An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(6)
“Chief Burkholder.”
“Hi, Matt.” We exchange a handshake. Behind me, I’m aware of the woman pulling away and Glock approaching.
“That guy’s deader than a doornail,” the deputy says. “What the hell happened? Hit-skip? Where’d all that blood come from?”
“Not confirmed, but I think he may have been shot,” I tell him. “Or stabbed.”
“Holy shit.” He sends a look in Glock’s direction, as if my assessment isn’t quite trustworthy.
Glock stares back at him, his expression deadpan.
I address the deputy. “Would you mind blocking off the intersections for me? No one comes in or out except the coroner and law enforcement.”
“Uh … sure.” Looking put out that he’s been relegated to a rookie task, he strides toward his cruiser.
Glock hands me a nicely-done smile.
“There aren’t many houses out this way, but I think we need to canvass. Give Pickles a call to help you,” I say, referring to my only part-time officer, Roland “Pickles” Shumaker. “Hit every farm. Stop all vehicles. Pedestrians. Anyone working out in the field. See if they heard or saw anything. Get names and contact info.”
“I’m on it.” Glock starts for his cruiser.
I pull out my cell phone and, without getting too close to the victim, snap a dozen photos of the body from different angles. I zoom in to get a close-up of the bloodstain on the front of the shirt, especially the hole in the fabric, and I work my way around the body. I notice a few details I missed earlier. Leather work gloves peek out from the back pocket of typical Amish trousers, telling me he may have been on his way to work. A straw hat is crumpled beneath him, as if he fell on top of it.
As I take in the particulars of the scene, questions begin to boil. Was this random? Or was he targeted? Was he riding his bike to work and someone drove by and shot him? Did a vehicle stop and an altercation ensued? Or was this some kind of freak accident? The only things I know for certain at this point is that the person responsible is a danger to the community and it’s my job to find him before he hurts anyone else.
CHAPTER 2
While waiting for the coroner to arrive, I document every aspect of the victim and scene. I take photos of everything within a fifty-foot radius: the bicycle, the lunch box, the hat, the tire imprints in the gravel shoulder, even the beer bottle in the ditch, the scrap of paper in the grass. Relief settles over me when I see the coroner’s Escalade roll up to the caution tape.
I’ve known Doc Coblentz since I became chief. He’s a Painters Mill icon of sorts, one of five doctors in town with an upstanding reputation. He’s a pediatrician with a busy practice and a big personality, and the children he treats adore him as much as their parents. Doc is a regular at LaDonna’s Diner. He’s a weekend warrior at the farmers’ market, where he’s been known to set up a booth and give cooking lessons. He and his wife are socially active around town; they’re generous donors to the library and animal shelter. Despite his duties as coroner, he’s one of the most optimistic individuals I know.
“Morning, Chief.” Hefting his medical bag, he ducks beneath the crime scene tape and approaches.
“Glad you’re here, Doc.”
“Saved me from devouring that plate of pancakes I’d just ordered at the diner.” He pats his protruding abdomen. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell my wife I was there.”
“My lips are sealed.”
He’s a corpulent man wearing his trademark khakis, a button-down shirt—said buttons stretched taut over a Volkswagen-size belly—and one of the ugliest ties I’ve ever laid eyes on.
He reaches me and we shake hands. “Hit-and-run?” he asks.
Even as he asks the question, I see his eyes moving to the victim, taking in details, the position of the body, the amount of blood. I tell him what little I know. “There’s a strange wound on his abdomen. I’d say it looks like a stab or even a bullet wound, but it’s oddly shaped.”
His eyebrows shoot up, not in surprise, but curiosity. Both of us have been around long enough to expect the unexpected. “Let’s see what the victim has to tell us.”
Setting down his medical case, he opens it and pulls out prewrapped biohazard protection for both of us. Though this is an outdoor scene and we’re at the mercy of the elements, it’s protocol to protect as much of the scene as possible. He passes me a disposable Tyvek suit, hair and shoe covers, and fresh examination gloves. We take a minute to don all of it. Then he picks up the medical case and we approach the victim.
“Copious amount of blood from the mouth,” he murmurs.
I tell him about the broken tooth Glock noticed. “Internal injuries?”
“Possibly. Trauma from being struck. Could have bitten his tongue when he fell. Or a broken rib puncturing the lung. Something like that.”
We reach the dead man. Doc sets down the case and kneels. “I don’t have to tell you that none of what I’m about to say is an official ruling.” He gives me a stern look over the top of his glasses. “The only reason I’m going to say anything at this point is because I know that if this is a result of foul play, whatever I can tell you will help you get started with your investigation. So, I’m going to call it as I see it and do the best I can. Final assessment will come post-autopsy.”