Page 67 of Fallen

I focus on the turn of events alleged by Loretta Bontrager, and I don’t pull any punches. I withhold mention of Rachael Schwartz, instead focusing on what was alleged to have happened in the barn. All the while, I watch Fletcher for a reaction.

He stares back at me, stone-faced. But he can’t hide the color that climbs up his throat and creeps into his cheeks. The muscles in his jaws clamping tight and working in tandem.

When I’ve finished speaking, he takes a moment to make eye contact with each of us. “That did not happen,” he says in a low voice. “I did not threaten her. I did not assault her. I didn’t so much as talk to her. I don’t know those people. I did not drive out to their place last night.” His eyes land on mine. “And I’d like to know why the holy fuck you dragged me in here for this rash of bullshit.”

“She filed a complaint against you,” Rasmussen tells him.

“That’s crazy.” Fletcher belts out a bitter laugh. “Why the hell would I go to their farm and assault an Amish woman?”

He knows instantly the question is a mistake. I see the regret flash in his eyes. He starts to speak, but I cut in.

“Bontrager claims that Rachael Schwartz told her you pulled her over for an OVI thirteen years ago,” I tell him. “She alleges Schwartz told her that you let her walk in exchange for sex. She alleges in the complaint that you knew they were friends and you assumed Rachael had told her what happened. Bontrager claims you accosted her in the barn and threatened her if she didn’t keep her mouth shut.”

“That’s not true,” he says. “She’s lying.”

I lean back in my chair. “Where were you last night between the hours of midnight and four A.M.?”

Fletcher chokes out a sound of exasperation. “I was home. With my wife and kids.”

“All night?” Tomasetti asks.

“All night,” Fletcher echoes.

“You know we’re going to check,” Tomasetti says.

“Stay the hell away from my wife.” Fletcher’s eyes flick to Rasmussen. “Are you going to let them run with this? Ruin me? My marriage? My reputation?” He shakes his head. “Mike, you’re going to let them move forward with this bullshit based on accusations made by someone I don’t even know? Someone I’ve never met? I’m telling you right now, Bontrager made the whole thing up. I wasn’t anywhere near their place.”

Rasmussen shrugs. “You know we’ve got to look at it.”

Fletcher smacks his hand against the tabletop. “This is bullshit.”

“Did you ever initiate a stop on Rachael Schwartz?” Tomasetti steps easily into the bad-cop role.

“You mean thirteen years ago?” Fletcher shakes his head, angry. “I don’t remember. How could I?” Mouth pulled into a snarl, he looks at me. “The one thing I do know for certain is that I sure as hell didn’t demand sex!”

Tomasetti doesn’t give him a respite. “You have two similar citizen complaints on your record.”

“So do a lot of cops,” Fletcher snaps. “Those two women lied. It’s on record. Nothing came of either incident. I resent it being brought up now.”

For the span of a full minute no one speaks. So far, we’ve danced around the subject of Rachael Schwartz’s murder. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he knows there’s more coming.

“So if we take a look at the tread marks we picked up at the Willowdell Motel,” Tomasetti says slowly, “and footage from the game cam in the field across the road, we’re not going to see you or your vehicle, right?”

He glares at Tomasetti, nostrils flaring with every elevated breath. Fury in his eyes. But I catch a glimpse of a chink in the veneer. Beneath all that anger is uncertainty—and fear. Of course, there were no viable tire-tread marks picked up at the scene. Nor is there a game cam in the field across the road. Fletcher doesn’t know either of those things.

“You’re not going to find shit because I’ve done nothing wrong.” He looks at Rasmussen. “This is bullshit, Mike. I can’t believe you’ve let this charade go this far. For God’s sake I’ve been with the department for seventeen years and this is the thanks I get?”

“Did you ever meet Rachael Schwartz?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “I don’t recall.”

Another silence, this one filled with unbearable tension, like a razor slicing skin.

After a moment, Tomasetti sighs. “Dane, we’re looking at her banking records,” he says quietly. “Yours, too.”

Fletcher’s Adam’s apple bobs. “This is a fucking hack job.”

Tomasetti stares at him, saying nothing.