The Dead Will Tell (32 page)

“Stop or I will shoot you!” I scream.

She hauls ass toward the gravel lane that will take her into the field and, beyond, a wooded area. She’s not a bad runner for a woman, but I’m faster. And I’m pissed. I round the front of the truck, splash through the ditch, go up the other side. And then I’m six yards behind her, running full out and closing in fast. “Police!” I shout. “Stop! Now!”

She doesn’t slow. Doesn’t look behind her. It’s too dark for me to discern if she’s got the gun in her hand. But I know she’s armed. She’s already shot a cop. Tried to kill me. One wrong move on her part, and I’ll cut her down.

I catch her thirty yards into the field. I dive and throw my arms around her waist, ramming my shoulder into the small of her back. A scream tears from her throat as she goes facedown in the mud. She tries to turn over, but I’m faster and stronger and I’m able to use my body weight to pin her.

“Stay down!” I shout. “Give me your hands!”

She writhes, twisting in an attempt to get her knees under her, but she’s not strong enough to dislodge me. Holstering my weapon, keeping my eyes on her hands, I grind my knee into her back. “Stop resisting!”

A cry of rage erupts from her throat as I clamp my left hand around her left wrist. I reach for my cuffs with my right. “You’re under arrest.”

“Get off me!”

“You shot a cop,” I snarl as I crank the cuff down tight. “A friend of mine.”

“I hope he dies!”

I shove her face into the mud. I’m still trying to get a grip on her right hand when the deputy arrives. He’s panting like a dog as he drops to his knees beside me and helps me snap the cuff into place.

I sit back on my heels, go for my lapel mike, only to remember it’s dead.

Noticing I’m without communication, the deputy speaks into his own radio. “Ten ninety-five.” He looks at me, taps his left temple to indicate mine. “You okay?”

I get to my feet. “My deputy’s been shot. He needs an ambulance.”

“They got one out there now.”

“He’s seventy-six years old.” Bending, I grab Ruth Weaver’s biceps and try to haul her to her feet. In that instant, I understand how a cop can get caught up in the high adrenaline of a chase, the rage of having one of your own cut down as if his life means nothing.

“Stand up,” I snarl.

The deputy goes to the other side of her and helps her rise. He’s tossing concerned looks my way, and I make a conscious effort to pull myself back from the edge upon which I’m standing.

This should be a good moment. I made my arrest. Got a dangerous killer off the street. But as the adrenaline ebbs, a hundred other gnarly emotions rush forward. Anger at the utter senselessness of the crimes. Relief that she can’t hurt anyone else. But worry for Pickles is at the forefront of my mind. At this point, I don’t know if he’s dead or alive, and that makes me angry all over again. The need to see him is a desperation I can’t contain.

“I need to check on my officer,” I tell the deputy. “Can you put her in your cage?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Go.”

CHAPTER 32

A strange psychological phenomenon occurs in the seconds and minutes following a high-adrenaline event. I’ve heard it referred to as the “tachy-psyche effect” and “high-speed-pursuit syndrome.” I suppose both terms are apt, but only loosely correct. The shrinks haven’t yet coined a term for the emotions a cop experiences later, in the hours after a high-speed chase or physical encounter or officer-involved shooting. Those hours when the adrenaline ebbs and the intellect kicks back in. Most everyone gets the full-body shakes. Some cops get angry. Some laugh or joke in an almost giddy manner or act in some otherwise inappropriate way. I’ve seen some cops cry—and not just females—even the tough veterans who think they’re immune.

The ambulance has arrived by the time I get back to the Hochstetler place. When I get out of the Explorer, I realize my legs are shaking violently. My stomach is jittery. I have tunnel vision, and it’s focused on the red and blue lights of that ambulance. I see the silhouette of someone approaching. I don’t know who it is, but I don’t slow down. I have to reach Pickles because I’m suddenly terrified I’m too late.

“Chief?”

An odd sense of relief sweeps through me at the sound of Glock’s voice. “How is he?” I ask.

He falls in beside me, matching my long strides. “Paramedics are working on him now.”

“Bad?”

“I don’t know. Paramedic thinks the bullet went in through the arm hole at an angle, got him in the side.”

