“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Were you friends with Karn?”
“We hung out sometimes. Drank beer. That’s it.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Just … since we were little kids.”
“And yet you weren’t friends? Didn’t know him well?”
“We were frickin’ Amish. When you’re Amish, everyone knows everyone.”
“When’s the last time you talked to him?”
“Shit.” He lowers his head, sets his fingertips against his temple as if trying to remember. “Three or four days before he was killed. I told you that.”
“Can anyone substantiate that?”
“I think Wayne was there. I mean, I went to Aden’s house to tell him I wanted my money back.”
“Did you argue?”
“Well … yeah. I mean, I wasn’t happy with him and I let him know it. For God’s sake, I gave him six hundred bucks and the truck turns out to be a piece of crap. Then he goes and repossesses the truck. So, yeah, I was a little hot. But, for God’s sake, I didn’t fuckin’ kill him!”
“Check the language,” Glock snaps from his place by the door.
Fisher glares at him.
I stare at Fisher, let the silence work. He can’t hold my gaze, and looks down at the table in front of him.
“What about Emily Byler?” I ask, keeping the question open ended.
“What about her?”
“You had a thing for her.”
Groaning, he slouches in the chair. “This is such a crock of shit.”
“Just answer the question.”
“Yeah, she’s cute. But I don’t have a thing for her. I was just … being a jerk. Messing with Karn.”
“Were you jealous?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
His expression tightens and he doesn’t answer.
“First you lie to me about your relationship about Karn. Then I hear you had a thing for his girlfriend.” I let the statement ride a moment and add, “That’s pretty close to motive.”
Fisher stands so abruptly, he nearly knocks over the chair. “I didn’t kill him!”
Glock comes off the wall. “Sit down.” He points at the chair. “Now.”
Looking defeated, Fisher sinks back into the chair.
I wait a beat. “Who else had a problem with Karn?” I ask.
“No one.” He shakes his head. “That’s why all of this is so crazy. Aden was a solid guy. People liked him. Hell, I liked him.”
“Except for when he repossessed the truck.”
Then he adds, “You want to know what else is crazy? I think eventually he would have given me my money back.”
“Vernon, did you kill him?”
He raises his gaze to mine. “No, ma’am.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
We lock gazes and for the span of a full minute neither of us speaks. “You’re free to go.”
Behind me, I hear Glock go to the door and open it.
Fisher scoots back the chair and rises, looks from me to Glock. “I need a ride home.”
“Officer Maddox will take you.”
When he brushes past me, I reach out and stop him, lock eyes again. “If I find out you’ve lied to me about anything we discussed, I’ll come for you. You got that?”
“I got it,” he mutters, and goes through the door.
CHAPTER 10
Every case has its own unique personality. Some are orderly from the get-go; not quite cooperative, but the puzzle pieces come together with some degree of congruity. Other cases are a study in chaos. Every move is a misstep. Every lead is a dead end. Every break, a false flag. The murder of Aden Karn falls into the latter category. It’s like trying to put together a puzzle in which the pieces simply do not fit.
The thing that bothers me most about the case is that I still don’t have a motive. Usually, if I can figure out the why, I can find the who. From all indications, Karn was well-liked. He was a people magnet, popular with the Amish and English alike. He worked hard, kept his nose clean, and didn’t engage in high-risk behaviors. The only conflict in his life involved Vernon Fisher over the repossessed truck—and Fisher’s obsession with the woman Karn planned to marry. As much as I dislike Fisher, I don’t think he murdered Karn.
What have I overlooked?
Was this about money? An owed debt? A repossessed truck? Or was this about something more personal? Was it about a woman? Is there a romantic relationship I don’t know about? Was Emily Byler the only female in his life?
It’s dusk by the time I leave the police station. I’m cranky and sleep-deprived, my productivity having long since played out. In the madness of the day, I managed to skip both lunch and dinner, and I taste acid from too much coffee. This is the point when a smart cop goes home to regroup. Take a shower, eat a decent meal, grab a few hours of sleep. Recharge the battery. There’s no shame in admitting you’ve hit a wall.
I tell myself I’m going to be that smart cop. But as I back out of my parking spot, the case rides me, a vicious master that’s deadweight on my shoulders, my mind, my conscience. And I know even if I go home, I won’t be able to turn it off. I’ll drag Tomasetti into it. I’ll pace or drink too much or lie sleepless, thinking of all the things I should be doing, all the things I should have done. I’ll spin my wheels and dig myself a little deeper into the hole this case has become.
Instead of heading north on Ohio 83 toward home, I make the turn onto the county road and then onto Hansbarger. I roll up to the place where Aden Karn was killed, park on the shoulder, and shut down the engine. The only indication that this spot was a crime scene is the flattened grass in the ditch, the tire ruts off the shoulder, and a single scrap of yellow caution tape discarded in the grass.
I get out, take a deep breath of evening air, and look around. It’s so quiet I can hear the buzz of insects. A mourning dove coos from the treetops in the woods. A forlorn sound that seems to echo the gravity of what transpired here. I walk to the place where Aden Karn had lain. The fire department hosed away the blood; there’s nothing left. On the gravel shoulder, someone placed a small bouquet of flowers, carnations and baby’s breath. A teddy bear sits next to a small book of poems. The citizens of Painters Mill paying their respects. A piece of paper protrudes from the pages of the book, so I bend to it, tug it out, and find myself looking down at a smiling image of Aden Karn that’s been printed on copy paper. Oddly, someone has used a red marker to draw an arrow sticking out of his chest. At the bottom of the page someone scrawled:
Vann di meind uf flayshlichi sacha ksetzt is, sell fiaht zu’m doht.
It’s a Bible passage; Romans if I’m not mistaken. In English it means: “For to be carnally minded is death.” “What?” I mutter. Who would write that particular passage in Deitsch? What does it mean? And who would draw such a crude picture and leave it at the site of a murder? A prankster? Someone who didn’t like Karn? Someone who hated him?
I walk to the shoulder and scan the trees at the edge of the woods, but there’s no one there. Tugging a baggie from my duty belt, I slip the paper into it. Everything I know about Aden Karn churns in my brain. Not a single person I talked to had a negative thing to say about him.