Page 100 of A Gathering of Secrets

Once we arrived at the station we were separated. Tomasetti interviewed Skid. He collected Skid’s revolver, which will be tested and, later—once Skid is off administrative leave—returned to him. I gave my statement to one of the other BCI agents. He was professional and straightforward; he was decent enough to do a welfare check on Neva Lambright, who was safe at home and hadn’t left the house all evening. He even brought me coffee. But he was excruciatingly thorough. None of the Painters Mill police vehicles have dash cams—it’s not in the budget—and so the initial officer interview is extremely important.

As chief, one of the responsibilities I take very seriously is the death notification to the deceased’s next of kin. I disliked the idea of sending T.J. to break the horrific news to Edna’s husband, Isaac, and Neva. But because I was personally involved in the shooting, I couldn’t do it myself.

“Go to Bishop Troyer’s house first,” I told him as he headed out. Even though the Lambrights are Beachy Amish, the bishop will be a comfort to them. “Tell him what happened and ask him to go with you.”

“You got it, Chief.”

I know T.J. will be the consummate professional. He’ll be kind, but straightforward. Still, it’s a difficult assignment and I hated to put it on his shoulders.

It’s now two A.M. I’m sitting at my desk, a cold cup of coffee in front of me. I’m trying not to notice the smell of smoke and singed hair that clings to me. I’m wondering if Tomasetti is still around—if they’re finished with me for the night—when Skid walks in. Something shakes loose inside me at the sight of him. He’s the one member of my team I don’t worry about; he’s got a resilient personality. He doesn’t lose sleep over things he can’t control. He’s a natural-born smartass with a wicked sense of humor and no sense for political correctness. Tonight, he looks as troubled and vulnerable as I feel.

“You’re looking a little worse for wear,” I say.

“You, too.”

“Figured.” I motion to the chair opposite my desk. “They done with you?”

“I think so.” He looks down at his uniform. “I feel kind of naked without my gun.”

“I’m glad you’re not naked.” It’s a lame joke, but we both smile. “You’ll get it back in a week or so.”

He takes the chair, and an uncomfortable silence ensues. Though the last hours have been busy, my mind keeps taking me back to the moment when Edna Lambright reached for that weapon and Skid reacted—rightfully—with deadly force. It was a nightmare scenario that no cop ever wants to face. It’s a scene both of us are going to be reliving for a very long time.

“So are you okay?” I ask.

“Me?” He forces a laugh. “I’m fine.”

Another silence. Longer. He’s not fine. No one is fine after killing another person, justified or not.

Finally, he meets my gaze and grimaces. “Chief, an Amish woman? For God’s sake … why the hell did she pull that gun? I mean, we had her. It was done. For her to do something like that … she had to have known it wouldn’t end well. For any of us.”

I think about that fateful moment and I shake my head. “You heard her last words, right?”

“Yep.”

“You put that in your statement?”

“I put everything in there exactly the way it happened.”

“Good,” I tell him. “I did the same.”

“You think that’s why she did it?” he asks. “Why she pulled the gun? She figured her life was over anyway and she decided to go fucking death by cop?”

There’s a bitterness to his voice I don’t like. “Maybe. I don’t know. Skid, the most important thing for you to remember right now is that we get to walk away from this. Because you did your job. You stuck to your training. You did everything right.”

“I killed a fucking Amish woman.” He leans forward, sets his elbows on his knees, scrubs his hands over his face. “That’s so nuts I can’t even get my head around it.”

“I know. Me, too. She didn’t leave you any choice.”

A soft tap at the door draws my attention. I look up to see Glock and Pickles standing in the doorway, peering in tentatively. Mona stands behind them, craning her neck to see over Pickles’s shoulder, listening for the phone.

“I hope we’re not interrupting,” Glock says.

I stand, drawing their attention, giving Skid a moment to shore up. “I probably don’t have to point out it’s after two o’clock in the morning.”

“Bladder keeps me up half the night anyway,” Pickles grumbles. “Always keep an ear on the scanner. Heard what went down.”

“That’s a little TMI about your bladder, dude,” says Glock.