Vow of Silence Read online

  “Sounds good.”

  The call disconnected, and Joe cursed, tossing his cell on the passenger seat. Sonofabitch… This guy was moving fast—four victims in twelve weeks. It had been a month since Cassie had been found. Joe was already behind the eight ball in this case. With the body count racking up, he was running out of the one thing he desperately needed—time.

  His cell chimed, alerting him to an incoming message. Joe swiped his thumb over the screen, and an address popped up in his messages. He sent it to Google Maps and his course was quickly rerouted. He voiced a message back to the sheriff. “I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

  The engine growled as he hit the accelerator, climbing well beyond the speed limit. His unmarked police-issued Charger ate up the country road, miles of fields passing in a blur—corn, tobacco, lavender…

  Not much had changed in eight years. It was like driving into a time-warp. As he got closer to Lancaster County, bitterness, anger, and resentment began rising to the surface. Shit he thought he’d dealt with years ago was now flashing through his mind like an old movie reel playing on an endless loop.

  Dammit, he was not jumping down that rabbit hole—not again. He wasn’t here to mend fences or atone for his sins and failures, as many as there may be. He’d made the decision to walk away, and he stood by it. Nobody needed to understand it or even agree with it. What’s done was done, and all the regret in the world couldn’t turn back time.

  He was here to catch a killer, and he’d do well to remember that. Because if he lost his focus, more young women were going to die, and his conscience couldn’t take that.

  Chapter Four

  Flashing lights, news crew vans, and yellow tape marked Joe’s arrival at his destination—a covered bridge seven miles outside of Churchtown. He parked next to the SUV identifying itself as belonging to the sheriff and opened the rear passenger door to let Dexter out. The moment the dog’s paws hit the gravel, he was on alert. The Pointer tipped his nose in the air, scenting the wind. A crisp breeze was coming in from the west, but the chill in the air was not enough to cover the scent of death. Dex put his nose to the ground and started for the hill, making his way toward the chaos.

  Two uniformed officers attempted to fend off pushy reporters reaching over the crime-scene tape to shove microphones in the cops’ faces. One of the uniforms caught sight of Dexter, and yelled, “Hey, this area is restricted. No animals allowed here.” He darted over to intercept them, but Dexter was on a scent and only took orders from Joe, who ducked beneath the yellow banner and flashed his badge to the cop. “It’s all right, he’s a cadaver dog.”

  His partner was halfway down the hill and stopped to glance back as if checking to see what the holdup was. “Detective Joe Troyer,” he introduced himself to the officer. “Sheriff Stoltz is expecting me.”

  “Right, sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting you to be in an unmarked car, and those reporters are out for blood this morning.”

  “No worries.” Joe shook the officer’s hand, making note of the name pinned to the pocket of his uniform—M. Mills—the name wasn’t familiar, but his face…

  “Follow me. Hey, Wyatt,” he called to his partner, “keep a watch on things while I take the detective to see Stoltz.”

  They headed down a steep embankment, and Dex waited impatiently for Joe to catch up. As they passed the ridge, he could see the officers and forensic team gathered near the river’s edge, their attention fixed beneath the bridge. Not a convenient dump spot, that’s for sure. Navigating this incline was a challenge, and Joe was empty handed. He tried to imagine doing it toting a dead body.

  “Joe Troyer…” the officer mused aloud as they trudged down the hill. He stopped abruptly and spun around studying him. “Your name wouldn’t be Josiah, now would it?”

  And so, it begins… “It would,” he cautiously replied.

  “Your father isn’t—”

  “He is.” Joe answered, knowing what he was going to say before the words left the officer’s mouth. It was a shadow he’d grown up in, and one he’d never escape in these parts.

  “I knew it! I thought that was you.”

  Dexter barked at Joe, trying to hurry his ass up.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you without the beard. I thought you looked familiar, though, and I never forget a face.”

  Well, he had one up on Joe, because he had no idea who this guy was. M. Mills…

  “You don’t know who I am, do you?” the guy chuckled.

