Page 31 of An Evil Heart
But I can tell his mind isn’t on the murder of Aden Karn and for the first time since seeing the young Amish man lying in the road dead, it’s not the case that’s hammering on my brain, but Tomasetti.
“So are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” I ask.
“I guess you’re not going to let me hang out in my cave and sulk.”
“Not a chance.”
His mouth curves, but it’s a tired and resigned facsimile of a smile that’s for my benefit. “You and I have been cops for a long time,” he says. “It’s what we do. Who we are. It’s what we know. Sometimes, I think it’sallwe know.”
“A few individuals might even say we’re good at it,” I tell him.
He pauses, pensive, studying me. I stare back, saying nothing because I want him to continue. Because whether he realizes it or not, he needs to.
“Back when we were rookies,” he says, “experience was everything. Training was king and knowledge was the key to the universe. While those things are still true, with age comes the realization that sometimes you can knowtoomuch. All of the knowledge and training and experience we’ve amassed becomes baggage. And sometimes we know how a case is going to play out before it actually plays out.”
John Tomasetti is the strongest person I know. I watched him overcome the kind of tragedy that would have destroyed most of us. The murders of his wife and two children left a wound on his heart and disfiguring scars on his soul. And came within a breath of killing him. The injustice sent him hurtling into a black hole so deep no one thought he’d ever be able to climb out, least of all him. Somehow, he did.
“This is about a case?” I ask.
He nods. “I’m assisting on the Johnson kidnapping.”
I know the story. Even from the outside looking in, it’s a heartbreaker. I’ve not followed the investigation closely; I haven’t had time. But it’s dominated the news cycle. Two little girls, about the same ages as Tomasetti’s when they died, went missing in Cleveland four days ago.
“Two kids,” he says. “Walking home from school. They never made it. Parents called Cleveland PD in less than an hour of them being late. Cops found their books. Little pink backpack. Homework still inside. No sign of the kids.” He sighs. “I drew the short stick.”
I try to read him, but he’s good at keeping his emotions in check, keeping them buried. “That’s the toughest kind of case,” I say.
“Especially for the parents.”
“Any leads?” I ask.
“We got nothing.” He shakes his head. “From all indications, it was a stranger kidnapping.” An abduction by an unknown individual is the most dangerous kind. He knows it. I know it.
… sometimes you know too much…
Tomasetti is the kind of cop who pours everything he’s got into a case. He’s obsessive and intense; he’s to the point. Sometimes he’s not very nice. He’s driven, but he doesn’t get caught up in the drama. Not in an emotional way. It’s something both of us struggled with early in our careers, finally achieving the safe-distance state of mind only recently. That said, some cases hit harder than others. Parallels, I think, and I feel the pain of the connection spread in my chest.
“This case isn’t going to end well,” he says after a moment. “Not a stranger abduction. Not after four days.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I wish I didn’t. But I do, Kate. I’ve seen it happen too many times.” He scrubs a hand over his head, mussing his hair. “Maybe I’ve been doing this too goddamn long.”
“You know that’s cynical.”
He leans against the desk, picks up the tumbler of whiskey and sips, gives me the whiskey grimace. “That’s the thing about baggage and age, especially when you’re a cop. You see too much too many times. You see the family suffering. You see their hope. Their desperation. And you lie to them because you know bad things happen to good people far more often than we’d like.” He offers me a grim smile. “More about my mindset than you ever wanted to know, but there you go.”
I discern the pain in the depths of his eyes, and my love for him fills my heart. “Is there anything I can do?”
He looks down at me and I see him come back to himself. To that place I know. “Just… keep coming home.”
Saying his name, I turn to him, take the tumbler from his hand, sip, and set it down. “If it’s any consolation, to you or the family or anyone who needs to hear it, you are the best man for the job. If anyone can bring them home, it’s you. It’s going to hurt, but you’re going to do it anyway. That’s got to count for something.”
“I hope so,” he says quietly.
“That’s the thing about pouring your life into a case like that. Even if there’s a bad outcome, life goes on. With or without us. Hard as it is, we pick ourselves up. We focus on the good. And we put one foot in front of the other.”
A smile whispers across his features. Small, but genuine. “Well, I’m glad I’ve got you here to point that out.”
