“Do you think the substance is from the bolt?” I ask.
“I do.” He shrugs. “We took samples of both and sent them to the lab in London, Ohio, for analysis.”
In the back of my mind, I make a mental note to ask Tomasetti to expedite.
Doc Coblentz looks at me over the top of his glasses. He’s got a doctor’s eyes, innately kind and keenly adept at discerning all those feelings you work so hard to keep tucked away, out of sight.
“Whoever did this took his time,” he tells me. “He stayed calm. Had the wherewithal and physical strength to push those bolts through a human body. With that second shot, he made damn sure that when he walked away, Aden Karn would be dead.”
CHAPTER 6
I sit in the Explorer for several minutes with the window down, trying to make sense of everything I learned from the coroner. Early on, I’d hoped the death of Aden Karn was some kind of freak accident. Someone taking a blind shot or mishandling their weapon. Or even a prank gone awry, the perpetrator panicking and fleeing the scene. Now, it’s obvious none of those scenarios are practicable. Aden Karn was shot as he rode his bicycle on an isolated road. Once he was injured and on the ground, the killer approached him, inserted the bolt head into his mouth, and fired the weapon a second time. It was an up-close-and-personal execution. Cold-blooded and violent. What kind of person commits such a heinous act and why?
Someone intent on killing. A psychopath. A sadist.
All of the above …
The possibilities taunt me as I pull onto the highway and head south toward Painters Mill. According to Angela and Lester Karn, their son lived with his longtime friend Wayne Graber. According to Emily Byler, Wayne was also involved with the sale of the truck.
I hail Dispatch as I idle through Millersburg. “Anything come back on Graber?” I ask.
My second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, answers. “He’s clean, Chief.”
“I’m on my way to his residence, Jodie. Who’s on?”
“Skid,” she says.
“Tell him to ten-twenty-five,” I say, requesting that he meet me there.
“Roger that.”
I’m not expecting any problems with Graber, but since I don’t know him—and the individual who murdered Karn is as of yet unidentified and still at large—I err on the side of caution.
Aden Karn rented a house on Rockridge Road a few miles from where his body was discovered. It’s a quiet gravel stretch that cuts a path between two large cornfields and dead-ends at the south fork of Painters Creek. I’ve just passed a DEAD END sign peppered with holes from shotgun pellets when I spot the mailbox. The number finger-painted on the side matches the address, so I make the turn. The driveway takes me up an incline and through a grove of pine trees, and then a split-level house looms into view. The lower part is brick, the upper story constructed of board-and-batten siding. A big deck bisects the two levels, and beneath it is a portico-type garage.
To my right, a gravel two-track leads to a workshop with dual overhead doors, both of which are closed. Beyond is the greenbelt that runs along the creek. Closer, there’s a well-used burn pit. A couple of lawn chairs. A rusty fifty-gallon drum shot full of holes. There are no vehicles in sight.
It’s after six P.M.; Graber could still be at work or on his way home. I’d considered calling him, but I want to catch him unprepared. I park in front of the house and get out. A cacophony of birdsong greets me. The caws of crows in the cornfield behind the house. It’s so quiet I can hear the rattle of the stalks as a breeze eases through.
I hit my radio as I start toward the house. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene.
“Copy that.”
I take a shoddily constructed flagstone path to the portico garage. A charcoal grill lies on its side to my right. A welcome mat is caked with mud. The door is a nine-light that offers an unobscured view of a small living room. Secondhand furniture inside. Worn carpet that isn’t quite clean. Big-screen TV on the wall.
Standing slightly to one side, I knock, listening for Skid, taking in as many details as I can. Inside, a black cat skulks past the door. A couple of spindly plants beneath a window on the other side of the room. Through an interior doorway, I can see a galley-style kitchen with off-white linoleum and pine cabinets.
I tug out my cell and call Dispatch.
“Hey, Chief.”
“No one here at the residence. Can you get me a number and address for Mast Tiny Homes?” I ask, thinking he might still be at work.
“Call you right back.”
Dropping my cell into my pocket, I backtrack to the flagstone path and look around. That’s when I spot the souped-up Nova behind my Explorer. Uneasy surprise quivers through me when I see the driver’s-side door fly open. A male jumps out, moving fast, pauses to look at my vehicle. He’s tall with an athletic build. Fair-haired. Wearing dark trousers and a work shirt. He’s got his cell phone pressed to his ear, talking to someone, gesturing wildly.
I call out to him. “Hello?”
He startles at the sound of my voice, swings around to face me. “What’s going on?” he asks. “What happened?” He drops the cell into his pocket and breaks into a run, coming toward me at a fast clip.
Caution whispers a warning in my ear, reminding me there’s a shooter on the loose. I don’t know this man; I don’t know his intent or frame of mind.
Aware of my radio mike at my lapel, my .38 strapped to my hip, I raise my hand. “Stop right there,” I tell him. “Don’t get any closer, okay?”
His stride falters and he halts. He cocks his head and looks at me quizzically. “Someone just told me…” His voice breaks as if he’s run out of breath. “I just heard Aden Karn was killed.”
I don’t see any weapons on him, but I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Too intense. Too much emotion. Distressed.
I identify myself. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Wayne Graber,” he says. “I live here.”
The description I have for Graber fits. Twenty-two years old. Fair-haired. Blue-eyed. He’s wearing a Caterpillar cap. Too-long hair sticking out the back and curling at the ends. He’s nice-looking, with a runner’s build. His clothes are dirty as if he spent his day partaking in some form of manual labor.
“You just get off work?” Pulling out my shield, I close the distance between us, cautious, not getting too close.
“What the hell happened to Aden?” he demands. “Is it true?”
“Who told you that?” I ask.
He chokes back a sound of frustration. “His old man called. He could barely speak. Told me Aden was killed this morning. Is it true?”
Most Amish don’t have phones for personal use; the Ordnung, or unwritten rules of the church district, prohibit it unless it’s used for business purposes. I happen to know Lester Karn keeps a cell phone beneath the counter at his shop.
“I’m afraid so,” I say. “It happened this morning.”
“Oh my God.” He raises his hand to his forehead, presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “For God’s sake. He’s dead? What the hell happened to him?”