  “Not a clue. Sorry, man.”

  “S’ all right. It’ll come to you.” With a friendly clap on the back, the cop turned and headed back down the hill. What the hell was that? It’ll come to you? Joe didn’t have the time or the patience to stroll down memory lane.

  “You must be Detective Troyer,” one of the cops called, breaking away from the crowd and heading their way.

  Joe caught up with Dex who was pacing, anxious to get this show on the road. There was a body down there, and he had work to do. Only, this girl was not in need of finding. Whoever did this had left her out in the open. He’d wanted her found…

  “Sheriff Stoltz, this is Jessup Troyer’s son,” Mills said by way of introduction.

  Joe tensed. There was any number of ways he wouldn’t have minded being introduced, but this wasn’t one of them.

  The sheriff paused, giving him a strange look. Yeah, he knew what the guy was thinking, What’s the deacon’s son doing as the lead investigator of four dead girls?

  Small world, that’s what. And a case of shitty luck. “Sheriff Stoltz…” Joe extended his hand in greeting.

  “Huh…Jessup Troyer’s son, you say? Gotta admit, I didn’t see that one coming.”

  “Yeah, well, irony is a bitch. So, what do we have?” he asked, walking past them. Dexter fell into step beside him as they approached the fray gathered around victim number four. He stepped carefully, his soles sinking into the mucky ground. “Have you had a lot of rain lately?”

  “A bit,” the sheriff answered. “Why?”

  “It’s just an odd choice of location to dump a body—not easy to get to, slick terrain, soft ground. You got prints––other than the ones tracked all over by your officers? You didn’t get the message from Special Agent Riker to secure the scene and wait for my arrival?”

  For crissake, even Dexter knew how to approach a scene with more finesse than this herd of elephants. A muscle ticked in the sheriff’s jaw. No doubt he didn’t appreciate being dressed down in front of his men. Joe probably could have come up with a more diplomatic way to pose that question, but Grady could attest that playing well with others had never been Joe’s strong suit.

  “There weren’t any prints.”

  How was that possible? More than likely they’d been missed, and now he’d never know because apparently “don’t touch anything” didn’t cover traipsing all over a goddamn crime scene. As he and Dex approached, the halo of officers and forensic technicians parted.

  “Who has the crime scene log?” he asked no one in particular. Someone produced a clipboard, and he scribbled his name on the next line, taking a quick note of the others. Deputy M. Mills… Yeah, he still couldn’t place the name, and damn if that wasn’t starting to gnaw at him.

  “Who found the body?” He handed the clipboard back to one of the officers and took a few moments to examine the scene from a distance. The medical examiner and forensic team, identified by the yellow block lettering on the back of their navy windbreakers, were gathered around the victim, blocking his view of her. The water level was high and moving along at an impressive clip. There was no convenient place to dock, and the shoreline was undisturbed, so it was unlikely the killer approached from the water. He glanced back up the steep hill to the road. Whoever carried her down here was in good shape.

  “I did.” Deputy Mills stepped forward. “I came down here to do some fly fishing and discovered the body. I secured the scene and called it in right away.”

  He looked pr
oud of himself. Joe couldn’t tell if he enjoyed the attention or was just riding high from all the action, but either way, it rubbed him wrong. “So, you haven’t left this area? No one else had been down here?”

  “Nope. Saw to it myself.”

  “Water’s kinda rough for fly fishing, isn’t it?”

  The man’s smile momentarily faltered but recovered quickly. When he spoke, there was a discernible sharpness in his tone. “I’m practicing my technique…”

  Joe took one last quick look around the area, wondering where the guy had stashed his pole and tackle. He moved forward, making his way to the ME, who was squatting beside the body and instructing one of the forensic techs to get a closer picture of the girl’s neck. Joe’s greeting lodged in his throat as he caught a good look at the remains of what had recently been a beautiful young woman.

