Vow of Silence Read online

  “Did ya get everythin’ ya need?” Seltz called through the door.

  Disappointed that it wasn’t Hannah checking on him further fueled his annoyance at the interruption. “I’m fine. Just trying to get some rest.” Not that he’d be getting any of that. His mind was reeling as the past and present collided.

  The changes in her were subtle. If he hadn’t known her so well, he probably would have missed them. When she looked at him, her eyes no longer held the sparkle of mirth or trust he remembered. It killed him to see that light gone, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he was to blame for snuffing it out. Where carefree smiles and the promise of possibilities once resided, her mouth was now bracketed with lines of tension.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, then.” A moment later, footsteps echoed back down the hall.

  “Shit…” Exhaling a sigh, he reached up, absently rubbing the ache in his chest. Unsure if it was Hannah that caused the pain or the phantom ache of the bullet that had ripped into his chest three years ago, burrowing less than an inch from his heart—seventeen millimeters to be exact—that’s what stood between him and death.

  The experience wasn’t one he’d volunteer for, but he’d walked through that fire and come out a changed man. He’d cheated death, and in turn, a passion had ignited inside him to find justice for those who hadn’t been so fortunate.

  If necessary, Joe was willing to give his life for this job. Every death was personal, every victim deserved justice. But this case felt different. Being back in Lancaster—going to that crime scene this morning—Joe couldn’t deny that this was where his roots were planted, no matter how much he wanted to deny it or pretend it wasn’t true.

  His cell rang, pulling him from his unsettling thoughts. Abandoning all hope of rest, he reached over to the nightstand and accepted the call. “Troyer…”

  “Hey, OZ, this is Bill Kent, the ME.”

  If Joe were in a better mood, he might have appreciated the Wizard of OZ reference.

  “You wanted me to call you before I started the autopsy on Abigail Schwartz. The family’s here now, got a positive identification on the girl, so I’m ready to start.”

  “I’m on my way. Just gotta find my ruby red slippers.”

  The ME laughed, a sign the guy had been doing this job way too long if he could find humor minutes before cutting into a dead girl’s body. Then again, he’d cracked the joke, so what did that say about him? “I’ll be there in a half hour.”

  Joe disconnected the call and got to his feet. Movement out the window caught his eye, and he glanced to the street, spotting a wagon parked in front of the inn. A man dressed in black sat on the bench seat with a small boy no older than five beside him. From this angle, he couldn’t see their faces. It was odd to be in a place where wagons and horses were a primary mode for transportation.

  He was an outsider now, yet there was a part of him that refused to acknowledge that he missed this existence. The slower pace, the simplicity he had once taken for granted… This way of life was so drastic from the one he’d been living in. And yet not even this peaceful community was immune to the evil of the outside world. Assuming the man he was searching for wasn’t one of their own…

  Dragging his hand through his hair, he went to turn away from the window when a woman stepped out from beneath the awning and hurried over to the wagon. It took 0.2 seconds for Joe to recognize Hannah. He didn’t even need to see her face to know it was her. He could tell by the grace of her walk, the feminine sway of her hips, and the sudden cramp of longing in his heart that stole his breath.

  The man waiting for her—her husband—Joe amended, jumped down and rounded the buggy. Coming to her aid, he assisted her in making the steep climb into the wagon. His hand gripped hers as if he’d done this exact thing a thousand times before. And fuck, he probably had. Her husband’s hand dropped to the small of her back as he helped hoist her up to the seat, and that churning in Joe’s gut turned into a full-on knot of tension that had him grinding his teeth. Anger and jealousy swiftly rose, threatening that control he’d prided himself on since leaving this damn town behind. But seeing her with him, watching him touch her, brought back every damn emotion he’d fought like hell to bury for the last eight years.

  Once she got settled on the seat, she said something to the boy, then wrapped her arms around him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. The realization slammed into Joe’s gut like a sucker punch. Her son… Hannah has a son… The knowledge was a brutal twist of fates sharp blade. This could have been my life…

  Only it wasn’t, because Hannah’s father had made sure of that. Wasn’t this what Joe had wanted for her? To get married, have a family, live the life with her people that he couldn’t give her? Yes, it was… He just never thought he was going to have to witness it.

