An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(60)

“Sell is nix as baeffzes.” Angela looks helplessly at her husband. That’s nothing but trifling talk.

“Chief Burkholder, what does this have to do with our son’s death?” Lester asks.

“It sounds like you’re trying to blame him for what happened,” Angela says, her voice rising.

“No, I’m not.” I stop speaking, holding her gaze. “I’m following up on some information—”

“What information?” the Amish woman snaps. “From whom?”

“If Aden made a mistake or overstepped in some way,” I say. “If he behaved badly, he may have angered someone.”

Lester’s eyes widen. “The killer?” he whispers.

I nod. “I’m not interested in what Aden did. I’m interested in who he may have angered. If that person exists, I need to find them.” I look from Lester to Angela. “If there’s anything you can tell me, even if it’s something you don’t want to discuss, please, I need your help.”

“He was a good boy.” Angela raises her hand as if to defend herself from a physical attack. “How dare you come here and disgrace our son. How dare you. How dare you.”

She steps backward, stumbles. Lester and I reach for her simultaneously, but she shakes off both of us. “I will not let you stain his memory.”

I look at Lester, and the Amish man shakes his head.

Angela isn’t finished. “No wonder you left the Amisch. You aren’t one of us. You weren’t wanted, were you, Kate Burkholder? No one wants a maulgrischt.” Pretend Christian. She jabs her hand at the door. “Leave us now. Don’t come back.”

I look at Lester, but he drops his gaze. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“We’ve nothing to say to you,” she hisses.

I start toward the door, go through, shut it quietly behind me. I’m midway to the Explorer, kicking myself for approaching them on the day of the funeral, when I hear the bell on the door behind me.

“Chief Burkholder!”

I turn to see Lester stride toward me. I stop, wait for him. For the span of several seconds, we stand there in the warm afternoon sun. He struggles to maintain his composure, but his face is a mosaic of misery. “She’s upset.”

“I don’t blame her,” I tell him. “I know this isn’t easy.”

He looks away, shoves his hands into his pockets. “Aden was still living with us when he started his rumspringa. There was a time or two when he came home in the wee hours of the morning. Alcohol on his breath. Sin in his eyes.” He takes a deep breath, looks down the street. “He had a temper.”

I nod.

“My wife…” He whispers the words as if he’s run out of breath. “She was doing laundry once. And she found blood.”

“On his clothes?”

He’s silent for so long that I look at him. He’s still staring off into space. “First time, she didn’t mention it. Second time … she came to me.”

“His blood?” I ask. “Someone else’s?”

Another lengthy pause. This time, he looks around, at anything but me, as if trying to find some mental or emotional refuge. His mouth trembles. “It was on his … underthings. He wore the English kind, you know. White. And there was blood.”

A dozen innocent explanations buzz my brain. A cut finger. A blister on a thumb. A lost bandage. “Did you ask him about it?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Did you—”

“No!” He cuts me off. “I’ve said all I’m going to say, Kate Burkholder. That is going to have to be enough. No more questions. Not about Aden. Not about anything. And if you can manage, we’d prefer if you didn’t come back.”





CHAPTER 20


“One step forward, two goddamn steps back.” Sheriff Mike Rasmussen stands against the wall, his arms folded at his chest, looking tapped out and ready to call it a day.

It’s ten P.M. and I’m sitting at the table in the storage-closet-turned-meeting-room Mona has fondly dubbed “the war room.” Tomasetti is sitting across from me, fingers pecking on the tablet in front of him. The rest of my officers and a patrol investigator with the Ohio State Highway Patrol left an hour ago after a frustratingly unproductive briefing. The whiteboard on the wall is tattooed with snatches of information that’s been scrawled, erased, and re-scrawled, the blue marker smeared across its face like a bruise.

In the last hour, the three of us have gone through the file on the homicide of Aden Karn twice, accomplishing little, and arguing a lot. Now, Paige Rossberger’s file is open in front of me; the table is papered with reports and photographs, official forms, and handwritten notes. In the hours we’ve been here, all of it has run together into a mass of data overload.

“I don’t see a connection.” Rasmussen sighs. “There’s no link between the victims. Karn was Amish. A farm kid from Painters Mill. Rossberger was English. A grocery clerk and part-time hooker from Massillon. I don’t think these two homicides are related.”

“Too much of a coincidence not to be,” Tomasetti mutters.

“Gotta be something there,” I add.

Rasmussen tosses us an annoyed expression. “According to the geniuses that have graced this room this evening, we’re fresh out of ideas.”