An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(67)
After pouring another cup of coffee, I reclaim my seat. “It took guts for you to come here tonight and tell me the truth. You were very brave. Thank you.”
“I don’t feel very brave,” she mutters. “I feel … dirty and … more awful than I’ve ever felt in my life.”
“No one has the right to do that to you or anyone else. It’s called sexual assault and it’s against the law.”
The girl looks down at the tabletop, saying nothing.
“Emily, you did the right thing,” I tell her. “Now it’s my turn to do the right thing. In order to do that, I need the names of the men who hurt you.”
Gasping, she raises her head, stares at me, eyes wide with panic. “I don’t know who came into the room.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I don’t want anyone to know,” she whispers. “Please. I didn’t want to come here. Datt made me. That’s why I didn’t tell anyone. I don’t want anyone to know!”
I’m too angry to look into her eyes, so I glance down at the mug and take a drink of coffee I don’t want.
“Chief Burkholder, if the Amish find out … it’ll ruin my life more than it already is. Please. I just want to go on like it never happened.”
As a formerly Amish woman, I understand more than I want to. As a cop, I know if I don’t get her to open up, the men who assaulted her will get away with what they did. In the state of Ohio, once a sexual assault is reported to the police, it becomes a crime against the state and the victim has no say in the matter.
“Why did you come here tonight?” I ask her.
“Datt made me.”
“You came here because it was the right thing to do.”
“I just want to forget about it and go on with my life,” she pleads.
I consider that a moment. “How did your datt find out?”
A too-long pause and then, “I had a nightmare earlier. Woke them up. Mamm came into my room. I told her I wanted to go to God now, and I think that scared her. She begged me to tell her what was bothering me and I did. I think she must have told Datt because he came into my room later and said I had to come here and talk to you.”
I think about what must have been going through Andy Byler’s head as his wife relayed to him his daughter had been gang-raped. While the Amish are pacifists and do not condone or participate in violence in any way, they’re also human. I think about what happened to Aden Karn and I wonder how many fathers have crossed a line to protect their children. How many fathers have countered violence with violence?
I can’t force this young woman to do anything she doesn’t want to do, including giving me the names of the men responsible. Even if I refer this crime to the prosecutor, without names his office can’t pursue charges. I have no DNA. No evidence. If she doesn’t cooperate, I don’t even have a victim.
“If I were to set up a meeting with a prosecutor, would you speak with him?” I ask.
“I don’t want to talk to anyone about this ever again. I just want to forget it and try to move on.”
I think about the situation in terms of the murders of Aden Karn and Paige Rossberger and I know this has to be somehow related. Another devastating link in a chain of many.
“Emily, when I showed you the photos and asked if you recognized the vehicle or the woman, were you telling me the truth?”
“Of course I was. I’ve never seen her before.”
“Were there ever any other women at the gas station when you were there?” I ask. “English women? Amish women?”
Her brows come together as if she’s trying to remember, but she shakes her head. “I never saw any other girls, but I was only there three or four times. And I was never awake when we left.”
* * *
It’s five A.M. and I’m sitting at the kitchen table, an empty mug in front of me. Dark thoughts keep me company.
“I’d give you a penny for your thoughts, but I’m not sure I want to know.”
I glance up to see Tomasetti enter. He’s freshly showered and dressed—in a suit and tie, of course—and makes a beeline for the still-brewing coffee.
“Anyone ever tell you that you look nice in that suit?” I try to smile, but it’s not a good fit so I let it fall.
“You should see me in my boxers.” He looks at me over his shoulder as he pours. He’s smiling, but I see clearly that he’s aware of my state of mind. That he doesn’t like it. He knows me well.
He brings the carafe to the table and fills my mug. “Must have been a tough conversation.”
“I don’t even know where to start,” I say.
He returns the carafe to its nest, then takes the chair across from me. I keep my eyes on the mug. I know if I look at him, he’ll see what’s written all over me. I’m too angry. Too … emotional. None of those things are ever a good look for a cop.
“I couldn’t get much out of Byler,” he tells me. “So I’m sort of in the dark here.”
I recap my conversation with Emily Byler. “They drugged her and they gang-raped her. Not once, but several times. A seventeen-year-old Amish girl. And now, all she wants is for no one to know.”
He looks away, mutters a curse beneath his breath. “So Karn farmed her out to his friends.”