Page 25 of Fallen

CHAPTER 11

The nights tormented him. The endless hours of darkness and sleeplessness, when the not-knowing and the fear were a cancer eating him from the inside out and he could do nothing but ponder what he now knew was inevitable. It was no longer a matter of if he would be found out, but when, by whom, and how much it would cost him. Worst of all, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

And so tonight, like the night before and the one before that, he sat at the desk in his dimly lit office and worked through every possible scenario. He thought about everything that had happened. Everything he’d done—both past and present. Most of all he thought about what he hadn’t done, and he wondered if it was too late to remedy any of it now.

Rachael Schwartz had destroyed a lot of lives in the short time she’d been on this earth. She was a user and a taker with a streak of nasty that ran right down the center of her back. She loved herself above all else and had no compunction about slicing the throat of anyone who crossed her. And then she’d laugh as she watched them bleed out.

How ironic that she would ruin his life after she was dead.

He hadn’t spared her so much as a passing thought in over a decade. Then out of the blue came the phone call that brought all of those old mistakes rushing back. I have proof, she’d claimed. With a few words, she took his carefully constructed life apart, left it in pieces at his feet. After all this time, she wanted a piece of him. She wanted what she believed was rightfully hers and goddamn anyone who got in her way, including him. Especially him. She’d threatened his marriage. His career. The well-being of his children. Any semblance of a future. Probably even his freedom. She did all of it with a vicious glee and a cold proficiency the years had honed to a razor’s edge.

Now she was gone. He should be relieved, her memory nothing more than a black stain on his past. But he knew this wasn’t over. In fact, the nightmare was just beginning and he was right in the center of it. How many people had she confided in over the years? Who else could potentially come forward? Had she been bluffing when she bragged about having put together some kind of “insurance policy” in case something happened to her? Even dead, the rotten bitch would see to it that he paid a price for what he’d done.

He wished to God he’d never laid eyes on her.

He’d never been the type of man to sit on the sidelines and let things play out, especially when there was so much at stake. There wasn’t much he could do to save himself. The time for damage control had long since passed. Soon, the wolves would be scratching at the door. It was only a matter of time before they got in and tore him to shreds.

Cursing beneath his breath, he picked up the tumbler of bourbon, swirled the ice, and he sipped. He thought about his life. How far he’d come. The things he’d accomplished. And he knew there was one thing he had going for him. The only thing that might keep the wolves at bay. Rachael Schwartz had deserved her fate—and he wasn’t the only one who thought so. She had a pattern of fucking people over, using people, abusing her friendships. People like her made a lot of enemies—and he sure as hell wasn’t the only one who’d benefited from her death. All he had to do was find them. Work them into the equation. At the very least, it would take some of the pressure off of him. Buy him some time. It was a starting point, anyway.

God only knew where it would go from there.

He was not going down for what he’d done. He sure as hell wasn’t going down for something he didn’t do. If that meant finding a scapegoat, then so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

Holding that thought, he turned off the lamp, rose from the desk, and headed for the door.

CHAPTER 12

Day 2

The one thing that’s always in short supply in the course of a homicide investigation is sleep. Not because there’s too much to do or too many things happening at once, but because any cop worth his salt knows how crucial those first forty-eight hours are in terms of a solve. The truth of the matter is nothing happens fast when you’re running against the clock. As Tomasetti is so fond of saying, “Hurry up and wait.”

After leaving the bar last night, I couldn’t sleep and spent the wee hours reading AMISH NIGHTMARE: How I Escaped the Clutches of Righteousness. I read with the goal of extracting some theory or motive or person of interest, but the tome was mostly sensationalistic bullshit. The one name that did rise above the rest was Amos Gingerich, the so called “bishop” of the Killbuck Amish. I don’t know if the conflict that was detailed in the book is fact or fiction, but at the very least, I need to pay Gingerich a visit.

It was after three AM when I finished and, even then, I couldn’t stop thinking about the case. I’m a seasoned cop; I’ve seen more than my share of violent crimes. The brutality of this one makes me shiver. Who hated Rachael Schwartz enough to beat her to death with such viciousness that bones were broken and her eye was dislodged from its socket? And why?

For every question answered, a dozen more emerge. One question rises above the rest. No one could tell me why she was in Painters Mill. Her parents didn’t know. Loretta Bontrager didn’t know. Neither did her business partner and self-proclaimed best friend.

Someone knew.

Rachael Schwartz was just thirty years old. She was a daughter. A best friend. A businesswoman. A lover. She made people laugh. Made them cry. From all indications, she made them angry, too. According to the people closest to her, she was a firebrand with a vindictive streak and thrived on making waves. Somewhere along the line, did she overstep some boundary that sent someone over the edge?

I think about my own knowledge of her. While that connection gives me some insight into her life, it’s a little too close for comfort—and could lead me astray if I’m not careful. I knew her at a time in my life when I, too, was disgruntled with the Amish. I secretly admired that outspoken little tomboy. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I cared for her because I understood a part of her others did not.

The mores an Amish person lives by are deeply ingrained at a young age. Close to eighty percent of Amish youths join the church after rumspringa. The vast majority never leave. One of the main differences between Rachael and me is that I left the fold of my own accord. Rachael Schwartz was ousted. And for the first time I realize I don’t know exactly why.

It doesn’t seem likely that there’s an Amish connection to the murder. They are a pacifistic society, after all, and the way Rachael Schwartz was killed was incredibly violent. That said, the Amish are also human—prone to all the same weaknesses and frailties as the rest of us—so I make a mental note to find out why Rachael was excommunicated and who was involved.

The first hints of sunrise tinge the eastern sky purple as I leave the farm. I call Tomasetti as I make the turn onto Ohio 83 and head south.

“How did things go with Moskowski?” I ask.

“Cleveland PD detained him until I arrived. He claims he was home the night of the murder. Alone.”

“No alibi,” I murmur.

“None.”

“What’s your impression?”