An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(87)

“Two minutes,” comes the dispatcher’s voice.

“I’m going to get my first aid kit.” Jumping to her feet, she jogs to her cruiser and goes to the trunk.

I look down at Graber. He stares back at me, his face pale, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. I’m not sure how many times I fired my weapon or how many times he was hit. A large amount of blood has soaked through his shirt.

“Ambulance is on the way,” I tell him.

He raises his head, grimaces, looks around. “I’m not a killer,” he rasps.

I say nothing.

“Karn wouldn’t have stopped,” he whispers. “He would have done it again. Dragged me down with him. I did what I had to do. It was the only way to keep him from hurting anyone else.”

“Tell it to the judge,” I say.

When I look back down at Graber, his eyes are closed.



* * *



It’s after one A.M. and I’m sitting in an interview room at the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, trying not to relive the scene at Wayne Graber’s place. After the incident, because I was forced to use Mona’s weapon, she and I were separated, put into official vehicles, and interviewed first by the chief deputy with the sheriff’s office and, later, by an Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation special agent. Mona’s firearm was appropriated for processing. I made my official statement and for two hours I answered question after question after question. It wasn’t until the special agent I was speaking with noticed fresh blood coming through my uniform shirt that he offered to drive me to Pomerene Hospital. I spent a couple of hours in the ER for two bolt injuries. The one on my arm was taken care of with a butterfly bandage. The one that struck my rib required seven stitches to close. Lucky for me, it hit at an angle and bounced off the bone. A fraction of an inch in any direction and I likely would have spent the evening in surgery.

Wayne Graber was transported to Pomerene Hospital with two gunshot wounds. He’s listed in critical condition, but is—to my relief—expected to survive. The Holmes County Sheriff’s Department will be taking over the investigations into the homicides of Aden Karn and Paige Rossberger. BCI will be conducting the officer-involved critical-incident investigation. Both Mona and I have been placed on paid administrative leave until the investigation is complete.

This isn’t the first time I’ve resorted to the use of a firearm in the course of my job. I’m well versed on the protocol; I know what to expect in the coming days and weeks. That understanding does little to alleviate the emotional weight of having shot someone or the stress of being removed from my position as chief, if only temporarily. Though Graber was a direct threat and likely would have killed me and Mona if I hadn’t stopped him, I can’t help but wonder if there was another way. If I could have done something differently.

Sheriff Mike Rasmussen sits across from me, his expression grim. An Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation special agent sits at the head of the table, fingers pecking on the tablet in front of him. Because of our relationship and upcoming marriage, Tomasetti recused himself from the debriefing and for obvious reasons will not be involved in the case. I haven’t spoken to him since this morning, and I have desperately missed his solid presence through all of this.

Mona sits next to me, clutching a pen and staring down at the report form in front of her as if wishing she could take back every word. Despite the fierce expression and the I-got-this persona, she looks anxious, exhausted, and more demoralized than I’ve ever seen her.

“I think that’s about all we’re going to accomplish this evening, Chief Burkholder.” The special agent looks from me to Mona. “Officer Kurtz.”

She hands him the report.

He takes it without thanking her, gathers his papers, tucks all of it into a leather planner, then rises. “I’ll be in touch.”

Giving a final nod at Rasmussen, he makes his exit.

For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the buzz of the light overhead. Looking miserable, Mona pretends to study the tabletop in front of her. I glance down at my cell phone, check for calls, see six from Tomasetti, and I set it down.

Rasmussen gives me a tired smile. “He’s out in the hall. In case you’re wondering.”

Despite the stress of the last hours, I manage to smile back. “I thought he might be.”

He clears his throat, looks from me to Mona and back to me. “I think all of us are pretty tapped out. Anything we didn’t cover tonight, we can tackle in the morning if that’s all right with you.”

“Sure.”

The sheriff rises, sets his hand on my shoulder, and leaves the room, leaving the door open behind him. Without looking at me, Mona picks up her cell phone, tucks it into its compartment on her belt, and gets to her feet.

I rise, trying not to wince when the stitches pull. “Mona?”

She looks at me and raises her brows.

“You’re going to be okay,” I tell her.

Unable to hold my stare, she drops her gaze to the tabletop and shakes her head. “I don’t see how. I screwed up.”

I glance through the door, see Tomasetti standing a few feet away, staring at me. I sweep my gaze to Mona, letting him know I need a few minutes with her, and he nods, understanding.

I close the door, go back to the table, and lower myself back into the chair. “Sit down.”