Page 64 of Breaking Silence

“You think the killer is trying to frame him?”

“Only he didn’t realize you saw that rifle.”

“Makes sense.” I don’t want to say aloud the next logical question, but I know it’s one that must be asked. “Do you think Mose is capable of killing two people who practically raised him?”

“I don’t know, Kate. Kids…” Shrugging, he lets the word trail. “This business with Salome … if he can sleep with his own sister, what else is he capable of?” Tomasetti’s gaze sharpens on mine. “Does he know she’s pregnant?”

“She says no.”

He considers for a moment, and I know he’s still thinking about Mose. “Sometimes even a good kid can do really bad things if his back’s against the wall.”

“But why kill them?” I say. “Why not just steal some money and run away?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t want to leave.” Another shrug. “Maybe he wanted the farm.”

“Tomorrow, I’ll check out Mose’s story on the adoption. See if everything lines up.”

Nodding, he reaches for the shot, raises it, and downs it in a single gulp. “Who else do we have?”

“Coulter,” I say. “I don’t think he did it.”

“Or else he’s a pretty convincing liar. I don’t think we should rule him out.”

I think about Coulter for a moment. The vehemence with which he defended himself. The tears. His wife and children. “It’s getting harder and harder to tell the good guys from the bad guys.”

Tomasetti stares into his empty glass. “Something like twenty-five percent of the population are sociopaths. People who don’t have a conscience. Lying is second nature to them.”

“That’s a scary thought.”

“Keeps us in business.”

“True.” But all the jagged elements of the case are running through my head. “There’s also the hate-crime angle.”

He twirls the shot glass between his fingers. “Maybe we just need to find the connection.”

The jukebox spits out an old Nirvana rocker. I can feel the alcohol working its dark magic on my brain now, smoothing down the rough edges. I don’t need booze to think, but sometimes it helps me cut through the clutter that accumulates in the course of a day like today.

“Maybe it’s like you said,” I tell him. “The murders were secondary. Someone went into the Slabaugh barn with a hate crime in mind. They went in to rob or vandalize, or both.”

“Or kill the livestock,” Tomasetti puts in.

“They know the Amish won’t go to the police or identify them.” The theory gains momentum in my mind, and I run with it. “So these haters are in the barn. Slabaugh and his brother show up. There’s a scuffle. Things get out of control. The intruder shoves one of them into the pit.”

“Or one of them falls during the confrontation.”

“The second brother goes into the pit to help the first, succumbs to the gas.”

“Or the second brother gets close to the edge of the pit and the intruder shoves him in.”

“That would explain Slabaugh’s head wound.”

Tomasetti considers that for a moment. “What about the wife?”

“Accidental. Rachael comes out a few minutes later with the kids and finds the two men in the pit. She succumbs to the gas while trying to help them and falls in herself.”

“Kids’ stories back that up?”

I nod, trying to put all the disjointed pieces together. “It’s a viable theory.”