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.”
“She was innocent. A kid. Pliable. In love with him. He was the first male to pay attention to her. She trusted him.” I think of all the things he took from her, the things she won’t be able to get back, and I find myself thinking that if Aden Karn wasn’t dead, I’d want to kill him myself.
Back off, Kate.…
“He betrayed her in the worst possible way,” I say.
“The names of the men involved would have been nice to have,” he says.
“She’ll never tell. She wants to forget it ever happened. Tomasetti, there’s a big part of me that understands that.” I slap my hand against the tabletop. “She’s holding on by a thread.”
“I guess the question now is what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. Damn it. Something, for God’s sake.”
He stares at me, holding my gaze so that I can’t look away. “I know you too well to be concerned about you doing something you shouldn’t.”
“If there was ever a time when that would be warranted…” I blow out a breath, release some of the high-wire tension inside me. “The entirety of this case, I thought Karn was a wholesome Amish kid whose life was cut short. I wanted to find the bastard responsible and I wanted to hang him up by his balls.”
“Then you find out Aden Karn was a morally corrupt son of a bitch.”
There’s a moment of quiet.
“This development adds an interesting dimension to the case,” he says slowly. “It may open some new avenues in terms of motive, anyway.”
I was so angry, so emotional, that my brain hadn’t yet gone there. Alas, the danger of what can happen when a cop feels too much. “Someone, who ostensibly cared about Emily Byler, found out that Karn and his sleazy friends raped her. And they killed him for it.”
My mind grinds through that a moment. “We need to find out if there were any other girls or women who didn’t come forward.”
“What about Andy Byler?”
I shake my head. “He just found out tonight.”
“Let’s take a closer look at Rossberger’s associates. See if we can find a boyfriend or male friend. Father. Someone who found out what happened and sought revenge.”
We fall silent. The only sound comes from the drip of rain off the roof outside.
I lift my cup, look at him over the rim. “Have you ever worked a case and thought maybe the victim deserved what he got?”
“Karn isn’t the first morally bankrupt victim whose death you’ve investigated.”
“He’s one of the most vile.” I look away, find myself looking at the floor where Emily had stood. I see the mud from her shoes.
“I know you well enough to know you’ll do your job whether you like or respect or detest your victim.”
“I don’t want to be that hardened cop. The one who doesn’t feel anything. The one who doesn’t care. The one who looks at everyone as if they’re a criminal. But, Tomasetti, this case … It’s got me by the throat.”
“You’re not hardened, Kate. You’re not cynical. You’re pissed. Because you care. There’s a difference.” With a half smile he adds, “Cynicism is my job, remember?”
When I don’t respond, he adds, “This isn’t the first time you’ve put your victim on a pedestal. Remember: You don’t fight for them because of who they are. You fight for them because of who you are.”
I blow out another breath, send some of the anger out with it. “Thank you for saying that.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. “You going to be okay with all of this?”
“Yeah.”
When he smiles, I feel some of the weight lifted off my shoulders and not for the first time I’m reminded of everything he’s brought to my life, and why I love him so unconditionally.