Page 130 of Sworn to Silence
“It fits,” I say, trying to sound calm. “He lived in every city where the murders occurred. The signatures are almost exact. He actually ‘found’ one of the bodies. We both know these kinds of killers have been known to get involved with the police investigation. He’s a cop so he knows how to cover his ass. He worked at the slaughterhouse as a teenager. He shaves his head, John. Did you ever wonder why the lab never found a single hair at any of the crime scenes? I’ll bet he shaves all of his body hair.”
“That sounds paranoid as hell.”
“Then help me disprove it.”
“Does Detrick know you suspect him?”
“No.”
“Keep it that way.” His curse burns through the line. “Give me a few hours to get there.”
The drive from Columbus to Painters Mill would normally take a couple of hours. But with the storm dumping snow at about an inch an hour, I know it could be morning before he arrives. “Okay.”
“I want you to go home. Get your facts in order. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thank you.”
“Whatever you do, don’t let Detrick know you’re looking at him. And do me a favor, will you?”
“Depends.”
“Watch your back.”
He disconnects without saying good-bye.
The doubt I heard in his voice weighs on me. Being formerly Amish and a woman, I’ve had to work hard to earn the reputation I have. Credibility is important to me. I hate it that both of those things have come into question.
Turning the Mustang around, I start toward home. Visibility is so poor I can barely see the streetlights along Main. The county has sent out snowplows, but there aren’t enough to keep up with the deluge. I’m two blocks from my house when I see the flash of police lights in my rearview mirror. At first I think it’s Pickles, wanting to speak with me about what happened back at the station.
That theory is dashed when I glance in my side mirror and see a sheriff’s office Suburban. Even in the heavily falling snow, I recognize Detrick’s silhouette when he gets out. For a crazy instant, I consider jamming the Mustang into gear and making a run for it, but I know fleeing will only make things worse. All I have to do is stay cool. After all, he doesn’t know I suspect him.
I had to relinquish my service revolver when I was fired, but I possess a concealed firearm license and own a nice little Kimber .45. Quickly, I snatch the firearm out of the console and drop it into my coat pocket.
Detrick taps on the driver’s window. I hit the down button. “What’s the problem?”
“Turn off the engine.”
“What?”
“Do it, Burkholder. Get out of the vehicle. Right now.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You’ve been drinking. I smelled it back at the police station. I smell it now. Get the fuck out of the car.”
My heart begins to pound. I hadn’t expected this. A dozen responses scroll through my brain, but none of my options are good. “I’m not comfortable doing that, Detrick. I’ll follow you back to the station and submit to a Breathalyzer there.”
“Not comfortable?” He glares at me through the six-inch opening of the window. “Open the door. Now.”
I keep my voice level and unemotional. “Call another officer out here and I’ll comply.”
“Get out of that fucking vehicle!” he roars. “Now!”
I think of the horrific things this man might have done. I can’t imagine him believing he can get away with harming me. But there’s no way I’m getting out of my vehicle. I hit the automatic door locks.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he says.
“Get Pickles out here and I’ll comply.” Snow swirls in through the six-inch open window.
