Page 87 of Sworn to Silence
Tomasetti shakes his head. “We just want to know about the women.”
“Don’t know those kilt women, man.”
I jab my finger in his face. “Put your coat on.”
Starkey’s eyes go wide. “You can’t take me to jail! I ain’t done nothin’!”
“You’re going to show us your barn, Dwayne,” Tomasetti snaps. “Put on your coat or I’ll drag you out there without it.”
The barn is a dilapidated structure one windy day away from becoming a pile of rubble. Starkey takes Tomasetti and me down the unshoveled sidewalk. I notice footprints in the snow and I wonder why he goes to the barn when he doesn’t own livestock.
I get my answer when he slides open the door and we step inside. A yellow El Camino, its paint as glossy as the day it was driven off the showroom floor, sits on cinder blocks with its hood open. Four aluminum wheels lean against a support beam. Beyond, a lawn chair squats next to a rusty fifty-gallon drum. From atop the drum, a radio blasts an old Eagles song. An aluminum pie tin overflows with cigarette butts.
“Nice place,” Tomasetti says.
“This is where I was Saturday night.” Starkey points at the El Camino. “That there’s the car I been working on.”
“You into junkers?” Tomasetti asks.
“That ain’t no junker, man. She’s a classic.”
I move deeper into the barn, find myself looking for a snowmobile. I check the dirt floor for track marks, but find nothing. The air smells of moldy earth and motor oil. I spot a tarp in the corner, cross over and lift it. Dust motes flare and a circa 1965 John Deere tractor looms into view.
Disappointment presses into me. I wanted Starkey to be our man. He’s a convicted rapist. A pedophile. A man with an appetite for porn and God only knows what else. But his height tells me he’s not the man who attacked me in the woods last night. He doesn’t fit the profile. He’s not organized. Not highly intelligent. As desperately as I want to solve this case, my gut tells me he’s not the killer.
I stride toward the men and point rudely at Starkey. “Don’t leave town.”
“I’m on parole. What do you think I’m going to do? Take a fuckin’ Hawaiian vacation?”
I start toward the door. “Let’s go.”
I reach the Tahoe first and climb in. In the relative warmth of the cab, I suddenly feel as if I haven’t slept for a week. A dull ache hammers at the base of my skull.
Tomasetti pulls out of the driveway and heads toward town. I stare out the window at the bleak landscape and try not to let the heat and low hum of the engine lull me to sleep.
“He’s not our guy,” Tomasetti says without looking at me.
“I know.”
“Most serial killers have an above-average IQ.”
“Rules out Starkey.” I glare at Tomasetti. “Next time you feel like going Dirty Harry, do it on your own time, okay?”
He looks at me as if I offended him. “You’re the one who hit him.”
“I smacked him upside the head to get his attention.”
“You kicked his chair out from under him.” Shrugging, he returns his attention to the road. “I was impressed.”
I catch myself grinning. Under different circumstances, I might have liked John Tomasetti. I may not agree with his tactics, but I know he had my back in there. Before I can analyze further, he makes a quick turn into the parking lot of McNarie’s Bar. It’s one of two drinking establishments in Painters Mill, a dive replete with red vinyl barstools, half a dozen booths and a jukebox from 1978 with all the original music selections.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demand.
“I could use a drink.” He swings open the door and gets out.
“Adrink?”
He slams the door.
