An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(72)

An elongated hiss follows and then the click of the caller disconnecting.

I sit up straighter, look at Margaret. She stares back at me with a slightly smug I-told-you-so expression.

“Play it again,” I say.

This time I listen for unique characteristics of the caller’s voice. There’s static on the line and a slight echo. Still, I make a couple of observations. “He’s trying to disguise his voice,” I murmur.

Across from me, Margaret nods. “Sounds like it.”

“Play it again.”

She does.

This time I notice the Amish-English accent. It’s subtle, but I’m able to discern the upward lilt that softens the vowels. “He’s Amish,” I say. “Trying to conceal it.” Not exactly an earth-shattering revelation. The victim was Amish, after all. Vernon Fisher is Amish. A third of the population of Painters Mill is Amish. Even so, it’s something and worth noting.

I glance at Margaret. “Again.”

This time, I concentrate on the words themselves. What he’s saying, looking for hesitations, indications that he’s lying. I get nothing.

“Is there any way we can get our hands on the caller’s number?” I ask.

“Well, we set it up to be anonymous, but I’ll see what I can figure out.”

“Send a copy of the recording to my cell,” I say, thinking aloud. “Forward it to Tomasetti and Rasmussen, too. Type up a transcript in case we need it.”

“You got it, Chief.” She gets to her feet.

I think about the call in terms of specifics. The caller asserted he witnessed Vernon Fisher using a crossbow at the scene two weeks before Aden Karn was killed. When I asked Fisher if he owned or had access to a crossbow, he said he didn’t. An anonymous tip is by no means a slam dunk, but it may be enough for me to obtain a warrant.

“Call Judge Siebenthaler,” I say. “Tell him I’m on my way over with an affidavit for a search warrant.”

She’s already heading for the door. “I’ll catch him right now, Chief.”

“Margaret?” I say.

She stops, turns, and raises her brows, expecting another barrage of commands.

Instead, I smile. “Nice work.”

Her mouth twitches. “Roger that,” she says, and makes her exit.





CHAPTER 24


I know better than to get my hopes up over an anonymous tip; most of the time they don’t pan out. That I’m enthusiastic stands as testament to my level of desperation. And, of course, my dislike for Vernon Fisher. Judge Siebenthaler is no fan of anonymous tips, either. He balked after reading the affidavit I put together. In the end, he’d acquiesced, but narrowed the scope of what I could search for and where I could search for it, and a task that should have taken an hour ended up taking two.

It’s nearly seven P.M. now and I’m in the Explorer heading toward Vernon Fisher’s gas station. Officer T.J. Banks rides shotgun. Despite having worked through the night and most of the day, he looks fresh and alert as he skims the warrant. “So, we’re permitted to search the main building, attached garage, and one outbuilding?” he asks.

I think about my exchange with the judge and nod. “And we’re limited to confiscating items that are directly related to a crossbow, crossbow paraphernalia or accessories, and/or hunting.”

“So if we find a bloody knife…”

“I think we could legally seize it and make the argument that it’s covered under the ‘hunting’ umbrella.”

“A noose…”

I slant him a look as I make the turn onto the street where the Karns live.

He grins, then sobers. “Do you expect any trouble from Fisher?”

The serving of a warrant is one of the most dangerous duties a cop performs. No individual likes having their privacy invaded, or their things rifled through by the cops. Add a bottle of tequila and half a dozen intoxicated hooligans and this is exactly the kind of situation that could go south.

“Glock and Tomasetti are going to meet us there,” I tell him. “To make sure everyone behaves themselves.”

I make the turn into the gas station to find four vehicles parked nose-in against the building, telling me the regulars are already there. The overhead door stands open. Glock’s cruiser is parked next to Tomasetti’s Tahoe, a generous distance away from the other vehicles. Tomasetti is standing against the door of the Tahoe, talking on his cell, watching me. I pull up behind them and kill the engine. My window is down a few inches and I hear the blare of chain-saw rock emanating from the garage.

“Keep your eyes open,” I say to T.J. as I open the door.

“Roger that.”

Glock exits his vehicle as I start toward the overhead door. He’s already wearing his duty gloves, his eyes scanning.

Tomasetti drops his cell into his pocket and strides toward me. “Looks like the whole gang is here,” he says.

“Lucky us,” Glock puts in as he falls in beside us.

There’s no time for Tomasetti or Glock to read the warrant, so I give them the same instructions I gave T.J. as we walk toward the structure. “This is a limited search. Anything crossbow or hunting related. We have access to the main structure, including the office, back room, restroom, and garage. Also, that outbuilding.” I motion right and then glance at Glock. “I think it would be best if we got everyone out of the main building before we begin. Visitors are free to leave if they wish. Detain Fisher. If he prefers to be inside with us while we execute the warrant, he can.”