“Yes.” I don’t tell him I’ve pulled the file a hundred times over the years, that I’ve memorized every detail and if he asked, I could recite every word of it verbatim.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Kate, but you know you can’t alter that file in any way, right?”
“I can’t believe you felt the need to say that.”
“Just covering all our bases.”
I realize he’s only trying to help me, that he’s taking a certain risk himself by getting involved in this mess. But I need for him to know there are certain lines I wouldn’t cross. Compromising my ethics is one of them.
“Tomasetti, for God’s sake, I’m not a criminal.” I raise my hands to my temples and massage at the headache that’s beginning to rage.
“I know what you are and what you aren’t,” he says, unsympathetic.
“I killed a man. That makes me a murderer.”
“You defended yourself from a rapist. You give that to any court in the country and you’ll be acquitted.”
I want those words and the vehemence with which he spoke them to make me feel better, but they don’t. We both know the situation is more complicated than that. It isn’t going to go away, and there’s not a damn thing we can do to make it better. That’s when I realize the sense of dread has less to do with the legal ramifications than with the thought of that piece of my past becoming public knowledge.
“I’ve lied by omission for seventeen years,” I tell him. “The problem is made worse by the fact that I’m a cop. If this comes out, I’ll probably be forced to resign. I can kiss any hope of ever working in law enforcement good-bye. And that’s a best-case scenario.”
“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself.”
“I can’t stick my head in the sand. I’ve got to deal with it. I’ve got to be ready if—”
“Kate, you’re not a suspect. You’re not even on the radar.” He tries to temper his impatience with me, but he’s not doing a very good job of it. “We don’t know if the lab will be able to extract DNA. Those remains may never be identified. Add those two probabilities to the fact that some people believe he left of his own accord, and you’re off the hook.”
For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the hum of the refrigerator and the slow drip from the faucet. Then he asks, “What kind of weapon was Lapp killed with?”
“Shotgun.”
“That means there’s no slug. No striations. Nothing to match anything to. That’s good.”
All I can think is that there’s nothing good about any of this. Miserable, I look down at the tabletop. “If there are pellets at the scene,” I say, “or damage to the bone, they’ll be able to determine the cause of death.”
“But there’s no way to tie it to you,” he says. “Where’s the shotgun?”
“In my closet.”
He doesn’t react, but he doesn’t look happy about my attachment to the one item that could destroy my life.
Feeling stupid, I add, “I almost got rid of it during the Slaughterhouse Murders case, but…”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t have some overriding need to get caught, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He doesn’t respond. I don’t know if he doesn’t believe me or if he’s simply working through the myriad ways those bones could lead investigators back to me.
“Any paper on the shotgun?” he asks. “Bill of sale. Repairs? Anything like that?”
“I don’t think so. It’s an antique. My grandfather used it for hunting and passed it down.”
“What about the shell casing? Do you know what happened to it?”
“I have no idea. It happened at our farm, so my mamm or datt probably threw it away.”
“So it went to the dump?”
I look at him, surprised that he would be so concerned about such a small detail after so many years. “I don’t know. We used to burn most of our trash.”
“Okay. That’s good.” He thinks about that a moment. “Would have been nice to have that casing.” His brows knit. “Why was Lapp at your farm that day?”
“He was helping my brother bale hay.”
“Who knew he was there?”
“His parents. His brother.” I shrug. “Benjamin is still around.”
“He’s Amish?”
“I don’t think that will keep him from going to the police when he hears about those bones. He never believed Daniel left of his own accord, so that’s pretty much inevitable.”
“Nothing we can do about that,” he says. “Who knows about all of this, Kate?”
“My brother, Jacob. My sister, Sarah.” I feel control of the situation slipping from my grasp, and I realize any semblance of influence I’d felt over the years was an illusion.
“The investigator will look into all cold missing-person cases right off the bat. He’ll talk to Lapp’s brother. If Lapp tells them Daniel was last seen at your parents’ farm, they’re going to talk to you and your siblings.” He gives me a hard look. “You need to get with your sister and brother. Get your stories straight.”
“I don’t know if I can count on my brother.”