An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(5)

“Wound there,” I hear myself say. “Strange shape.”

“Knife?” Glock wonders aloud.

“Maybe.” But even that’s a stretch. The only thing I know for certain at this point is that this is no simple hit-and-run. I let go of the shirt, let it fall back into place.

One of the most pressing tasks for law enforcement in the aftermath of any fatal accident or crime is the identification of the victim so next of kin can be notified. Normally, I’d wait for the coroner, but since I’m already here, I make the decision to check now.

“Let’s check for ID.” Shifting position, I reach into the front pocket of his trousers. I find a folding pocketknife. A few coins. I check the other front pocket, find a handkerchief.

I make eye contact with Glock. “Help me roll him so I can check the back pockets.”

“Yep.”

As gently as possible, we roll the victim just enough for me to dig into the back pocket of his trousers. I tug out a beat-up leather wallet, spot the ID behind the plastic window. It’s a nonphoto ID issued by the Ohio Bureau of Motor Vehicles. This type of ID is used by many Amish who have a religious objection to having their photo taken.

“Aden Karn.” I say the name slowly, the familiarity of it reverberating in my head. “Twenty-one years old.”

“Damn. He’s young.” Glock shakes his head, slants me a look. “You know him? The family?”

“I know his parents.” I get to my feet, unexpectedly shaken, hoping it doesn’t show. “Not well, but I worked for them when I was a teenager.”

“This kid live at home?” he asks.

I look down at the ID and shake my head. “The Karns live in town a few blocks from their shop. According to his ID, this young man lived a couple of miles from here.”

I take a moment to collect myself, scan the field, the flock of crows cawing in the trees. I feel Glock’s eyes on me. We’ve worked together nearly every day since I became chief. We’re not friends in the conventional sense, but we’re close in a way that goes deeper than friendship. We share a kinship, the tie of a brotherhood to which both of us are bound. We don’t talk about it, but it’s there nonetheless, and in this moment I’m thankful because his very presence has lessened some of the burden I feel pressing down on my shoulders.

Cautiously, we back away from the victim, doing our best to retrace our steps.

“Call County and get some deputies out here,” I tell him as I snap off the gloves. “We’re going to need to tape off the area. Get the road blocked.”

“You got it.”

Sirens wail in the distance. I glance at the SUV, see the children moving around inside. They look young. Growing restless, probably. The body is visible to them, but I can’t cover it without the risk of contaminating the scene.

“I’m going to talk to the witness,” I tell him.

Touching the brim of his hat, Glock starts toward his cruiser.

I approach the woman. She’s straightened to her full height, but her face is the color of paste.

“Ma’am?” I say to her. “You all right?”

“Oh my God,” she says in a quavering voice. “Sorry I’m such a basket case. That poor guy. Is he dead?”

“I’m afraid so,” I tell her.

I guess her to be in her mid-thirties. Judging by the bulge of her belly, she’s pregnant. Brown hair pulled into a ponytail. No makeup. She’s wearing a pink sweatshirt, yoga pants, and flip-flops.

“Can you tell me what happened?” I ask.

Her eyes flick to the dead man, then back to me. A fresh round of tears spill over her lashes. “I was taking the kids to school, like always. Been taking this route because it’s so pretty. Kids like the ducks in the pond over there. Named all of them.” She uses the tissue in her hand to wipe tears from her cheeks. “We’re driving along and my seven-year-old spots him. She’s like: ‘Look, Mommy, that man had a bike wreck!’

“For God’s sake, I almost ran over him.” A breath shudders out of her. “I stopped just in time, pulled over, and … there he was. All that blood.”

She’s getting herself worked up, so I press forward. “Did you see anyone else in the area? Any other vehicles? Or buggies?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “There’s hardly ever anyone on this road. That’s why I take it. No traffic.”

I look past her to see the ambulance pull up behind my Explorer along with a cruiser from the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department. I spend another ten minutes with her, asking the same questions in different ways, giving her a chance to tell me more, but her account remains the same and she’s unable to give any new details.

I pluck a card from a compartment on my belt, add my personal cell phone number to the back, and hand it to her. “If you remember anything else, even if it doesn’t seem important, give me a call.”

“I will,” she assures me.

Two paramedics and a sheriff’s deputy are standing a couple of yards from the body when I approach. I’ve met the deputy several times over the years. He’s a rookie with a cocky personality, but generally a pretty solid cop. We volunteered for a fundraiser last summer to raise money for the local library, spent an afternoon flipping bratwursts and burgers for kids.