Page 109 of A Gathering of Secrets

One of many benefits of living with John Tomasetti, who’s been with BCI for several years now, is that when I need help—whether it be on a personal or professional level—he’s there for me. He’s good at what he does, he has a lot of connections, and he has no qualms about putting them to work for me.

I look at the clock on the wall for the hundredth time. My cell phone on the table next to my cup. Leaning forward, I set my hand over Tomasetti’s. “Thank you.”

He meets my gaze and a shadow of a smile touches his mouth. “Lovers with benefits.”

I try to smile, but don’t quite manage. We sit in silence for a few minutes. I sip cold coffee and make an effort to keep my eyes off my cell.

“Daniel Gingerich was a serial sexual predator.” I say the words without looking up from my cup. “He ruined countless lives. He indirectly caused the death of at least one young Amish woman and her unborn child. Maybe the Petersheims. Tomasetti, if I’m right about this, if I follow through, where is the justice?”

He sets down his cup. “You and I have been around the block enough times to know that Lady Justice doesn’t always get it right. We make the hard choices. We do the best we can. We pick up the pieces and we move the fuck on.”

“Those girls are barely out of their teens. They’ve got their entire lives ahead of them.”

“They should have thought of that before they locked that son of a bitch in the barn and burned him to death.”

The words make me wince despite my resolve to remain detached. “They knew what he was. They knew he wouldn’t stop.”

“In the eyes of the law, that is not a justifiable homicide.”

“Gingerich was a threat. If he’d escalated—”

“He was not an imminent threat.” He gives me a hard, assessing look. “There are a lot of ways to look at what might’ve happened. Maybe Daniel Gingerich got what he deserved. Those girls—if they did it—served up a little street justice, Amish style. We don’t get to judge, Kate. We enforce the law. The rest is up to the courts.”

“I hate this.”

Tomasetti scowls at me, unmoved.

I rub my hands over my face, realizing I’m too tired to think clearly, and too mired in my own history to maintain any semblance of distance.

After a moment, he reaches for my hand, waits until I make eye contact with him. “Look, if you’re right and all of this plays out, if it goes to court and those girls are put in front of a jury…” He shrugs. “I’m not a lawyer, but I’ve been involved in enough trials to know there’s such a thing as extenuating circumstances. If other women—other victims—come forward.” Another shrug. “Furthermore, even if those girls are convicted, they may not draw long sentences. They may not do time. We don’t know.”

I jump when my cell phone chirps. I hesitate, let it ring two more times, and snatch it up. “Burkholder.”

“Kate, hi. It’s Margaret Brooks. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No. I’ve been expecting your call.”

“Figured as much.” She sighs. “Look, since we were dealing with a nonporous surface, I did a straightforward cyanoacrylate process in the chamber, which netted damn near perfect prints. I photographed everything and lifted the most complete prints with tape. It took some extra time, but I know this is important so I did dual comparisons. One with the computer. And a side-by-side visual comparison using the ACE-V method. It is my determination that those prints came from the same source. Of course I’ll still need to have my findings verified by another…”

I don’t hear the rest of the sentence. I look at Tomasetti. He’s watching me intently.

It is my determination that those prints came from the same source.

“Chief Burkholder? Are you there?”

“I’m here,” I hear myself say. “Margaret, thank you so much for doing this. For staying up all night. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, well, you’re welcome, Kate. Just tell that Tomasetti character he owes me big-time.”

“Will do.”

I end the call. I don’t look at Tomasetti as I drop the phone into my pocket. I take that moment to shore up, slip back into my cop persona. I rise and look at him. “The prints on the key and the mason jar belong to Neva Lambright.”

“It’s enough.” He rises, too. “You got her.”

I look at the clock on the wall. Not yet six A.M. “I’m going to grab a shower and head that way.”

I start to turn, but he reaches out and stops me. “You want me to go with you? Or meet you there?”