“Emily Byler?”
He nods. “Aden was pretty smitten with her.”
“Do they get along?” I ask.
“They were tight. Everyone figured they were going to get married.”
“Did Aden see any other women?”
He looks away, shoves his hands into his pockets, and shrugs.
“Wayne?”
He sighs. “He might’ve … you know, seen one or two over the last few months. English girls, you know.” A ruddy hue climbs into his cheeks. “Look, he’s a guy. He’d just discovered his freedom. He liked women, if you know what I mean.”
“Any angry boyfriends?” I ask. “Or husbands?”
“No, ma’am, nothing like that. I mean, he’s pretty discreet about stuff like that. Especially since he was Amish and … you know, seeing Emily and all.”
“Do you have any of their names?” I ask. “The women he was with?”
“No, ma’am.”
I shove the notebook into my pocket. “Do you mind if we take a quick look around?”
His eyes skate from mine to Skid and back to me. “If you think it’ll help…”
He seems surprised by the request, so I add, “With your permission to search, I can forgo getting a warrant. That’ll save us some time. The sooner we can find the person responsible and get him off the street, the better for everyone involved.”
“Sure, just … do whatever you need to do. I’ll let you in.”
I make eye contact with Skid, then gesture toward the workshop. He nods and starts that way.
I follow Graber to the house, wait in the garage portico while he unlocks the door. “Sorry about the mess,” he mutters as we go inside. “Neither one of us is a very good housekeeper.”
The house is the epitome of a bachelor pad. There’s a ratty sofa, the arm damaged from cat scratching. A thin layer of dust on a 1980s coffee table. A pair of sneakers tossed on the floor.
“Did Aden have a desk or office?” I ask.
“Naw … just a bedroom.” Graber motions. “Room at the end of the hall.”
I catch a glimpse of another cat darting out of the bathroom on my left as I start down the hall. The door to my right is closed. I continue to the door at the end and push it open. The room is small and dark and smells faintly of dirty socks. A navy bedsheet secured with nails covers the single window. I flick the switch, but the light doesn’t come on, so I pull out my mini Maglite, shine it around the room. There’s a closet to my left, the door standing ajar. Twin-size bed, unmade. Next to it, a night table with three drawers. A rickety-looking chest against the wall.
I start with the night table, slide open the top drawer. Not much inside. A disposable lighter. A roll of masking tape. Deck of cards. Methodically, I go through each drawer. A rubber-banded stack of paid bills—electric and cable TV. A receipt from the Walmart in Millersburg. A corncob pipe that smells vaguely of marijuana. An old Polaroid camera, no film. Nothing of interest.
I go to the bed, kneel, and look beneath it. A wadded-up T-shirt. Box of tissues. I lift the mattress just enough to see beneath. A brown envelope stares back at me. I pull it out. Nothing written on the outside. I peer inside, pluck out six photos. I try to suppress a feeling of shock at the sight of female genitalia, close-up and raw. Quickly, I shuffle through. There’s nothing written on the back. No face and no way to identify the woman who was photographed or the photographer.
There’s no law against viewing or possessing pornography in the state of Ohio as long as it doesn’t involve a minor child and the person being photographed consented. Adults are free to do as they please. With a young man having been murdered, these photos may or may not be relevant. As far as I know, Karn could have been killed for posting revenge porn. While I don’t have an official warrant, I do have permission to search. If I feel the need to take a piece of evidence that may or may not be related to the case, I can do so and follow up with an official warrant later.
Using my lapel mike, I hail Skid. “What’s your twenty?”
“Just finished up the workshop.”
“Anything?”
“Just a bunch of damn wasps.”
“I’m inside the house. Back bedroom. Bring your ECK, will you?” I say, referring to the evidence collection kit all my officers keep in their vehicles.
“Roger that.”
I put the photos back in the envelope and set it on the bed. Then I move on to the closet, open the door, and shine my beam around. Karn was neat for a twenty-one-year-old bachelor. Work clothes on one side. A couple of nice shirts and trousers on the other. A pair of sneakers toe-in against the baseboard. There’s a shelf a foot or so higher than my head. I can’t see if there’s anything on it, so I run my hands over the surface. My fingertips brush against what feels like a cardboard box that’s just out of sight.
“Chief?”
I glance over my shoulder to see Skid enter the room. “Good timing,” I say. “Something back there I can’t reach.”
“I got it.” He crosses to the closet, stands on his tiptoes, and pulls a shoebox off the shelf. “There you go.” He hands me the box.
I open it, feel a rush of heat in my cheeks at the sight of the purple dildo. “Well…”
“Uh.” Skid laughs, but it’s an embarrassed sound.
Glad I’m wearing gloves, I set my beam in the box. I see several packaged condoms. A tube of lubricant. A vibrator.
Skid clears his throat. “All righty then.”
“Yep.” I motion to the envelope on the bed. “There are some … pornographic photos, too.”
“Polaroid?”
I nod. “No idea if it’s important or relevant.”
“Seems like a little much for an Amish kid.”
“I think so, too.”
He nods, not quite looking at me. “Are we going to take it?”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding, so I don’t smile. “I’ll just take a few pics in case this turns out to be some kind of revenge-porn thing. We can always come back later if we need to.”
We spend another twenty minutes in the house looking through the kitchen drawers, the desk off the living room, even the bathroom and garage, but there’s nothing of interest, certainly nothing remotely connected to the murder of Aden Karn. The one scenario that rises above everything else is the disagreement about the truck. Six hundred dollars isn’t exactly killing money. It’s a sad fact, but I’ve seen people killed for less.
CHAPTER 7
The early stages of a homicide investigation are a frenetic mix of interviewing witnesses, false starts, hard stops, and sleep deprivation. It’s been nearly twelve hours since Aden Karn’s body was discovered and all I have to show for my efforts is a half-baked theory and a headache the size of Lake Erie.
I’ve put multiple calls in to Mike Rasmussen, the sheriff of Holmes County. I’ve also called John Tomasetti, who is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation—not to mention the man I’ll be marrying in a few days. Unfortunately for me, neither man has returned my calls.
I’m in my cubbyhole office at the police station, trying to jump-start a brain that’s running on caffeine and frustration, when my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, peeks in.