  Like the others, she was propped up against the embankment beneath a bridge. Her clothing was intact—laced black ankle boots, long-sleeved, full-length dark blue dress…even her prayer kapp was in place, the bow carefully tied beneath her chin. Were it not for her paper-white skin, dusky lips, and the ecchymotic ligature mark around her neck, one might almost believe she was sleeping. Her hands were folded peacefully in her lap, legs crossed at the ankle. This was no dump. Whoever did this went through a lot of trouble. Presentation was important to this guy—and location. This place held significance, and it was his job to figure out what that was.

  Joe’s stomach rolled, but not at the graphic sight. As far as crime scenes went, this one was fairly clean. It was the emotion getting to him that made him want to puke. His inability to detach himself from a world he hadn’t identified with in eight years was a new and unwelcomed experience. For the first time in his career, this was personal… Whether he wanted to admit it or not, his soul recognized these people as his own.

  “You got a time of death?” Joe asked, squatting beside the ME to get a better look at the ligature mark the man was inspecting.

  “At a quick glance, the lack of rigor puts her death more than thirty-six to forty-eight hours ago, which means he kept her a while, otherwise she wouldn’t be posed like this. She’s already reached ambient temperature, so it’s impossible to tell how long she’d been in situ. But the weather has been uncharacteristically cool, which would delay the rate of decomposition. There are a lot of variables to consider. I’ll know more once we get her back to the morgue and I have a chance to inspect lividity, run blood tests, and perform an autopsy.”

  “Fair enough. Has anyone contacted the family?”

  “Not yet,” Sheriff Stoltz spoke up. “Figured you’d want that honor, Detective.”

  Joe didn’t miss the caustic undertone or the hint of derision in the man’s voice. These people might not be as stoked about the feds coming into their little bedroom community and taking over their investigation as Riker had led him to believe. No one liked having their jurisdiction trampled on—not that Joe blamed them.

  “Give me the name and address of her NOK, and I’ll go speak with them.” To the medical examiner he said, “Once they give us a positive ID, you’re free to proceed. I’d like to be there when you do the autopsy.” Joe pulled out his card and handed it to the ME. “Call me when you’re ready to start.”

  The guy glanced at Joe’s card, his bushy brows arching in question. “Long way from OZ, aren’t you, Dorothy?”

  Joe shrugged. “You know what they say. ‘There’s no place like home.’”

  Chapter Five

  Joe needed a bed, a shower, and some food, and he didn’t particularly care in which order. He pulled up to the only B and B in Churchtown, let Dex out of the car, and grabbed his box of case files. Pit-stopping at a crime scene and then delivering the news to Abigail Schwartz’s family that their daughter was dead had not been the way he wanted to start this day—or end it—whichever way one wanted to look at it. He’d been up for the last thirty-six hours, and his mood had quickly gone from foul to downright nasty.

  He was still fuming that the sheriff hadn’t made his men wait for him to arrive before processing the crime scene, and now he had no idea if the area had been compromised. No footprints on that soft ground? He highly doubted it. Already, shit about this case was rubbing him wrong—right down to Deputy M. Mills.

  Joe didn’t believe in luck or coincidences, and there were too many of both where this case was concerned. Maybe after he got some rest and looked at things with fresh eyes, it would start coming together. Solving an investigation was like working a jigsaw puzzle—every piece was a clue, and they all had to fit perfectly for the image to come out clearly. One piece in the wrong spot, and the whole thing would be fucked up.

  With his arms full, he used his little finger to open the door of the inn, then nudged it the rest of the way with the toe of his boot. He held the door for Dexter, who lumbered in and followed him to the counter. “I have a reservation under the name Joe Troyer. I know I’m early, but I need to check in.” He set the box beside the guestbook.

  “Good morning.” The attendant’s smile faltered when his gaze landed on Dex. “I’m sorry, but pets aren’t allowed here.”

