a moment and then going to Salome and Tomasetti. “Everything okay in here?” he asks.

“It is now,” I say, and start toward the door.

* * *

There’s a universal truth in law enforcement. It’s one I’ve struggled with for years and probably will for more years to come. Some cases turn out badly no matter how good the police work. Even though you make the arrest, get the bad guy off the street, and make the world a safer place, there is no justice done. The end result can be as sad and troubling as the crime itself.

In the case of the Slabaugh family, two Amish parents are still dead, along with an uncle who was trying to help. Two little boys will grow up without their mother and father and siblings. A seventeen-year-old boy is dead. And a fifteen-year-old Amish girl is probably going to prison, where an innocent baby will be born into a system that is far from perfect.

Justice took a pass on this one. I have no choice but to move on to the next, and hope for a better outcome. At least I have my hope. If that ever wanes, then I know it’s time for me to hang up my law-enforcement hat.

McNarie’s Bar is the last place I should be on a night like this, when I’m disheartened and thinking about things like a lack of justice and the end of hope. It’s not exactly the kind of mind-set that’s conducive to responsible drinking. I haven’t forgotten about Tomasetti’s warning to be careful with the booze. He doesn’t broach a subject like that without serious forethought. Maybe I’ll heed his advice, maybe not.

I’m into my second tonic and lime when movement at the door catches my attention. I look up and see Tomasetti and Rasmussen enter. The men saunter to the booth. Tomasetti slides in next to me. Rasmussen takes the seat across from us. I know they just came from the police station; there’s a certain kind of energy that comes with the end of a big case, especially one like this. They’ve gotten Salome handed off to the appropriate juvenile authorities and the immediate paperwork taken care of. For the first time in the course of my career, I’m glad I wasn’t there.

“I think I owe you an apology,” Rasmussen says without preamble.

I make eye contact with him. He’s talking about our exchange at the station. “You mean for telling me I was too emotionally involved in the case and that I was wrong about Salome?”

“That would be it.” He offers a white-flag smile, and I can actually see him swallowing his pride. “I was wrong about the girl, and I came down on you pretty hard. I was out of line.”

The words quash my earlier ire, leaving me feeling strangely deflated, and I reluctantly decide I like him again. “I wasn’t one hundred percent certain myself,” I admit.

Rasmussen’s eyes sharpen. “Are you saying the two boys didn’t confide and tell you they overheard Salome and Mose discussing the murders?”

“They told me Salome had put them in the pit and promised to come back for them.” I sigh, wondering if I’m going to have to defend my actions. “The rest was guesswork.”

“You didn’t have Mose’s prints on the ball,” Tomasetti says.

I shake my head.

“Big risk.”

“Calculated risk,” I reply. “But one I had to take because I felt she was a danger to the two boys.”

Rasmussen whistles. “Damn, Chief, that’s good.”

Tomasetti isn’t so easily pleased. “Could have backfired if Salome had stuck to her story.”

“I was counting on her losing her cool.”

Tomasetti looks at the sheriff. “In case you haven’t noticed, Kate’s good at provoking people.”

“I’ve noticed.” But he softens the words with a half smile and addresses me. “You’ll be happy to hear we cut Coulter loose.”

“How was he?” I ask.