An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(77)

“I haven’t used it for years. Not since I went deer hunting with my cousin. Didn’t even get a deer that year.”

“Where’s the crossbow now?” I ask.

“I think it’s at my parents’ house. Covered with dust. My mamm didn’t want it in the house so she gave it to Datt and he put it in the barn.”

Tomasetti sighs. “Did you murder Aden Karn?” He asks, the bad cop, asking the big question.

Fisher straightens, moving his legs and arms as if gripped by a sudden restlessness. The cuff jangles against the table ring. “No.”

“Where were you the morning he was killed?” I ask.

“I told you. I was in bed. Asleep.”

“With Leandra,” Tomasetti mutters.

Fisher burns him with a glare. “I was there, damn it.”

I take him through a dozen questions that have already been asked, sticking to friendly territory, loosening him up. He fires off the same answers. No hesitation. His demeanor indignant and resolute.

“You and Karn were arguing about the truck you bought from him.”

“I was in the right,” he says. “After Karn was killed, Wayne made good on it and gave me back my six hundred bucks. Ask him.”

“Did you ever threaten to kill Karn?” I ask.

He startles, rattling the cuff again. “That’s a bullshit question.”

“Set me straight,” I say.

“It was a figure of speech, for chrissake! I was pissed! I mean, about the stupid truck. He ripped me off. You can’t hold that against me.”

“So answer the question,” I say. “Did you threaten to kill him?”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean it literally!”

I make a note in my pad, flip the page. “Tell me about your relationship with Emily Byler.”

An emotion I can’t quite pinpoint flashes, but he tucks it away quickly. “I don’t have a relationship with her. I barely know her.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“You heard wrong.”

“Have you ever had sex with her?”

He shifts in the chair. “Not that I recall.” He has the gall to stutter.

“Are you saying it’s possible you did, indeed, have sex with her and you don’t remember? Is that what you’re telling me?”

He shifts in the chair. “I’m just saying … things get kind of crazy out at the gas station sometimes. I mean, everyone’s partying. There’s a lot of drinking. People get wild, but no one gets hurt.”

Only they do. “You had a thing for Emily.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You were attracted to her.”

“No.”

“Were you jealous of her relationship with Aden Karn?”

“No.”

I flick my pen against the notepad. “So far, you’ve lied to me about the crossbow. You lied to me about the bolts. You lied to me about threatening Karn. I think you’re lying to me about Emily Byler, too.”

“She belonged to Aden.” Quickly, he clarifies the statement. “I mean, she was his girl.”

“That didn’t matter when you were drunk, though, did it? When Aden was drunk?”

He looks at me as if he can’t believe I’d say such a thing. Wondering how I know …

“No.”

“You were obsessed with her. And when you saw them together, you were jealous. Aden was the only thing standing in the way of your having her.”

“That’s not true!”

“That’s why you pumped her full of alcohol. Why you got Aden drunk. That’s why you let things get out of control. So you could have what you wanted.”

I’m aware of Mike Rasmussen staring at me. Not sure what I’m doing or where I’m going with this. He’s wondering how I know what I know. How I’m going to make the connection between Emily Byler and the murder of Aden Karn.

“That has nothing to do with what happened to Aden.” He hisses the words between clenched teeth.

“You raped his girlfriend,” I say. “How does that not involve Aden?”

I see his teeth grind an instant before he lunges. His chair flies back. The cuff yanks against the security ring. He punches at me with his free hand. I lurch backward, dodge what would have been a nasty blow.

“Hey!” Rasmussen jumps to his feet.

Tomasetti is already around the table. He grasps Fisher’s free hand, twists his arm, brings it up behind his back. “Sit the hell down.”

The sheriff uprights the chair, jams it beneath Fisher. Tomasetti shoves him into it.

“That’s bullshit!” Fisher roars. “Yeah, we got a little crazy a couple of times. She was into it. I’m telling you, she didn’t do anything she didn’t want—” He bites off the sentence as if realizing he’s already said too much.

“Was Paige Rossberger into it?” I ask.

“I don’t know her!”

“Was she into it when you put your hands around her throat and squeezed?” I snap. “Was she into it when you put that bag over her head and cut off her air?”

“I never met her. I swear.”

“DNA never lies,” I tell him.