“That’s kind of like asking the ocean not to be wet.” But he doesn’t smile as he stares out the window. “We take so much for granted. I wish I had five minutes with my kids. Just five lousy minutes to say the things I didn’t say when they were alive.”
Tension climbs up my shoulders and into my neck. This is the first time he’s talked about his children with this level of intimacy, this kind of emotion. It’s the first time he’s mentioned regret or allowed me a glimpse of his pain. I don’t have children. But I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. I’ve been to that dark place and I know firsthand the toll it can take.
“That’s human nature,” I tell him. “We take things for granted. All of us do.”
He says nothing.
“I’m sure they knew you loved them,” I say, but I feel as if I’m floundering.
“When I was on a case, I’d go for days without seeing them. Even when I was home, when I worked late, I didn’t kiss them good night. I didn’t tuck them in. I barely looked at them some days. Half the time, I didn’t even fucking miss them. What the hell kind of parent doesn’t miss his kids?”
I glance over at him. He’s gripping the wheel tightly, staring straight ahead, and I think, Shit. “Tomasetti…”
He tosses me a sideways look. “I don’t remember the last words I said to them, Kate. I was in a hurry that morning. Had some big fucking meeting. Some meeting that didn’t mean anything to anyone. I didn’t know that the next time I saw them would be in the morgue.”
It’s difficult, but I hold his gaze. “You loved them. They knew it. That’s what counts.”
“I didn’t keep them safe.”
“You did your best.”
“Did I?”
I take a moment to calm down, rein in my own emotions. “Tomasetti, are you okay?” I ask.
He gives me a wan smile. “I’m not going to wig out, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I reach across the seat and take his hand. “Just checking.”
For a couple of minutes, neither of us speaks. We watch Goddard get into his cruiser. The only sounds come from a group of little boys playing stickball in the yard across the street and a blue jay scolding us from the maple tree a few feet away.
“I wanted to take that bitch’s head off,” he says after a moment.
“Now there’s the Tomasetti I know and love.”
His mouth twists into a grim smile, and the tension loosens its grip. An instant later, his cell goes off. He glances at the display, makes eye contact with me, and answers it. “What do you have?”
His eyes hold mine as he listens to the caller, but his face reveals nothing. “Got it. Right. Check on that for me, will you?” He disconnects and clips the phone to his belt.
“What?” I ask as I buckle up.
He cranks the key and the engine rumbles to life. “The blood is human.”
“Damn.” We both assumed that would be the case. Still, the news is like a hammer blow. “Is it hers?”
“They don’t know yet. Lab’s backed up. They should have blood type tomorrow. DNA is going to take a few days.” He puts the Tahoe in gear and pulls onto the street behind Goddard.
“That was a lot of blood,” I say, thinking aloud. “If it’s Annie’s, she’s seriously injured.”
Or worse.
The unspoken words hover like the smell of cordite after a gunshot. Neither of us dares say them aloud.
CHAPTER 7
Half an hour later, Tomasetti, Bud Goddard, and I are standing in the reception area of the Trumbull County sheriff's office with three uniformed deputies, a state trooper, and a single officer from the Buck Creek PD. Tomasetti and I were introduced upon our arrival as “state agents here to assist,” which is usually well received by even the most territorial of law-enforcement agencies. We do a lot more than assist, but then, that’s cops for you.
The sheriff’s department is typical of most county-funded offices: small, cramped, and cheaply furnished, but functional. However, the computers look relatively new and the dispatch and phone system are state-of-the-art. I figure if Goddard is as good at policing as he is at politicking, the county is in pretty good hands.
We convene in an interview room, which is past the rest room, at the rear of the offices. The space is small and windowless, with barely enough room for the rectangular table, which looks like a donation from someone’s garage, and a hodgepodge of folding and task chairs. A laminate podium with the seal of the great state of Ohio affixed to the facade demarks the head of the table. Goddard stands behind it, looking down at his notes. Behind him, a whiteboard as well as a terrain and road map of northeastern Ohio are tacked to the wall. Three red circles indicate the locations where the missing teens were last seen.