An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(21)
I identify myself. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Wayne Graber,” he says. “I live here.”
The description I have for Graber fits. Twenty-two years old. Fair-haired. Blue-eyed. He’s wearing a Caterpillar cap. Too-long hair sticking out the back and curling at the ends. He’s nice-looking, with a runner’s build. His clothes are dirty as if he spent his day partaking in some form of manual labor.
“You just get off work?” Pulling out my shield, I close the distance between us, cautious, not getting too close.
“What the hell happened to Aden?” he demands. “Is it true?”
“Who told you that?” I ask.
He chokes back a sound of frustration. “His old man called. He could barely speak. Told me Aden was killed this morning. Is it true?”
Most Amish don’t have phones for personal use; the Ordnung, or unwritten rules of the church district, prohibit it unless it’s used for business purposes. I happen to know Lester Karn keeps a cell phone beneath the counter at his shop.
“I’m afraid so,” I say. “It happened this morning.”
“Oh my God.” He raises his hand to his forehead, presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “For God’s sake. He’s dead? What the hell happened to him?”
“We’re still trying to put all of it together.” I pause. “What’s your relationship to Aden?” I’ve been told the two men are best friends and roommates, but I ask anyway, feeling him out. Always a good idea to confirm hearsay.
“He’s my best friend.” He gestures to the house, looking helpless, lets his hand fall to his side. “We live here. I just saw him this morning.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I tell him.
“Yeah. Shit.” He looks past me toward the house as if expecting his friend to appear and prove all of this is just some perverse joke.
I give him a moment to regain his composure, then motion toward the Nova. “Where are you coming from?”
He looks down at the ground and shakes his head, as if still trying to absorb what he’s been told. “Work. I get off at five. I stopped by the Brass Rail for a beer. Then I get that frickin’ phone call from Lester and I rushed over here thinking it was some kind of mistake.”
The sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway draws my attention. I look up to see Skid’s cruiser pull up behind the Nova.
“When did you last see Aden?” I ask.
He slants a glance toward the cruiser, then turns his attention back to me. “Like I said. This morning. Before work.” His voice breaks, and he falls silent.
I pull out my notebook. “What time was that?”
“Six thirty or so. We were both rushing around, getting dressed.” He closes his eyes a moment, chokes out a one-syllable laugh. “Hungover.”
“Where did Aden work?”
“Buckeye Construction,” he says. “Been with them about a year now. He’s good with his hands. Likes to build stuff.”
“Did he drive at all?”
“He rides his bike just about everywhere. Some dude he works with picks him up every morning.” His face goes taut as if he’s struggling with another round of emotion. He gestures toward the workshop. “Aden just bought his first car. A couple of weeks ago. It’s a junker, but it’s got a big engine. He was excited, you know? We’ve been working on it.” He motions toward the workshop. “Gonna be badass when we’re finished.”
He closes his eyes as if trying to stanch tears. “Shit.”
“Do you know the name of the guy who picks him up?” I ask.
“Jeez, Aden mentioned him a couple times. Works at Buckeye, too. Kevin … something.” His brows knit. “Waddell. Kevin Waddell. That’s it.”
I write it down. “Where do they meet?”
“Jesus.” Turning away, he walks over to the Nova, sets his hands on the hood, and shakes his head as if he’s trying to wake from a bad dream. “A few miles north of here. They meet in the parking lot of that old Lutheran church off Township Road 34.”
I know the church and the area. It’s not terribly far from the property owned by Vernon Fisher.…
I look at Graber. He seems genuinely upset. I’ve got pretty good instincts when it comes to people. If someone is lying or being disingenuous, I can usually spot it. Shock is particularly difficult to fake. Grief even more so. That said, I’ve seen killers genuinely mourn the person they murdered.
“What happened to him?” Graber asks the question without looking at me. “Someone hit him or what?”
“The coroner hasn’t made an official ruling yet, but from all indications it looks as if he was shot.”
“Shot? With a gun?” Straightening, he turns to face me. “You mean like an accident?”
“We believe he may have been shot with a bolt from a crossbow or combination bow. We’re still trying to figure things out, but it was likely deliberate.”
“Oh my God. That’s … crazy. Why would—” Mouth pulled into a grimace, he slaps a hand down on the hood, angry and overcome. When he raises his eyes to mine, tears shimmer. “Who the hell did it?”
I hold his gaze, but he doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away. “We don’t know yet.”