“What truck?” I ask.
“Aden and Wayne bought this beat-up truck.”
“Wayne Graber,” Clara puts in.
The roommate, I recall.
Emily nods. “They bought it from an Englischer in Millersburg,” she tells me. “Aden and Wayne are good with mechanical stuff; they can fix anything. So, they figured they could make repairs and sell it. Make some money, you know. They went to work on it, like guys do. Got the thing all fancy-looking and sold it for two thousand dollars to Vernon Fisher.” Her brows knit. “But after Vernon had it for a few weeks, the truck stopped running. Vern got mad and stopped paying. So Wayne and Aden went over to his house in the middle of the night and repossessed it.”
I pull out my notebook. “Vernon Fisher?”
“Lives up in Painters Mill,” Clara says.
The name is familiar. I’m pretty sure I’ve pulled Fisher over for speeding at least once. If memory serves me, he’s from a well-thought-of Amish family and recently purchased a defunct gas station off the highway.
“Vernon fell in with a bad crowd.” Clara huffs. “Been on rumspringa for over a year now. Drinks and smokes like a fiend. Lives out by that trashy old gas station. Hangs out with a bunch of no-gooders. Don’t think his parents will ever get him baptized or married.”
“How much money are we talking about?” I ask Emily.
“I think Vernon paid six hundred dollars. Still owes fourteen hundred. Aden said Vernon wants his six hundred back.”
It’s exactly the kind of dispute that could escalate into something ugly.
I write all of it down. “Emily, did Vernon and Aden argue or have words about the truck?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Vernon ever threaten Aden?” I ask. “Or Wayne?”
The girl stares at me, her mouth quivering as her mind tries to make sense of my questions. The meaning behind them. After a moment, her face crumples. She lowers her face into her hands and breaks into sobs.
I wait and try a few more questions, but she’s inconsolable. I leave her sobbing, her arms on the table, her face buried.
CHAPTER 4
I hail Dispatch as I pull out of the Bylers’ lane, make the turn onto the county road, and head north. “Ten-twenty-nine.” It’s the ten code for “check for wanted.” “Vernon Fisher.” I spell out the name.
“Stand by,” comes Lois’s voice.
Keys clatter and then she comes back. “Speeding citation two years ago. OVI in Holmes County,” she says, using the acronym for the “operation of a motor vehicle while intoxicated.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“Got it right here, Chief.” A couple more clicks and then she recites a Painters Mill address.
“I’m ten-seventy-six,” I respond, letting her know I’m en route. “Who’s on this afternoon?”
“Pickles.”
Roland “Pickles” Shumaker is semiretired now. He’s north of eighty years old and spends most of his time working the school crosswalk—and occasionally confiscating cigarettes from students who think they’re going to cop a smoke on his watch. The people who know him—and those of us who work with him—do not underestimate Pickles. He may be in his golden years; he may be moving a little more slowly; he may lie about his age. But beneath the grizzled exterior are fifty years of law enforcement experience, a commendation for undercover narcotics work, and the instincts of a man who’ll lay down his life to save your ass.
“Tell Pickles to ten-twenty-five.” Which is the code for “meet me there.”
“Ten-four.”
I rack the mike, then pick up my cell and speed-dial Glock. He picks up instantly. “Did anyone find a bolt or arrow?” I ask.
“Negative,” he says. “We set up a grid and checked every tree and field and ditch within two hundred yards of the scene, Chief. We got nothing.”
I tell him about my conversation with Doc Coblentz. “If there were entry and exit wounds, how is it that there’s no bolt on scene?”
“Maybe the shooter took it.”
“From what I hear, it’s not easy to extract a bolt.”
“That’s true,” he says. “I went crossbow hunting a few years ago with a friend of mine. He got a buck. When he retrieved his bolt, he didn’t pull it out. He pushed it through. And it took some doing.”
I suppress a shiver before it can take hold. “Is Doc Coblentz still there?”
“Left ten minutes ago. Released the scene to us. Crime scene techs are still processing. I don’t think they’re getting much.”
“According to Doc, Karn was shot at least twice,” I say, thinking aloud. “Did the killer know Karn and target him? Or was it a random killing?”
“Not many people on that stretch of road,” Glock says. “Of course, if you’re up to no good and looking to kill someone, you’d have no way of knowing when someone might happen by, and you’d likely have a lengthy wait on your hands.”
I consider that a moment. “If I were to guess, I’d say this was targeted. The killer knew Karn’s routine. Knew his route. Waited for him to show.”
“And ambushed him.”
For the span of several seconds, neither of us speaks, our minds working through the repercussions of that.
“Karn worked for Buckeye Construction,” I tell him. “When you finish up at the scene, run up there and find out who was supposed to pick him up this morning. Find out where they meet and who else rides with them.”
“You got it.”
“Find out where the crew was working, too. See if there were any problems on the job. With coworkers. Or the client.”
“Will do.”
I relay the story about the truck. “I’m on my way to talk to Vernon Fisher.”
“Watch your back.”
“Just so you know, I have a profound fear of sharp projectiles that travel at three hundred feet per second.”
He laughs. “You and me both.”
* * *
Red’s Gas Station has been a scar on the landscape as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, my mamm once took me in for a red pop. I don’t recall why we were there, but even then it had been a ramshackle business that smelled of rubber and oil and spilled gas. A dozen FOR SALE signs have come and gone over the years, but no one wanted to buy the place. Until Vernon Fisher came along, anyway.
The establishment sits on a lesser-used county road a stone’s throw from State Highway 83. It’s a cinder-block structure, the kind that was popular in the 1960s, with a low-slope roof and a mullioned front. The old Sohio sign mounted on a pole is shot through with holes from shotgun pellets. Most of the window glass is gone and has been replaced with plywood upon which someone has written Wanted: Used cars and below that scrawled a phone number. A double auto bay takes up the left side of the building. One of the overhead doors stands open. Inside, a muscle car straddles a lift, two tires missing, a rusty chain hanging down. As I pull into the weed-riddled parking lot, I see the silhouettes of two men beneath the car. Two more men occupy lawn chairs against the wall.
I park next to the concrete island where three gas pumps used to be. Two are gone. The remaining pump is rust covered and lies on its side, its glass face crushed.