An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(7)

“I understand.”

He turns his attention back to the victim. With a gloved hand, he lifts the hem of the shirt and pulls it up. The wound I saw earlier looms into view. Simultaneously, we lean closer. This time, I take in the details. The injury isn’t round like a bullet wound, but in the shape of a cross—two one-inch lines crossed at their centers—and about the diameter of a quarter.

“Any idea what that is?” I ask quietly.

The doc leans even closer, squinting. “Some type of penetrating wound.”

I stare at the injury, trying to imagine a traffic scenario that could’ve caused it. A T-post sticking out of the bed of a pickup truck? The victim traveling fast and running into something and impaling himself? The driver panicking and fleeing the scene?

I take in the broken tooth and cut lip. “Maybe he got into a scuffle or fight and was stabbed?”

Grimacing, the doc meets my gaze, his expression sober. “I’ve seen an injury similar to this just one time in all the years I’ve been practicing medicine. It was a hunting accident. Eight or nine years ago. A young man shot himself in the foot with a crossbow.” He nods toward the wound. “The wound he sustained looked exactly like that one.”

I stare at him, shocked, the thought making me shudder with such force that I feel gooseflesh on my arms. I look down at the dead man, a slew of dark possibilities crowding my mind. “So he was killed with an arrow?”

“It’s called a bolt, actually,” the doc tells me. “It looks like this particular bolt was tipped with what’s referred to as a broadhead with four blades.” He indicates the wound. “They’re razor-sharp and do a tremendous amount of damage.”

“Is it possible this was an accident?” I ask.

“I suppose it’s possible.” He shrugs, but his expression is skeptical. “If someone was out practicing or shooting targets. I have no idea what kind of range a crossbow has.”

I’ve never used a crossbow, never been around them, but I know of hunters who use them, the Amish included. It’s an incredibly powerful weapon, easy to use, accurate, and extremely deadly. I almost can’t get my head around the idea of a man being killed with one.

I look around. “So, if this man was shot with a crossbow, where’s the bolt?”

“I’m no expert, Kate, but I do happen to know the bolt fired from a powerful crossbow can travel with so much velocity that it can go completely through a body and continue traveling.”

Despite the warmth of the sun, a chill slides between my shoulder blades and down my back. Carefully, I work my cell from my pocket and snap four close-up photos of the wound, my mind churning with the implications of what I’ve been told.

“Doc,” I say slowly, “if the bolt went through, there would be an exit wound, correct?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Can we check?”

“Let’s roll him over. Gently. I’ll take the shoulders. You take the hip. Once we’ve got him on his side, I’ll lift the shirttail, and we’ll have a quick look.”

Setting his gloved hands on the decedent’s shoulder, Doc gives me a nod. Discomfort quivers in my gut when I set my hands on the victim’s hip. The body is still warm to the touch, and I’m reminded that a short time ago, this young man was alive with hopes and dreams and people who loved him. At the doctor’s nod, we roll. The shirt coming off the asphalt makes a wet peeling sound. Keeping one hand on the shoulder, Doc Coblentz uses the other to pull the shirttail upward toward the victim’s shoulders.

Sure enough, a slightly smaller four-point wound is located just to the left of the spine.

“I’d say that’s an exit wound,” the doc says.

“So, if the bolt went clean through,” I say slowly, “it should be somewhere in the area.”

“I believe that is a logical assumption.”

Which might be our first important piece of physical evidence.

I hail Dispatch. “Call Skid at home,” I say, referring to my second-shift officer, Chuck “Skid” Skidmore. “Tell him we need him out on Hansbarger.”

“Roger that.”

I look around, spot the deputy who set up cones for the roadblock. “Hold on, Doc,” I say, and stride to the deputy.

“Matt?”

“Yeah, Chief.”

“Doc Coblentz thinks this victim may have been killed with a crossbow,” I tell him.

“Holy shit.”

“Not confirmed, but we’ve got entry and exit wounds, so the bolt may have gone clean through.”

He nods. “You want me to look around? See what I can find?”

I look at the bicycle and try to ascertain which direction the victim may have been traveling. “Hard to tell which direction he was going, but might be a good idea to start with the woods there on the east side of the road.”

“I’m on it.”

“I’ve got another officer on the way to help.”

“Got it.”

I thank him and walk back to the victim, turn my attention to Doc. “Any idea how long he’s been dead?”

“Not long,” the doc tells me. “There’s no livor present. There’s no rigor, both of which begin at around the two-hour mark, give or take.”