  Chapter Seven

  Joe sat outside the doors to the morgue, listening to the sobs echoing down the hall as he waited for the Schwartz to leave. This morning they’d been in shock, and understandably so. But he needed to set up a time to interview them. It was a fine line, needing information while not appearing insensitive to their grief. But time was of the essence. Without any suspects, he needed to create a victim profile and find the connection between these girls.

  The door to the morgue opened, and Henry and Naomi Schwartz came out. Henry had his arm around his wife, who looked as if she’d collapse any moment. “Wait here, Dex.” Joe shot to his feet, intercepting the couple as they started down the hall. “Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz…” They stopped, and the grief on their faces tore Joe’s heart out. “I am so sorry for your loss. I want you to know that I will do everything I can to catch the man who did this.”

  “I know ya…” Henry studied him intently.

  “I’m Detective Troyer. We met this morning.” He was surprised the man didn’t remember him, but then grief could do crazy things to a person.

  “No, before then. Ya look familiar. What’s ye’re first name?”

  Everyone responded differently to grief, so it didn’t surprise him that Henry was more concerned about discovering Joe’s identity than discussing his daughter’s death. These were private people. Mr. Schwartz would need to trust him before opening up to Joe about his daughter. The problem was he didn’t think answering the man’s question was going to bring him any closer to accomplishing that task.

  “Josiah…” he answered, speaking the name that tasted foreign and bitter on his tongue. “Josiah Troyer.”

  Recognition dawned in the man’s eyes as his wife wept silently in her handkerchief.

  “Ya look different shaven. Why are ya back, Josiah Troyer?” Mistrust sparked in the man’s eyes. It was a good thing he hadn’t been expecting a warm welcome.

  Though he’d never had the desire to take his father’s place as deacon of their church, it had always been assumed he’d follow in his footsteps. No one asked him what he wanted to do with his life, nor had anyone really cared. Self-serving ideologies were sinful. Decisions were made for the benefit of the community. Happiness was a relative concept.

  “We don’t need yer help. I shouldn’t even be speaking to ya. Ye’re shunned. Go back to yer big city, where ya belong.”

  And that was exactly what Joe tried to tell SA Riker would happen if he returned to Lancaster. But this was Joe’s problem now, and he was going to have to find a way around it. A person’s perceptions were their reality, and those beliefs didn’t change easily. How could he earn back the trust of a people who thought he’d rejected them for a life of sin? Good question—and it was one he’d have to ponder a bit.

  “I understand that you’re angry.” Joe was an easy target, and that was okay. In the days to come, he expected to be on the receiving end of a whole lot more of it. “Mr. Schwartz… Henry,” he amended to remind the man that Joe knew them. He wasn’t just some outsider. “I’m sure you know that your daughter isn’t the only victim here. She’s the fourth young woman to be killed in this county, and there are going to be more if he isn’t s
topped. Right now, I’m your only chance of catching this guy, and to do that I need your cooperation. You don’t have to like me, but you are going to have to talk to me—shunned or not.”

  The man slipped his arm around his wife’s back and ushered her past Joe.

  Apparently, this conversation was over—for now. “I’ll be out to the farm tomorrow afternoon,” he told the couple as they walked away. Turning, Joe headed back to the morgue. The door squeaked loudly as he entered the room, drawing the ME’s attention away from the young woman on the table. Music played overhead—Beethoven, if he had to guess, but Joe was no authority on the classics. A pristine white sheet covered her from chest to toe. The ME glanced up from the large syringe in his hands as he withdrew a blood sample from her neck.

  “You’re late, Oz. Have trouble finding those red slippers, did ya?”

  “I was talking to the Schwartz’s.”

