An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(76)

“I think he’s a solid suspect. Those bolts are certainly damning.” He shrugs. “Multiple people said he had a thing for Emily Byler.”

“Criminals aren’t exactly the brightest bulbs in the pack.”

“We’ll know a lot more after we get him into the interview room.”

“Be nice to tie this up,” I say.

“Chief of police might just have time to get married.” He puts his arm around my waist, and we start toward the hill that will take us back to the gas station.



* * *



It’s ten P.M. and I’m sitting in a windowless interview room at the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, trying not to acknowledge the headache pounding my skull. The scuffed-up table in front of me is secured to the floor with bolts and surrounded with four plastic chairs. Next to me, Tomasetti leans back in his chair, scrolling through his phone. Sheriff Mike Rasmussen manspreads in the corner, studying a page of his leather-bound notebook. The only sound comes from the buzz of the light overhead. A video camera watches us from the ceiling.

“CSU did a presumptive Hexagon OBTI test on both bolts.” Tomasetti doesn’t look up from his phone as he speaks. “Both tested positive for human blood.”

My mind jumps to the next logical question. “Was there enough residue to extract DNA?”

“Bolts were sent to the lab,” he says. “DNA will probably take a week or so, depending on how backed up the lab is. I’ll jam it through if I can.”

“Gonna match,” Rasmussen predicts.

“I sent a photo of the broadhead to Doc Coblentz earlier,” I tell them. “Preliminarily, he believes the incised wounds on Karn’s body could be from those bolts.” I consider a moment and add, “I’m no expert, but even a cursory visual comparison of the shape of the broadhead to the wounds looks spot-on. Same number of points. Size seems about right.”

“Forensic pathologist should be able to confirm,” Tomasetti adds. “We might be able to get that as early as tomorrow.”

I look at Tomasetti. “Did you guys process the scene?”

“Just finished up. Sent several items to the lab.” He swipes left. “Box cutter. Duct tape. Bedsheets from the back room.”

I think about Paige Rossberger. “Plastic sheeting?”

He nods. “There was a partial roll in a storage closet. We may or may not be able to match it.”

“Maybe we can match the details of the cut,” I say.

“We should know in the next day or so.”

A sharp rap sounds on the door a moment before it swings open. A Holmes County sheriff’s deputy escorts Vernon Fisher into the interview room. His hands are cuffed behind his back. He’s clad in wrinkled blue coveralls and thong sandals, and his usual cockiness has given way to a downcast persona. The smirk has been replaced with a morose expression that tells me he knows he’s in serious trouble. From where I’m sitting, I can smell the stink of nervous sweat.

I make eye contact him and motion to the chair across from me. “How’s your evening going so far, Vernon?”

He gives me a withering look. I try not to smile, but I’m not sure if I succeeded.

The deputy fishes a key from his utility belt, unlocks one cuff, and motions Fisher into the chair. When he obliges, the deputy secures the cuff to a security ring in the center of the table, cranks it down tight, and leaves the room.

Fisher eyes the three of us, his gaze reflecting a combination of resentment and despair.

“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask.

He shifts his stare to mine. “The only thing I know is that you got the wrong guy and you’re going to try to hang me for something I didn’t do.”

“This is your chance to set us straight.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the card containing the Miranda rights and I read them to him. “Do you understand your rights?”

“I understand all that just fine. All’s I got to say to you is this: I’ve never seen those bolts before in my life.”

Taking my time, hoping he doesn’t ask for an attorney because that would instantly shut down all questioning, I glance down at my notes. “Vernon, I need you to tell me how those two bolts got taped to the toolbox.”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Do the bolts belong to you?”

“No. I don’t use broadheads. Never have. Never will.”

“Do you own a crossbow?”

He hesitates, looks around as if seeking a window or door through which to escape. “Look, I got an old combination bow.”

“When I asked you before if you owned a crossbow,” I say, “you said you didn’t.”

“I know it looks bad, but I figured you didn’t need to know because it wasn’t an issue. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I wasn’t anywhere near where Karn got killed.” Grimacing, he looks down at the tabletop. “I know you don’t believe me, but I swear to God those bolts are not mine.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard an impassioned denial; to be honest, it’s not the tenth or even the hundredth time. Every criminal who’s been arrested for a crime lies about it. I know that’s cynical, but it’s true.

“Tell me about the crossbow,” I say.