“Shit.
Shit.
” I feel his eyes on me, drilling into me, seeing too much, and I’m annoyed because this isn’t about me. “He’s too old for this. I shouldn’t have—”

“Chief, he’s a cop. And he’s tough. He’ll be okay.” Then his eyes narrow. “You’re bleeding pretty good yourself.”

Vaguely, I’m aware of the warmth of blood streaming down the left side of my face. “Let’s go see Pickles.”

As we approach the ambulance, I spot two uniformed paramedics carrying a litter toward a waiting gurney. I can just make out Pickles’ form, his uniform wet and black-looking in the flashing lights. His face isn’t covered, and suddenly I feel like crying. I reach them, but they don’t stop, so I keep pace with them and look down at my most senior officer. An oxygen mask covers his nose and mouth. His eyes are open, but unfocused. I say his name, but he doesn’t respond; he doesn’t look at me or give me any indication he heard me. I see a blood smear on a pale, gnarled hand.

I make eye contact with one of the paramedics. “How is he?”

“He sustained a single gunshot wound to the armpit area, penetrated the chest. Vitals are stable. We’re transporting him to Pomerene. That’s all I can tell you at this point.”

“Can I ride with him?” I ask.

He hesitates, then I see him looking at the blood on my temple and he nods. “Sure, Chief. Hop in.”

*   *   *

An hour later I’m sitting in the surgical intensive care waiting area of Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg, worried and pacing and trying in vain not to acknowledge the headache gnawing at my temple. The paramedics allowed me to ride in the ambulance with Pickles. I’d known there wasn’t anything I could do to help, but I wanted to sit with him or maybe hold his hand. I never got my chance and ended up spending most of the ride trying to stay out of the way.

Upon arrival, Pickles was quickly assessed by the ER physician and, after some tests, rushed to surgery. At that point, I called Glock and asked him to notify Clarice that her husband had been shot. In typical Glock style, he was already en route. I feel incredibly lucky to have such a good team of officers and know they have my back.

I couldn’t escape the doctor’s notice of my own injury, a gash I must have sustained when my head struck the driver’s-side window. And while Pickles was in the OR, the ER doc cornered me and put seven stitches in my head. He had the nerve to try to admit me for observation in case I had a concussion, but I assured him I had someone to keep an eye on me for the next twenty-four hours.

I’m on my second cup of vending machine coffee when I hear the chime of the elevator. I look down the hall to see Glock, Skid, and Mona shuffle out and start toward me. My chest tightens at the sight of them, and for the second time, I fight tears. They are my adopted family, my children and parents and siblings rolled into one, and I’ve never been so glad to see them in my life.

“How’s the old curmudgeon doing?” Glock asks.

“Stable.” I tell them everything I know, which isn’t much. “They took him in to surgery. Doc said bullet went low and damaged his spleen.”

“You don’t need your spleen,” Skid says quickly.

“My grandmother had hers taken out two years ago,” Glock says, “and she’s doing fine.”

“I thought your grandmother was in prison,” Skid says.

Our laughter feels a little forced, but I think all of us appreciate it because we’re worried and scared and no one can think of a better way to deal with it.

Mona touches my arm. “Clarice okay?” she asks.

“She’s waiting for him outside recovery,” Glock replies.

I turn my attention to Glock. “T.J. holding down the fort?”

“He wanted to be here, but there was no one else.”

“Where’s Ruth Weaver?” I ask.

“Holmes County transported her and booked her in.”

“I need to go talk to her.”

“Figured you would. We’ve got it covered here if you want to go.”

I had no business leaving my suspect or the scene of a shooting. But there’s an unwritten rule in law enforcement whether you’re the chief or a beat cop: When one of your own gets hurt, you drop everything and you go.

“Call me,” I tell him.

“The instant I hear anything.”

I’ve just started toward the elevator when the door swishes open and Tomasetti steps into the hall. My steps falter at the sight of him. His eyes take in the length of me, a grim, determined look on his face. His eyes narrow on the bandage at my temple, and he starts toward me.

“Kate…” He tries to frown, but only manages to look worried. “For God’s sake, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

He reaches me, and his arms engulf me without hesitation. He squeezes too hard for too long, then sets me back and sighs. “I guess you’re going to make me ask what’s underneath that bandage.”