  “Stay,” Joe told Dexter as he approached the body, rounding the opposite side of the table. At seeing her lying there, Joe’s chest constricted. “Her hair’s been cut off…”

  “Yup…just like the others.” The ME removed the needle and turned to begin transferring the blood into the row of vials on the metal tray.

  “He’s a collector…” Joe mused. “Taking trophies.”

  “Puts another twisted spin on all this, huh? Good thing we’ve got a big city detective on the case.” Joe knew sarcasm when it slapped him across the face, and he didn’t much appreciate it. Before he could warn the ME to tread lightly, the guy added, “An Amish homicide detective…that’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one. Good thing you’re toting an impressive arrest record. Gonna have a lot of eyes on you, Oz.”

  “For a medical examiner, you seem to know an awful lot about me.”

  The ME chuckled as he proceeded to label the vials. “Yeah, well, I make it my business to know the people I work with.”

  “Since that’s the case, what do you know about Michael Mills?”

  The ME tossed a curious glance over his shoulder. “The deputy?” He gathered the blood tubes and dropped them into a biohazard bag. “Not much to tell. What you see is what you get. You ever watch The Andy Griffith Show?”

  “Once or twice…”

  “Well, let’s just say Barney Fife ain’t got nothin’ on Deputy Mills.”

  He placed the toxicology kit inside a box and affixed the evidence seal before setting it aside. Returning to his tray of instruments, Kent picked up the scalpel, readjusted the overhead light to shine on the victim’s chest, and then drew the sheet down the length of her body.

  “So, you’re telling me it was incompetence instead of culpability that had him fucking up my crime scene this morning?”

  The ME paused, the blade hovering above her sternum, poised to make the first slice. “Now I know you’re not suggesting what it sounds like you’re suggesting, Detective. You won’t make yourself any friends slinging insults and accusations, that’s for sure.”

  “I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to catch a killer.”

  The ME lowered his blade to the center of the victim’s chest and cut a straight line down her sternum. “Sometimes in order to accomplish one, you’ve got to do the other. You know what they say about keeping your friends close?”

  “And your enemies closer…” Joe finished, getting the sense this was more of a warning than friendly advice.

  “Even Dorothy needed friends, Oz… Without them she never would have defeated the wicked witch.”

  “You know, I never saw that movie.”

  “The Wizard of Oz? It’s a classic. You’d love it. Hand me that rib spreader, would ya?”

  …

  It was a good thing Joe had a strong stomach; being present during an autopsy was a hell of a lot different than participating in one. Apparently, Bill Kent had decided Joe was there as his personal assistant. And although it was a disturbingly graphic experience, he was learning more about Abigail Schwartz’s death than he ever would have by reading an autopsy report.

  “When can I expect the toxicology to be back?” Joe asked, leaning closer studying the bruising on her neck.

  “I’m sending the samples to the BFS by courier this afternoon, so I’d guess forty-eight to seventy-two hours… Gonna be negative, though. They all are.”

  “Were you the ME on all the cases?”

  Kent glanced up at him, his dark, bushy brows raised in question. “You haven’t read the reports?”

  “Not yet. I was just assigned this case yesterday and I wasn’t carried here by a tornado so…”

  The ME chuckled. “Thought you said you didn’t see the movie.”

  “I haven’t. But it’s a well-known story. Have you noticed that the bruising on her neck is different from the others?” Joe commented, reaching up to readjust the overhead light.

  “That so?” the ME asked, joining Joe as they studied the ligature marks.

  “Yeah, see right here…on both sides of her trachea. It looks like partial fingerprint impressions.”

  “I see it. The ligature mark looks post-mortem.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “The lack of bruising. This whole area should be ecchymotic, not just here and here.” He pointed to the sides of her neck and her trachea. The yellowish discoloring suggests the mark was made after she was killed—possibly to cover the prints? If I had to guess, I’d say the COD looks like manual strangulation.”

  “Why would he cover it up? Dead is dead…and asphyxiation is the still COD in both scenarios.”

  “Good question, Oz. Guess that’s what you get paid the big bucks to figure out.”

