An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(71)
“You’ve come a long way in the last few years,” I say.
“Had some help.” Grinning at me, he squeezes my hand.
He looks at the stone and sobers. “They were good kids. Just … little girls. They wore pink. They liked to swim and play teacher. Nancy was a good woman. A good mom. She was a good wife and I loved her.” He looks at me and for the first time in a long time, he lets me see the depth of his grief.
“I was unfaithful to her once,” he says after a moment. “I never told you. I was … ashamed. But I slept with a cop I was working with. It nearly cost me my marriage.”
I look at the stone, the etched name of the woman he’d loved. “Hopefully, you spent some time in the doghouse.”
“Oh, yeah.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Took some time but we worked it out.”
“Just so you know … you’re one of the most loyal people I’ve ever known.”
“Not always,” he admits. “Lucky for me, I’m capable of learning from my mistakes.”
An uncomfortable silence ensues. I get the impression he’s struggling to tell me something else, so I give him the time to work through it.
“I worked a lot,” he says. “I drank too much. Didn’t spend enough time with my children. I didn’t appreciate them as much as I should have.”
“We don’t live our lives thinking our loved ones are going to be snatched away,” I tell him.
Lifting my hand, he brings it to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “I wasn’t a very good husband. I wasn’t as good a father as I should have been.”
“So you say.”
“Just giving you fair warning.” He gives me a good-natured frown. “So you know what you’re getting into.”
“I know exactly what I’m getting into,” I tell him. “And I know everything I need to know about you.”
He starts to say something, but I raise my hand and press my finger to his lips. “Despite all those flaws, I love you.”
Blinking, he looks away, his jaw tight and working, stoic.
“It was good for me to come here,” I say. “To meet them.”
“I’m glad you came.”
After a moment, I look down at the memorial. “What do you say we swing by the florist and bring back some flowers before we head home?”
He doesn’t smile, but I see the warmth in his eyes. “I think that’s a fine idea.”
Hand in hand, we walk back to the Tahoe.
* * *
I spend the rest of the afternoon locked in my office, rereading every scrap of paper and digital record I’ve amassed on the murders of Paige Rossberger and Aden Karn so far. I study the autopsy reports and photos, picking apart every detail, every word, looking for something—anything—I missed, looking for things that simply aren’t there. I scrutinize every interview. I look at photos of the victims, the crime scenes, and everything that’s come back from the lab so far.
Striking out there, I study the map I’ve pinned to the wall and I go to it. I circle the crime scenes in red marker, every other relevant location in blue. Lester and Angela Karn’s shop. The Byler farm. June Rossberger’s home in Massillon. Aden Karn’s home. The pickup point at the Lutheran church. The gas station where Vernon Fisher lives. Even the Brass Rail Saloon. I connect the dots, try to come up with routes and timelines, by vehicle or horse and buggy.
All of it leads directly to nothing.
Back at my desk, I spool up the videos I took of the scene on Hansbarger Road and the bridge where Rossberger’s body was discovered, and I watch them again. All the while frustration grinds at the back of my brain.
Nothing there, Kate.
At four P.M. a tap on my door draws me from my focus. Margaret, my newest dispatcher, stands in the hall outside my office, headset clamped over her ears. “You look like you could use some good news,” she says a little too cheerily.
She’s over twenty years my senior—and I was raised to respect my elders regardless of my position as chief—so I swallow the surly response on my tongue. “That could quite possibly be the understatement of the year.”
“Call came in on the tip line, Chief. I think you’re going to want to hear this one.”
So far, we’ve received a total of twelve calls on our “tip line.” Four were obvious pranks. One a wrong number. One blaming the incident on a UFO sighted out by the old drive-in theater. The rest were viable and checked out, but not helpful in terms of the case. We don’t have the budget for an official tip line with a unique number, so we use the main number with an extension that sends callers to voicemail where they are assigned a unique identifying number to ensure their anonymity. From there, they’re instructed to leave a message and urged to call back with any additional information and to check in later to see if they have cash coming from the reward.
“I’m all ears.” I lean back in my chair, my attempt at enthusiasm not quite coming through.
Using my desk phone, she punches the Speaker button, then dials the number, taps in a four-digit code, and sinks into the visitor chair.
The speaker crackles and hisses and then a voice sounds.
“I’m uh…” The male caller clears his throat. “I’m calling about the Aden Karn thing. Look, I don’t want to get involved, but you need to check the young Amish dude has the gas station. Fisher, I think his name is. I ain’t saying he done it, but I seen him out there to Hansbarger with a crossbow a couple weeks ago. Almost like he was practicing or something. Anyway … that’s all I got to say.”