Page 65 of Fallen

“I don’t believe he had anything to do with that girl’s murder,” Rasmussen says between gritted teeth.

“At the very least, we need to talk to him about the allegation of what happened between him and Rachael Schwartz.”

Rasmussen says nothing.

Tomasetti cuts in. “We looked at Rachael Schwartz’s banking records. She was living above her means. Way above her means. There were several substantial cash deposits made in the last year. We’re trying to find the source, but as you know it’s nearly impossible to trace cash.”

“So you think she was blackmailing him?” Incredulity rings hard in Rasmussen’s voice. “And he murdered her?”

“That’s motive. A powerful one if you consider the amount of those deposits, not to mention what word of this would do to him. We’re talking professional ruination. Loss of his family. If not jail time.”

“We gotta look at him,” Tomasetti says.

Rasmussen receives all of it with stony silence.

I look from man to man. “I need to talk to him.”

“Why don’t we take a look at Fletcher’s file and then see if we can ascertain where he was on the night of the murder?” Grimacing, Tomasetti looks from me to the sheriff. “I’ll get things rolling on a warrant.”

Rasmussen scowls at me. “I’m assuming you already know he’s had a couple of complaints filed against him over the years.” He looks at Tomasetti. “Nothing came of either complaint due to lack of proof. Sort of a he-said, she-said thing.”

“Duly noted,” Tomasetti says.

With a curse, the sheriff gets to his feet. “I’ll pull his file.”

Access to confidential personnel records is an extremely sensitive issue and involves many potential legal concerns. For some municipalities, it requires the involvement of a police union representative. But due to the seriousness of the situation—in this case a homicide investigation—we’ve no choice but to proceed. Because both Tomasetti and I are from outside law enforcement agencies—not coworkers in the same department as Fletcher—and a warrant is in the works, we are deemed fair to look at records that we would otherwise be prohibited from viewing.

Half an hour later the three of us are sitting in a small, stuffy interview room, Dane Fletcher’s personnel file open on the table in front of us. Rasmussen goes through the file page by page, passing the occasional document to Tomasetti and me.

“Fletch was off duty the night of the murder,” Rasmussen tells us. “He worked first shift that day. Got off at four P.M.” He flips through several pages, skimming and reading, and passes another sheet to Tomasetti. “Here’s the first citizen complaint form.”

Tomasetti hits the highlights aloud. “Three years ago. Female complainant. Twenty-two-year-old Lily Fredricks of Portsmouth, Ohio. Pulled her over at two A.M. for a possible OVI,” he says, using the acronym for “operating a vehicle impaired.” “Vehicle smelled of marijuana. Fredricks claimed Fletcher offered to let her walk if she had sex with him. She refused. Became combative. He made the arrest. Her blood alcohol was point-one-nine. She was charged with OVI and possession of marijuana.” He flips the page. “She filed the complaint a few days later. The department opened an investigation, sent it to the Holmes County prosecutor’s office, who declined to prosecute.”

I look at Tomasetti. “We need to contact her.”

He writes down the information. “Yep.”

Rasmussen hands him another sheet of paper. “Second citizen complaint form.”

Tomasetti reads. “Six years ago. Female complainant. Nineteen-year-old Diana Lundgren. Pulled over for speeding and possession of a controlled substance. She claims Fletcher asked her for sex in exchange for letting her walk. He detained her, kept her handcuffed. She claims he raped her outside his cruiser. Investigation ensued and she was deemed unreliable. Evidently, she’s got a lengthy criminal record and a history of drug use.”

I look at Mike Rasmussen. He’s a good sheriff and a good cop. Like most men and women in law enforcement, he’s protective of his subordinates. But he also possesses the strength of character to do the right thing even when that means taking down one of his own.

“Damn, this is a mess,” he mutters.

“I want to talk to Fletcher,” I say.

“The instant he asks for a union rep or a lawyer, we shut it down,” Rasmussen tells me. “You got that, Kate?”

“We got it,” Tomasetti puts in.

We get to our feet and head toward the door.

CHAPTER 29

Dane Fletcher owns a pretty little place just south of Millersburg. The house is a newish brick ranch that sits on a three-acre lot dotted with maples and oaks. Tomasetti and I take separate vehicles, follow Rasmussen into the gravel driveway, and park adjacent to the garage.

I meet the two men next to a lamppost where a pavestone walkway leads to the front door of the house. A tricycle lies on its side in the yard. Yellow tulips in the flower beds on either side of the door are starting to bloom. Someone in the Fletcher household has a green thumb.