  “Are you going to do that the entire time I’m here?” Joe asked, eyeing the ME from across the table.

  “Do what?” he asked as he reached into the young woman’s abdominal cavity and removed her liver, placing it inside the hanging scale.

  “Call me Oz.”

  “Yep. I like it.”

  Well, it beat Josiah, he supposed.

  “Seventeen-fifty-eight.”

  “What?”

  “Grams, Oz, write it down.” The ME held up his bloody hands as if to say, I obviously can’t do it.

  Joe exhaled a sigh and grabbed the clipboard with the dangling pen attached to it and recorded the weight.

  The following hours were a lot more of the same, and by the time the ME had finished the autopsy, Joe knew several things with absolute certainty. Abigail Schwartz had been shackled and kept prisoner by a madman for two days. During that time, she’d been repeatedly sexually assaulted and then murdered by manual strangulation, evidenced by print bruising and a fractured hyoid bone.

  Her posterior lividity indicated her body had remained unmoved for the first twelve hours, so she’d likely been killed where she’d been imprisoned. Her lack of rigor mortis proved her killer had hung onto her body for at least thirty-six to forty-eight hours. Her body had been left in the open, where she was sure to be found instead of carelessly discarded or buried. Was it arrogance that had him displaying his victims or a twisted affection for them? If the killer was Amish, he’d know the importance of a ritualistic burial. Perhaps he didn’t want to deny the families that small mercy.

  Joe left the morgue with a renewed heaviness in his heart. Of all the maybes and hypotheticals culminating in his mind, the one thing he knew with absolute certainty—this guy wasn’t going to stop.

  Joe’s cell rang. When he reached into his pocket to retrieve it, he noticed the dried blood smeared on his forearm. Muttering a curse, he rerouted to the restroom. “Troyer.”

  “Riker, here. I’ve had a break in another case I’m working on. It’s going to be a few more days before I can come out there. I forwarded the Barber’s files to one of our profilers, Samantha Roth. She’ll be in touch if she has any questions for you, otherwise she’ll be sending you her analysis. How are things going there?”

  “They’re going.” At this point, Joe wasn’t sure what more he could say than tha
t. He’d be a hell of a lot more optimistic once he started fitting some of the pieces of this case together.

  “Give me a call if you want to bounce any ideas off me. Otherwise, I’ll be down there as soon as I can.”

  “Got it. I’ll let you know.” Joe disconnected the call and pocketed his cell before stepping into the men’s room. He headed to the row of sinks and turned on the hot water before pumping a palm full of soap. A toilet flushed in the stall behind him and Joe glanced into the mirror as he ran his forearm beneath the water. The door swung open and out stepped Deputy Mills. They made eye contact in the mirror and there was a heartbeat of hesitation in the man’s eyes before a slow smile curled his lips.

  “Detective Troyer…”

  “Deputy Mills…” Joe mimicked the greeting, soaping his arm while keeping his gaze locked on the man who came up beside and turned on the faucet.

  “Bill wrangle you into being his assistant?” the deputy nodded at the pink suds swirling down the drain and chuckled.

  “Something like that.”

  “It’s eating at you, isn’t it?” He dispensed a glob of soap into his palm and made quick work of washing his hands. “How you know me.” He amended when Joe didn’t respond but continued to watch the deputy.

  Despite the ME’s analysis of Deputy Michael Mills, he didn’t strike Joe as incompetent. Perhaps that may be the guise he attempted to pull off, but there was too much intelligence behind those eyes.

  “How about you solve the mystery for me?” Joe rinsed the soap off his arm and then turned off the faucet before reaching in front of the deputy to grab a handful of paper towels.

  “You’re the detective…you tell me.”

  The sarcastic response sparked Joe’s temper. “I don’t have the time or the patience to play games with you, Deputy.” Joe threw the wad of damp towels into the garbage and turned to leave. “I’ve got a killer to catch. Maybe if you were a little more concerned with doing your job, you wouldn’t have fucked up my crime scene this morning. Lesson one: Don’t. Touch. Anything.”