“Sixty-eight,” Fisher replies.
“Good year.” Pickles spots the calendar. “Three-oh-two engine?”
“Three-ninety,” Fisher says. “Four-barrel.”
“Damn.” Whistling appreciatively, Pickles strides past the men, so close to Fisher he has to step back. Pickles goes to the workbench, plucks the calendar off the wall, and rips it in half.
“Hey, old man, that ain’t yours to fuck with,” says the man next to the rollaway.
Taking his time, Pickles tosses it into the trash bin, then turns to face the man next to the rollaway. “Just saving you some trouble.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“Some ten-year-old kid walks in here to air up his bike tire and sees your classy calendar, and you geniuses are going to find yourselves in hot water.”
“I call bullshit,” one of the men says.
“You can call all the bullshit you want, Einstein,” Pickles drawls. “In the state of Ohio, if you expose a minor child to pornography, even if it’s inadvertent, you’d better have a damn good lawyer.” He smiles, his eyes cutting like ice. “You can thank me later.”
A round of laughter, subdued this time, and then Fisher asks me, “So what’s going on with Karn? Why all the questions?”
“Karn was killed this morning on his way to work,” I tell him.
Fisher blinks, starts to laugh, but thinks better of it. “Holy shit. Seriously?” He gives his head a little shake. “You think I had something to do with it?”
“I think you had an argument with him about a truck,” I say.
“That doesn’t mean I killed him. What the hell kind of crap is this? You come here to my place of business and accuse me of killing some freakin’ dude I barely know? In front of my employees?”
I don’t bother pointing out that I gave him the option of speaking to me in private. “We’re talking to everyone who knew or had a relationship with or came in contact with Mr. Karn.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“So you say.” This from Pickles.
Fisher ignores him, his mind plowing ahead. “Someone offed him with a fucking crossbow?”
“Watch your mouth,” Pickles growls.
I pass my card to Fisher, my cell phone number jotted on the back. “If you think of anything that might be important, give me a call.”
He takes the card, shoves it into his pocket without looking at it.
As I turn to leave, one of the other men walks to the trash can and pulls out the calendar. Eyes on me, he sticks out his tongue and runs the tip over the most offensive part of the image, then hangs that half of it back on the wall.
* * *
Pickles walks with me to my Explorer.
“That was a pretty badass move,” I say to him as I open the driver’s-side door.
His mouth twitches, but he manages to maintain his curmudgeon persona. “I don’t like those cocky little shits, Chief. They got too much time on their hands and they’re out here every day looking for trouble.”
“I know.” I slide behind the wheel. “You and Glock have any luck with the canvass?”
He shakes his head. “Talked to the Amish couple who own the farm half a mile down the road from where Karn was found. They see him ride his bike past just about every morning. They don’t recall seeing anyone else.”
I nod, look toward the garage, see Fisher standing beneath the overhead door, smoking a cigarette, watching us.
“Doc Coblentz says the bolt either went through or was pulled through,” I say.
“Damn, that’s brutal.”
“Be nice to find the bolts.”
“If they’re there.” He narrows his eyes. “You want me to go back to the scene?”
“Skid has already looked around, but a second pair of eyes wouldn’t hurt.” I sigh, frustrated because I know every officer in my small department will be working around the clock until this thing is solved.
“Before you do that,” I tell him, “I’d like you to check with area sporting goods stores. Take T.J. with you. Dispatch can get you the names of the retailers and contact info. I want the names of anyone who purchased a crossbow or combination bow in the last six months.”
“You got it.”
“In the interim, I’m going to talk to the roommate.”
He touches the brim of his hat and starts toward his cruiser.
I take a final look at the garage, my eyes seeking Vernon Fisher, but he’s gone.
CHAPTER 5
In the early phase of a homicide investigation, there are a hundred things that need to be done simultaneously. Every potential witness needs to be interviewed, a dozen leads need to be followed up on, evidence collected, protected, and assessed. Speed is the name of the game, and there are no shortcuts. All of that is especially true if the killer is still at large.
According to his driver’s license, Aden Karn lived on Rockridge Road south of Painters Mill. I’ve just turned onto the highway when my Bluetooth announces a call. I glance down to see HOLMES COUNTY CORONER pop up on the display.
“Hi, Doc.”
“I know you’re anxious for information,” Doc Coblentz begins. “I wanted to let you know, I got our victim cleaned up and on the table.” He pauses, sighs. “Kate, let me preface by telling you I put a call in to a forensic pathologist with BCI to assist. That’s going to slow things down, but I suspect this may turn out to be a complicated case.”
“Doc, did anyone ever tell you that you have a gift for being cryptic?”
He makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “If you’ve got the time, and you’d like some preliminary information, you might want to come in and see this.”
The ticking clock inside my head reminds me that a trip to the morgue pre-autopsy probably isn’t the most efficient use of my time. On the other hand, I know Doc wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I tell him.
* * *
Pomerene Hospital is located north of Millersburg. I park in the lot off the portico outside the Emergency entrance and push through the double glass doors. The elderly gentleman at the visitor desk waves as I pass. I give him a nod as I cross to the elevator and hit the Down button.
I mentally shore up on the ride to the basement. Two deep breaths, slowly released. I reach for the inner quiet I need to get through what comes next, but it eludes me. I remind myself I’m no rookie; I’ve done this before. I should know by now that facing the dead never gets any easier no matter how many times you do it.
Suck it up, Kate.
The doors swoosh open, ushering in a mix of smells that brings a sharp rise of dread. Recirculated air that’s a few degrees too cool for comfort. A medicinal pong that makes me want to hold my breath. The eucalyptus from the dried plant in the vase. Something unpleasant hovering just beneath the surface …
“Hi, Chief Burkholder!”
I glance left to see Doc Coblentz’s assistant, Carmen Anderson, sitting at a desk stacked high with legal-size hanging files. She’s wearing black-and-white pinstripe today. Pencil skirt. Low-heeled pumps. Silver hoops at her ears. Dressed to the hilt, as always.
I cross to the desk and we shake. “You’re working late this afternoon.”