  “Dexter’s not a pet.” Joe flashed the guy his badge. “He’s a canine officer in the homicide division. His papers are in the car if you need to see them.” It wasn’t uncommon for Dex to get flack in places of businesses. He didn’t look like the typical “canine cop,” but German Shorthair Pointers had an excellent nose for this line of work. In the last four years, his partner was personally responsible for discovering the remains of seventeen victims. Six had been cold cases, earning Joe an impressive arrest record. If it wasn’t for Dexter, many of those cases would still be unsolved.

  “My apologies, Detective,” he said, glancing at Joe’s shield “My name is Mark Seltz.” He extended his hand. “I’m the new owner of the inn.” Flipping the book open, he scanned the page for Joe’s reservation. “I’m sorry, but your room isn’t ready yet.”

  “Is it vacant?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “That’s good enough. Check me in.”

  When the guy looked like he was going to object, Joe cut him off.

  “Look, I’m exhausted. I’ve been driving all night, and I just need a place to crash for a few hours before I go observe an autopsy. Believe me, the condition of the room is the least of my concerns.”

  Another moment of hesitation, and the man nodded, quickly checking Joe in.

  “Right this way.” After grabbing a room key off the row of hooks, he came out from the desk, and Joe and Dex followed him up the stairs.

  “So, Mr. Gunderson sold the inn, huh? That surprises me. He loved this place.” Joe commented, making small talk, guilt needling him for getting short with the guy. He needed to remember these people were of gentler stock than those he was used to dealing with on the regular.

  “Mr. Gunderson passed away a few years ago. I moved here last year from Wisconsin and purchased the inn from Mrs. Gunderson. Her health isn’t the best, and she was struggling to manage things here with her husband gone.”

  They passed a cart in the hall, and Joe glanced into the room. The housekeeper’s back was to them as she bent over the bed, working to strip off the linen.

  “I’ll have the linen delivered to your room shortly.” He opened the last door on the right. Joe and Dex followed him inside. It was a nice enough place. Traditional Amish, a.k.a. no frills—a bed and nightstand in the center of the room, a desk in one corner, and a bathroom in the other.

  Joe glanced around for an outlet, not surprised when he didn’t find one, and noticed the lamps were gas. He supposed he should be thankful for running water and a flushing toilet, but this was going to make using his laptop a challenge. The man set the towels in the bathroom then handed Joe the room key on his way out.

  “If there’s any other way we can be of service…”

  “This is fine, thank you.”

  Giving Joe a curt nod, the man pulled the door closed
behind him.

  Joe carried the box over to the desk and set it down. By the time he turned around, Dex had already commandeered his spot on the bed. Joe chuckled. “Staking your claim, eh, buddy?”

  Dexter took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh, then closed his eyes.

  “Looks like you’ve got right idea.” Apparently, Joe wasn’t the only one suffering the effects of the last couple of days. As he contemplated taking his partner’s cue and forgoing the shower to get some much-needed sleep, a soft knock sounded on the door. Crossing the room, Joe swung the door open.

  “I have the linens for your bed,” the housekeeper announced in way of greeting.

  Joe took one look at the woman standing before him, and his heart seized inside his chest. He couldn’t move; he forgot how to breathe. Six years in law enforcement, four of them in homicide where he’d seen some nightmarish shit, and he’d never frozen—not once.

  He’d known he was going to have to see her, but not like this, not now. If he thought he was prepared for this moment, his paralysis and inability to speak proved otherwise. She didn’t recognize him—yet. Probably because she’d yet to lift her head and look him in the eyes. Nor would she. Any interaction with outsiders would be short and polite. The brim of her white kapp shielded her downcast gaze, but it was her—Hannah Beiler. That voice still haunted his dreams to this day. Please don’t do this, Josiah… I thought ya loved me…

  A thousand thoughts raced through his head at once, the predominate one: What is she doing working here? It surprised him that her husband would allow it, not that Joe saw anything wrong with it himself. He was long past conservative Amish ideologies, and Hannah had never been the kind of woman to be cast in a traditional role. He’d always loved that about her—her uncharacteristic zest for life and the tenacious curiosity that had gotten them into trouble more than once growing up in a community that prized Old Order values.