“Certainly puts a dent in Karn’s good-kid reputation, doesn’t it?”
“Opens some doors as far as a motive for murder, too.”
Tomasetti cuts a slice of bread from the loaf and hands it to me. “You checked males who are close to Weaver,” he says. “Boyfriend. Father. Uncle. Grandfather.”
“The only person who knows what happened to her is her mother.”
“Any chance she—”
“No.”
“That level of violence with a fifteen-year-old girl.” He says the words slowly, thinking aloud. “What if it wasn’t an isolated incident, but a pattern?”
I sip wine, surprised to find that my earlier exhaustion is gone, my mind beginning to spool. “If that kind of behavior was a pattern in a town the size of Painters Mill, it seems like I would have caught wind of it.”
“Twenty-one is young. He was just getting started.”
“Maybe.” My mind has already surged ahead to another possibility. “Also worth noting that he was Amish. That’s relevant because even if someone in the community knew what Karn had done, there’s a good chance they wouldn’t come forward.”
“Why not?”
“When you’re Amish,” I say, “and you screw up or commit some perceived sin, it isn’t arrest you have to worry about, it’s God and your community. If you stand before the congregation and confess your sin, you are forgiven.”
“So there’s no need for the cops,” he says sardonically.
“It doesn’t always happen that way, of course, but it’s feasible.”
“Taking that mindset into account, there’s a better chance that a woman or girl who’s been victimized wouldn’t come forward.” He swirls the wine in his glass. “If Karn was a predator and the behavior was a pattern, maybe one of his victims decided to mete out a little revenge.”
“Crossbow doesn’t seem like a weapon of choice for a female.”
“Maybe it was a boyfriend. A brother. Or father.”
“It’s a viable theory, but no one else has come forward.” I sigh. “Damn it.”
He considers for a moment, then looks at me, his gaze searching mine. “Maybe Karn’s lousy behavior with women is the missing link.”
It takes me a moment to grasp his point. When I do, I feel a piece of the puzzle click into place. “Rossberger was a prostitute.”
“Karn hooked up with her somehow. Brought her to Painters Mill. Paid her for sex.”
I ponder the dynamics of that, the players involved, and I realize it could fit. “How is it that they both ended up dead? Separate locations. Different ways.”
“Taking into account what happened between Karn and the Weaver girl. Maybe he got rough with her. Lost his temper. Took things too far.”
I stare at him, a shock wave moving through me. “Are you saying Karn murdered Rossberger?”
“I know it’s a leap, but I’m just putting a theory out there for thought.”
The premise is so far removed from the way I’d been thinking about the case, I can barely get my head around it. My mind runs with it anyway. “Okay, let’s say they were together. He got rough with her.” I look down at the table, then at Tomasetti. “Rossberger’s mother told me her daughter didn’t put up with any crap.”
“Maybe she didn’t like it, didn’t like him, and she told him to piss off.”
“He lost his temper and killed her.” I shake my head. “It feels like too much of a jump. And how is it that Karn ended up dead?”
He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Maybe she had a boyfriend. Or pimp. He found out what happened. And he did away with Karn.”
I nod, but my thoughts are in turmoil because while we might be on to something, the theory is far from proven. “Might be a good time for me to speak with the people closest to him again.”
“Like who?”
“His fiancée. Best friend. Parents.” I think about that a second. “Rossberger’s mother, too.”
We’ve finished eating. Our wineglasses are empty. My head is pleasantly fuzzy. But I’m also exhausted.
I look at Tomasetti. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re good at this?”
“Making spaghetti?”
“That, too.” Rising, I go to him, bend, and brush my mouth against his cheek. “Thank you for being such a good sounding board.”
“There are those rare moments in which I earn my keep.”
“One of these days some lucky girl is going to snatch you up.” I reach for our plates.
He sets his hand over mine and stops me. “That’ll wait.”
Rising, he takes my hands in his and pulls me to him. “What do you say we put these two cases to rest for a few hours?”
“Tomasetti, that’s the best suggestion I’ve heard all day.”
CHAPTER 18
The things we learn in our formative years stay with us. Right or wrong, the lessons of our youth shape our adult view of the world. Having been raised Amish, I was taught to believe the best about people. Most of the time that philosophy serves me well. I still believe that the majority of people are fundamentally good. As a cop, though, I’m keenly aware that many are not.
It’s a little before eight A.M. and I’m sitting in the Explorer in the parking lot of Mast Tiny Homes, waiting for Wayne Graber to show up for work. Despite having spent some quality time with Tomasetti last night, I didn’t get much sleep. After a few hours of tossing and turning, I downed half a pot of coffee, showered, and headed to the station. By seven thirty, I was on the road to Millersburg.
Graber pulls in a few minutes before eight and heads into the main workshop. I give him ten minutes and I follow him inside. The workshop is large and noisy, with half a dozen men running saws and nail guns. The air smells of fresh-cut wood and oil stain. I spot Graber standing outside a break room, drinking coffee out of a paper cup, talking to another man. I feel curious eyes on my back as I head that way.
“Wayne?”
He swings around, his expression surprised. “Chief Burkholder.”
The man he was speaking with gives me a quick nod and moves away.
“I know this isn’t a good time.” I extend my hand for a shake to let him know this is a friendly visit. “Just a few quick follow-up questions.”
“I can spare a few minutes.” He picks up a five-gallon can of paint and a bucket full of tools—a roller with a handle, brushes, plastic sheeting, a tray, and a bundle of stir paddles—and nods toward the rear door. “I’m already clocked in, so if you don’t mind, can we talk while I work?”
“Sure.” I motion toward the tools. “Looks like you’re staining again today.”
“These guys make the homes as fast as I can paint and stain them.”
We go through the door to the gravel courtyard behind the workshop. He walks between two cabins and stops in front of a third structure that’s bare wood.
I make a show of admiring it. “Now that’s nice looking.”
“It’s custom,” he tells me. “Sort of a play on the modern farmhouse style, only smaller scale.”