All nod in agreement.
“Does anyone have anything they want to discuss before we adjourn?”
T.J. is the first to speak. “Do you think at some point you’ll call BCI or FBI for help, Chief?” All eyes land on him, and he flushes. “I’m not saying we aren’t capable of doing this on our own, but our resources are limited here in Painters Mill.”
“Yeah, who’s going to round up all those loose fuckin’ cows while we work the case?” Skid offers with a smirk.
T.J. holds his ground. “There are only four of us.”
The last thing I want to do is involve another agency. But law enforcement protocol dictates I do. My team expects it. I must have their respect to be effective. My credibility depends on my doing the smart thing.
But I can’t ask for help at this stage. As much as I despise lying to them, I can’t risk some deputy or field agent figuring out that sixteen years ago I shot and killed a man, that my family hid the crime from the police and swept the entire sordid mess under the rug.
“I’ll make some calls,” I say, being purposefully vague. “In the interim, I’ve activated auxiliary officer Roland Shumaker.”
“Ain’t seen Pickles since he shot that rooster,” Glock says.
“He still dye his hair Cocoa-Puff brown?” Skid wonders aloud.
“I expect you to treat Officer Shumaker with respect,” I say. “We need him.”
The men’s expressions indicate that for now they’re satisfied with the way I’m handling the case. Two years ago that wouldn’t have happened. I’m Painters Mill’s first female chief of police. Initially, not everyone was happy about it. The first few months were tough, but we’ve come a long way since then. I’ve earned their respect.
I know from experience cops tend to be territorial. These men do not want some other agency horning in on the investigation. On the other hand, if the killer strikes again, I’ll have another death on my conscience because I didn’t do my job the way I should have. It’s an unbearable dilemma.
I think of the press release I’m about to write and fight a slow rise of dread. Steve Ressler isn’t the only media I’ll be dealing with in the coming days. As soon as word of this murder hits the airwaves, I’ll have reporters from as far away as Columbus skulking around town, looking for photo ops.
“Let’s go get this animal,” I say.
As the men file from my office, I can only hope none of them look hard enough to find the whole truth.
CHAPTER 9
Denny McNinch entered the deputy superintendent’s office to find Jason Rummel leaning back in his leather executive chair like a king presiding over his adoring court. Human Resources Director Ruth Bogart sat adjacent his desk. Denny hoped this wouldn’t take long; he was supposed to meet his wife for dinner in fifteen minutes.
“Denny.” Rummel motioned toward the vacant visitor chair. “Sorry for the short notice.”
Short notice was a stretch. Car keys in hand, Denny had been on his way out the door when Rummel called. “No problem.”
“We received an RFA this afternoon from the town of Painters Mill,” Rummel said. RFA was BCI-speak for “Request for Assistance.”
Denny shifted, glanced at his watch, waited.
“The town council believes they have a serial murderer on their hands.”
Denny stopped fidgeting. “Serial murder?”
“Apparently, there’s a history of a killer working the area. It’s been a while, fifteen or sixteen years. The councilwoman I spoke with said the general consensus is that the killer is back.”
Dinner forgotten, Denny leaned forward.
Rummel continued. “Painters Mill is mostly rural with a population just over five thousand. Amish country, I’m told. The small police force is overwhelmed. The chief is small town. Female. Inexperienced.”
Usually, it was Denny who was contacted by local law enforcement. It was, after all, his responsibility to assign RFAs to agents. On the outside chance the RFA found its way to Rummel’s desk, he would normally reroute it back to Denny. He wondered why Rummel was handling this one. He wondered why Ruth Bogart was there, since field cases didn’t fall within her realm of responsibility. He wondered why the hell he was here when this could have been handled over the phone.
“I’m assigning the case to John Tomasetti,” Rummel said.
That was the last thing Denny expected him to say. “Tomasetti’s not ready for field work.”
“He’s a field agent drawing a paycheck every week.”
“With all due respect to John, he’s a fucking train wreck.”
“This isn’t a day care. We’ve offered him a sweet retirement deal and he turned it down. If he’s going to continue working here, he’s going to have to pull his weight.”
“To be perfectly honest, I have some concerns about his emotional stability.”