Page 122 of Sworn to Silence
I start withTypes of Trauma Inflicted on Victim. By noon, I’m wired on coffee, information overload, and a growing case of cabin fever. I try to stay focused on the case, but my thoughts stray repeatedly to John. Last night was an anomaly for me. Maybe it’s a remnant of my Amish upbringing, but sleeping with a man is a big deal to me. I can’t stop thinking about him. About everything we shared. And everything that was said.
Most people would condemn him for doling out vigilante justice. Though I’ve walked that fine line myself, I believe it’s wrong to take a life. But I know some anguish is too horrendous for the human heart to bear. Some crimes are too unspeakable for the mind to accept. For John’s sake, I hope he can find some semblance of peace.
At two-thirty a knock at the door yanks me from my work. I’m inordinately happy to find Glock on my back porch. “You know things are bad when visitors come to your back door,” I say.
“Don’t want to get those tongues wagging.” He steps inside, brushing snow from his coat. “Nasty out there.”
“Weather guy is calling for six to eight inches by morning.”
“Fuckin’ winter.” But his eyes are on my laptop humming on the kitchen table and the reams of paper surrounding it. “You look like you could use a break.”
I close the door behind him. “Anything new on the case?”
“We’re still at Hershberger’s farm, looking for evidence.”
“What do you think?
“Hershberger is fucked.”
At the counter I pour two cups of coffee. “You think he did it?”
“Evidence is overwhelming. The shoe we found belongs to Amanda Horner. Her mom identified it this morning. We’ve got underwear with DNA. We’re waiting to hear back from the lab.”
“Don’t you think all of that is kind of convenient?”
“There’s no way he could have possession of the shoe or underwear unless he had contact with the victim.”
“You guys check CODIS?” CODIS stands for combined DNA database system. Administered by the FBI, it’s a searchable database of authorized DNA files.
“Still waiting.”
I hand him a cup. “How are Pickles and Skid holding up?”
“Detrick has them out in the cold, digging around in pig shit.”
No pun, but I hate the idea of Detrick assigning the shit jobs to my officers, especially Pickles, who’s getting up in years. “Detrick pushing his weight around?”
“Strutting around like he just arrested Jack the fuckin’ Ripper. Says he’s going to take all of us on some big hunting excursion if we tie this thing up nice and tight.”
“Nice incentive if you like plugging deer.”
“Most of his guys are into it. I guess Detrick used to be some big shot hunting guide in Alaska.”
“Detrick, the great white hunter.”
Glock doesn’t look impressed. “How are you holding up, Chief?”
Thoughts of Tomasetti flash in my mind, but I quickly ban them. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I’m absolutely certain Jonas Hershberger is innocent.”
Glock blinks at me, clearly surprised. “He’s a strange bird.”
“So is Terry Bradshaw, but that doesn’t make him a psychopath.”
“We’ve got a shitload of evidence.”
“I know Jonas, Glock. He doesn’t drive. Doesn’t have access to a snowmobile. There’s no way he did those murders.” I think about that a moment. “Did you check to see if he relocated during that sixteen-year period?”
“He’s been in the same house since he was a kid. Inherited it when his parents were killed in a buggy accident eight years ago.” He pauses. “We did find a couple of fifty-gallon drums he used to burn trash. We sent ash samples to the lab to see if he burned the clothes.”
