Page 68 of Fallen

“Fletch.” I utter the nickname even before I realize I’m going to address him.

His eyes shift to mine.

“If you want to help yourself,” I say, “tell us the truth now. You’re a good enough cop to know we’re going to figure it out.”

“Don’t patronize me, Burkholder,” he snarls.

It’s so quiet I can hear the whistle of quickened breaths through nose hair. The creak of a chair as someone shifts.

I look at Fletcher. He’s slouched now. Head down. Elbows on the table. Hands laced at his nape, staring at the tabletop. A beaten man who knows the worst is yet to come.

Up until now, this has been an information-seeking mission. The longer we talk to Fletcher, the more apparent it becomes that this undertaking now has three levels. What happened between him and Loretta Bontrager last night. What occurred between him and Rachael Schwartz thirteen years ago. And what may or may not have happened between them the night she was murdered.

For the first time I notice the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The damp rings beneath his arms. He looks at Rasmussen. “If that’s the way you’re going to play this, Mike, I guess I need a lawyer.”

Dane Fletcher is not under arrest. We don’t have enough evidence to hold him. I have no idea how any of this is going to end. The one thing I do know is that when he walks out of this room, he will not have a badge. Whether he is put on administrative leave, suspended, or fired is up to Rasmussen and policy.

“That’s your right,” the sheriff tells him.

“Union rep, too.”

“You got it,” the sheriff tells him.

Fletcher rises, takes a moment to pull himself together, gather his composure. Eyes on his boss, he removes the Glock from his holster and lays his badge on the table.

“There you go, you sons of bitches,” he says.

He turns and walks from the room.

CHAPTER 30

Day 4

Early in my career, the resolution of a case—the bringing of a bad actor to justice, the closure for the victim’s family, the satisfaction that comes with the knowledge of a job well done—was one of the simple and straightforward highlights of being a cop. Now that I’m older, with a few years of experience under my belt, none of those things are quite as cut-and-dried. Rachael Schwartz is still dead, her life cut short years before her time. A colleague, a man I’d worked with for years and trusted with my life—a husband and father of four young children—will likely be spending the rest of his life in prison. And for what? Money? Lust?

It’s been twenty-four hours since Tomasetti, Mike Rasmussen, and I questioned Fletcher. We let him walk because we don’t have enough hard evidence to arrest him. But it’s coming. We procured a search warrant and confiscated his cell phone and laptop. Banking records are in the works. I spent most of the last day combing through everything I’ve got so far. I’m not sure if I’m looking for something that will exonerate him—or put that last nail in his coffin so I can drive it in myself. Do I believe he forced a seventeen-year-old Rachael Schwartz into having sex with him in exchange for letting her go? Considering the two complaints on file—and later dismissed—and the detailed statement from Loretta Bontrager, I do, indeed, believe he’s guilty. If it’s true, Fletcher is a sexual predator, a disgusting excuse for a man, and a dishonor to everyone in law enforcement. As unscrupulous as that is, I simply can’t get my head around the notion of him beating Rachael Schwartz to death in that motel room.

“You look like you could use some good news.”

I glance up to see Tomasetti standing at the doorway to my office, his head tilted, looking at me intently.

Despite my somber mood, I smile, liking the way he’s standing there with his arms crossed, his leg cocked. “A little good news would go a long way right now.”

He crosses to my desk and lowers himself into the visitor chair adjacent to me. “The IT techs hit the jackpot on Schwartz’s laptop.”

I sit up straighter. “Fletcher?”

“We got him.” He produces his cell and taps the screen a few times. “They found texts and emails. Deleted, but easy enough to recover.”

Rising, he comes around my desk to stand beside me, sets his hand on the back of my chair. I look at the screen, find myself staring at what appears to be copied texts. The first three transmissions are from Rachael Schwartz, sent on the same day, just a few minutes apart.

What is the age of consent in the state of Ohio?

Wifey has a nice Facebook page. I didn’t know she was preggers! Congrats!

Bet she’d be pissed if she found out you’d pulled over and raped a 17 year old Amish girl.

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