“You mean besides a mullet?”

He lets out a laugh.

I can’t help it; I smile. I’m happy to see him, relieved that he’s here. “It’s only seven stitches.”

“Only seven?” He leans close and kisses the top of my head. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

Of all the things I expected him to do, that wasn’t it. “Driver’s-side window wasn’t that hard, I guess.”

“Not as hard as your head, evidently.” He smiles back at me. “Do you have a concussion?”

“No.”

He eases me to arm’s length, his hands grasping my biceps with a little too much force, and looks down at me. “You didn’t call.”

“I was about to.” The words sound automatic, so I add, “I didn’t want you to make a fuss.”

He looks past me at the rest of my team, who are standing in a group just outside the waiting area. “How’s Pickles?”

“Stable.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“I hope so. Seeing him … like that scared me, Tomasetti.”

“I’m familiar with that particular emotion.”

I move away from him and press the elevator down button. I know I should be more focused on him and what I just put him through, but I’ve got tunnel vision when it comes to this case. If anyone understands, I know Tomasetti does.

“Who called you, anyway?” I ask.

“Glock.” He comes up beside me, and we watch the lights as the elevator car makes it way to our floor. “I wish it had been you.”

“I was a little busy.”

“So where are we going?”

Only then do I remember I left my vehicle back at the Hochstetler farm. I look at him, trying not to feel like an idiot. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have good timing?”

The door swishes open, and he ushers me inside. “All the time.”

*   *   *

An hour later, Sheriff Mike Rasmussen, Detective Jessup Price with the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, and I are sitting in an interview room at the sheriff’s office in Holmesville, Ohio, which is about fifteen minutes north of Painters Mill.

“How’s your officer?” Rasmussen asks as we wait for the corrections officer to bring in Ruth Weaver.

“Stable,” I tell him. “He was still in surgery when I left the hospital.”

He taps his temple. “You get that tattoo there in the wreck?”

I nod. “That’s two counts of attempted murder of a police officer.”

“The more the merrier.” He sighs. “She’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Has anyone talked to her yet?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Just ID info. She has not been Mirandized. We basically put her in a holding cell and waited for you.” He motions toward the small audio recorder. “When you’re ready, just hit the On button there, and you’re good to go.”

“I appreciate that, Mike.”

“This is your deal.”

The door opens. Ruth Weaver steps into the interview room. The last time I saw her, she looked like a hundred other Amish women I’d met over the years. Now she dons blue scrubs that are at least two sizes too large and flip-flops, the kind you might pick up at the local dollar store. Her hair is down and still damp from the rain. I see the blond roots peeking out at her scalp. Her hands are cuffed in front of her, for comfort during the interview.

Interestingly, she doesn’t look shaken; she hasn’t been crying. I don’t think she’s looking for anyone to feel sorry for her or help her. She was ready for this, she knows she’s on her own, and she’s completely at ease with both those things.

A trim female corrections officer has a firm grip on her biceps and motions toward the only vacant chair, opposite the table from me. “Sit down.”

When Weaver is settled into the chair, the corrections officer steps back and takes her place at the door. The sheriff and Detective Price scoot their chairs away from the table slightly, keeping their notebooks handy, and give me the floor. I lean forward, press the On button of the recorder, and recite the date and names and titles of everyone present.

I focus my attention on Weaver and recite the Miranda rights from memory. “Do you understand those rights?”

The detective tugs a laminated card from an inside pocket of his jacket and slides it across the table to her.

She nods without taking the card. “Perfectly.”

When I was a rookie patrol officer in Columbus, I was lucky enough to partner up with one of the best interrogators in the department. His name was Cooper aka “Coop” and he was a natural, charismatic and personable. Within minutes, he could have even the most hardened criminal believing they were destined to become best friends. But Coop was also the kind of cop who, once he had gained the trust of a suspect, could rip out his throat and never lose his smile in the process. During the short period of time we worked together, Coop gave me the best advice I’d ever received on interviewing: A suspect will never tell you anything they don’t want to. The key, he said, is to
make
them want to. I never forgot that gem of advice. And while I’ll never be the interrogator Coop was, because of him, I became a better cop.