“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t want to leave.” Another shrug. “Maybe he wanted the farm.”
“Tomorrow, I’ll check out Mose’s story on the adoption. See if everything lines up.”
Nodding, he reaches for the shot, raises it, and downs it in a single gulp. “Who else do we have?”
“Coulter,” I say. “I don’t think he did it.”
“Or else he’s a pretty convincing liar. I don’t think we should rule him out.”
I think about Coulter for a moment. The vehemence with which he defended himself. The tears. His wife and children. “It’s getting harder and harder to tell the good guys from the bad guys.”
Tomasetti stares into his empty glass. “Something like twenty-five percent of the population are sociopaths. People who don’t have a conscience. Lying is second nature to them.”
“That’s a scary thought.”
“Keeps us in business.”
“True.” But all the jagged elements of the case are running through my head. “There’s also the hate-crime angle.”
He twirls the shot glass between his fingers. “Maybe we just need to find the connection.”
The jukebox spits out an old Nirvana rocker. I can feel the alcohol working its dark magic on my brain now, smoothing down the rough edges. I don’t need booze to think, but sometimes it helps me cut through the clutter that accumulates in the course of a day like today.
“Maybe it’s like you said,” I tell him. “The murders were secondary. Someone went into the Slabaugh barn with a hate crime in mind. They went in to rob or vandalize, or both.”
“Or kill the livestock,” Tomasetti puts in.
“They know the Amish won’t go to the police or identify them.” The theory gains momentum in my mind, and I run with it. “So these haters are in the barn. Slabaugh and his brother show up. There’s a scuffle. Things get out of control. The intruder shoves one of them into the pit.”
“Or one of them falls during the confrontation.”
“The second brother goes into the pit to help the first, succumbs to the gas.”
“Or the second brother gets close to the edge of the pit and the intruder shoves him in.”
“That would explain Slabaugh’s head wound.”
Tomasetti considers that for a moment. “What about the wife?”
“Accidental. Rachael comes out a few minutes later with the kids and finds the two men in the pit. She succumbs to the gas while trying to help them and falls in herself.”
“Kids’ stories back that up?”
I nod, trying to put all the disjointed pieces together. “It’s a viable theory.”
He swigs beer, eyeing me over the top of the bottle. “Let’s go back to Coulter a sec.” He looks down at his beer, and I know he’s trying to work through the details of it, just as I am. “Takes a lot of effort to frame someone.”
“He’s the perfect candidate. He’s worked for Slabaugh. He’s been to the house.” I shrug. “He’s an ex-con. All of that is pretty much common knowledge in a small town.”
“That makes him vulnerable. They plant the rifle, knowing we’ll follow up on the connection.”
“How’d they plant the rifle in Coulter’s house?”
“Maybe they broke in. Hell, maybe the Coulters don’t lock their doors. Some folks don’t around here. The killer went in through an unlocked door or window. I’ll check with the wife to see if she remembers anything.”
We fall silent. But it’s a comfortable silence. We sip our beers, thinking, listening to the music. After a while, Tomasetti says, “How are you holding up, Chief?”
“I’m fine.” The words come out a little too fast, and we both notice. I’m not very good at talking about myself, even worse about discussing my feelings. Maybe it’s because over the years I’ve honed my ability to keep secrets, raised it to an art form.
“Cases like this can take a toll on a cop,” he says. “Especially if you care.” He pauses. “You care, Kate.”
“That’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“When we first met, I was the one who had my shit together. You were pretty much a walking disaster.”
“An attractive walking disaster.”
That makes me smile, and I’m thankful I have Tomasetti to help me keep things in perspective.
His gaze sharpens on mine. “So talk to me.”
I’m careful about the information I reveal to other people. I don’t like anyone knowing too much about what’s inside my head. Or, God forbid, in all those deeper, darker recesses. But Tomasetti isn’t just other people. He’s a friend. My lover. I trust him. I know about his past, he knows most of mine, and we’ve been through a lot together. But old habits die hard, and I find myself wanting to close the lid on the can he’s trying to open.
“I’ve guess I’ve sort of put these kids on a pedestal,” I admit. “Because they’re Amish. All of it’s gotten kind of tangled up inside me.”