“Everyone’s here, Chief,” she says, referring to my small team of officers. “Including the pizza.”
Frazzled as I am, I smile. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that.”
Snapping up my legal pad and the file I’ve amassed in the last hours, I follow her to the meeting room. It’s an impossibly small space jammed with a beat-up table, six mismatched chairs, and my entire team of officers—all five of them. The aroma of pepperoni and yeasty crust wafts from the pizza box on the tabletop. I go to the half lectern at the head of the table.
“Sorry for the late meeting, but I think all of you have heard about the murder this morning.” I look down at the two squares of pizza on a paper plate someone has set out for me. “I think we can eat and talk at the same time.”
“We’ll see,” Pickles mutters from his place across from me.
Since everyone has already put in a full day and then some, I get right to it, outlining everything I learned from my visit to the morgue.
“I’m leaning toward the scenario that Karn was targeted,” I tell them. “The killer knew his route. Knew his routine. Evidently, he felt he could get away without being seen.”
“He picked the right spot.” Mona Kurtz is a rookie and my only female officer, but she never hesitates to jump in with her thoughts when we’re brainstorming, a trait I appreciate very much. “Hansbarger Road is pretty secluded.”
“A lot of trees out that way, too,” Skid adds.
I look at Pickles. “What did you and T.J. find out about crossbow and/or bolt sales in the area?”
He straightens, flips open his notebook. “I checked with Larry Peterson over at Nussbaum Sports first thing. They do not sell crossbow or combination bows. I also spoke with Pat Donlevy over at Donlevy Sporting Goods.” He glances down at his notes. “In the last six months, they sold three crossbows, one combination bow, and half a dozen boxes of bolts.”
He rattles off the names of four individuals, two of whom I’m familiar with in a nod-on-the-street kind of way. “Any of them have a criminal record?” I ask.
“They’re clean,” Pickles puts in.
Which doesn’t automatically rule them out, but always good to check. “Go talk to them. Find out if they have any connection to Karn. See if they have alibis. Find out if they’ve let anyone borrow their bow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If nothing pans out, let’s expand our six-month time frame to one year and include sporting goods stores in Millersburg.” I look at Pickles. “Speaking of, I want you to run up to the Walmart there and see if anything pops.”
“I’m on it,” the old man says.
I glance down at my notes. “Glock, tell me about the canvass.”
“I checked every farm on the block, Chief.” He denotes the roads that intersect Hansbarger. “I hit two more farms off the township road. Some of the folks mentioned seeing Karn riding his bike, mornings and evening. No one recalled seeing him this morning. No one saw any other individuals. No one on foot. No vehicles. No buggies or bikes. Nothing unusual.”
“Do any of them have a security camera or game cam?”
“One game cam.” He grimaces. “Battery was dead.”
“Did you contact Buckeye Construction?” I ask, referring to Aden Karn’s employer.
“Talked to his boss, Herb Schollenberger. He says Karn was well-liked. Easy to get along with. Reliable. Never missed a day. No problems with coworkers or clients.”
“Someone didn’t like him,” Pickles mutters.
“Roommate, Wayne Graber, told me he rides with a guy by the name of Kevin Waddell,” I say.
“He lives in Painters Mill.” Glock glances at his phone, scrolls to his notes, and rattles off an address.
I add it to my notes. “Anyone else ride with them?” I ask.
“A couple of Amish guys.” He recites their names, both of which are familiar. “They all meet at the Lutheran church.”
“Go talk to them, will you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I look at Jodie, who’s standing in the doorway, listening for the switchboard. “Run Waddell through LEADS. I also want a tip line set up. Five-hundred-dollar reward for information leading to an arrest. Callers can remain anonymous. Get that info out on social media. Call Steve Ressler at The Advocate, too. I think some people still read newspapers. If you need help, draft Lois and Margaret.”
Flashing me a thumbs-up, she backs from the room.
I look out at my officers. “I don’t have to tell you we’re on mandatory OT until we figure out who did this,” I tell them. “Keep on it. My cell is on twenty-four seven.”
* * *
The brutality of Aden Karn’s murder occupies my thoughts as I drive to the mobile home park where Kevin Waddell lives. I’ve never owned or fired a crossbow, but I’ve seen them used. They seem heavy and unwieldy, slow to load, and they cannot be concealed. Only someone comfortable with that kind of weapon would use it for such a high-risk endeavor as murder. Hansbarger Road isn’t well traveled; there are only a handful of farms out that way. Whoever ambushed Karn didn’t happen upon him and commit an impulse kill. No, this was planned. The killer knew Karn would be there. He knew the area. And he was confident enough in his skill as a crossbowman to know he could make the shot and get away without being seen.
Kevin Waddell lives in a newish double-wide in a pretty area shaded by mature elm and oak trees. A dozen mobile homes are generously spaced with concrete driveways and well-maintained yards. I park curbside and take the sidewalk to the deck. I know even before I knock there’s no one home. There’s no car in the driveway. No sound of a TV or stereo coming from inside.
“You’re striking out, Burkholder,” I mutter.
I walk back to the Explorer and slide behind the wheel, sit there for a moment. It’s getting late and I’m tired and cranky. One of the most difficult things for a cop to do when working on a homicide case is go home. That’s especially true if the murderer is at large. How can you walk away when the people you’ve sworn to serve and protect are in danger? Some cops can turn off that nagging, agitated voice. They can curb the urge to keep pushing. I’m the cop that keeps going, past my endurance, sometimes to my own detriment. Good or bad or somewhere in between, that’s the way I roll.
Sighing, I tug out my cell and pull up a map of the area. Buckeye Construction is just south of Millersburg. I shrink the map, isolate the place where the murder occurred. I find the pickup point at the Lutheran church. I measure the distance to my current location. If I were to draw a line from point to point to point, the triangle would include the address of the one place that might call out to a man after a long day. The Brass Rail Saloon.
I pick up my cell and call Dispatch. “Anything come back on Waddell?” I ask.
“No outstanding warrants. Simple assault conviction six years ago. Happened in Wooster. Sixty days in jail. Paid a fine. He’s also had a couple of OVIs. First offense four years ago. Second offense, three years ago. License suspended for a year. Thirty days in jail. Paid a fine.”
“I’m at his place now, but he’s not here,” I tell her. “I’m going to swing by the Brass Rail before I head back to the station.”