Page 80 of Breaking Silence

Tomasetti slams his hands down on the table so suddenly, Steele jumps. “I’m an inch away from throwing your lying ass in jail.”

Steele hangs his head, looks down at the tabletop. “Aw, man.”

“Protecting someone isn’t worth going to prison for the rest of your life,” I tell him.

Cursing under his breath, Steele lifts his gaze to mine. “This ain’t fuckin’ easy.”

“You should have thought of that before you started your own personal crime wave,” Tomasetti snaps.

Steele’s face screws up and he begins to cry. “My brother, man. My fuckin’ kid brother. He’s only seventeen.” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Don’t tell him I told you. I don’t want him to hate me.”

“Nothing you say will leave this room.” Tomasetti, I realize, is a master liar when he’s got the law to back him up. I wonder if he’s as good when he’s in rogue mode.

The room falls silent, the only sounds the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead and Steele’s nervous fidgeting. We watch him, giving him a chance to pull himself together.

“Did you and your buddies murder Solomon and Abel Slabaugh?” Tomasetti’s voice is low, but the question echoes like a gunshot.

Steele looks as if he swallowed his tongue. I see his throat working. His hands clench into fists on the tabletop in front of him. When his voice finally comes, it’s a strangled sound I barely recognize. “We didn’t kill no one. You can’t pin that on us.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Tomasetti says in an ominous tone.

“I ain’t fuckin’ lying!” Steele jumps to his feet. “I swear!”

Next to me, Rasmussen puts his hand on his baton.

“Sit down and calm the hell down,” Tomasetti says.

“How can I calm down when you’re accusing me of something I didn’t do? That’s some serious shit!” Steele is literally frothing at the mouth. Spittle flies from his lips, a speck landing on his chin. “I didn’t kill them people! Don’t try to put that on me!”

“Is it possible your brother or Springer did it?” I ask.

He turns his attention to me. For an instant, I think he’s going to attack me, and I wonder about the wisdom of removing the cuffs. “They ain’t killers, neither,” he says. “They just want to cause problems for those dirty Amish pricks.”

“Where were you three nights ago?” Tomasetti asks.

Steele snaps his gaze to him. “I worked a double. You can fuckin’ check.”

“I fuckin’ will,” Tomasetti replies smoothly.

“You cops can’t pin them murders on us. We didn’t do it.” Steele makes a strangled sound, getting himself worked up again. “You said if I talked, you’d help me out, not railroad me.”

“If you’re telling the truth, you don’t have anything to worry about,” Rasmussen says.

“What about the Amish boy?” I ask. “The teenager?”

Steele raises his gaze to mine. His face is red and blotchy from crying. “What Amish boy?”

“The teenage boy you beat the crap out of this afternoon.”

“We didn’t beat no Amish kid.”

“For God’s sake, Willie, you’ve already confessed to manslaughter, arson, and felony assault. A misdemeanor beating is the least of your worries.”

“It’s a lesser charge,” Tomasetti explains.

“Kid probably won’t even press charges,” Rasmussen puts in.

“I don’t know anything about no Amish kid,” he insists. “I swear.”