As I back out of the driveway, I recap my conversation with Christina Weaver.
“Holy cow.” Mona shakes her head as if the information won’t quite settle. “That’s the last thing I expected to hear about Karn.” She looks at me. “You believe Weaver?”
“I do.”
Her brows knit. “So if Karn was a mean drunk and abusive toward women…” Mona is still mulling what she’s learned about Karn, trying to figure out how it fits into the big picture. “Might be a motive in there somewhere.”
“I think it’s worth checking.”
She nods. “You put your hands on someone’s sister or girlfriend, someone might get pissed off and decide to do something about it.”
I glance over at her. “Call Lois. Ask her to run Yoder through LEADS. See if she has any outstanding warrants. See if she can come up with an address.”
She’s already reaching for her cell phone.
* * *
Mandi Yoder lives in a four-unit apartment building in Painters Mill, two blocks from the slaughterhouse. It’s a two-story brick structure with peeling white paint and an ornate door some creative soul has painted a pretty shade of turquoise. Mona and I take a cracked sidewalk to the main entrance door, which isn’t quite closed. I push it open enough for us to slide through and step into a small vestibule. There are two apartments downstairs, neither of which matches the number I have, so we take the curved staircase to the second level.
The landing is uncomfortably hot and smells of cigarette smoke, week-old meat loaf, and feces.
“Someone forgot to take out the trash,” Mona mutters.
“Or clean the litter box.”
I’ve just raised my hand to knock when the door swings open. Mandi Yoder startles at the sight of us, but falls quickly into a tough persona. She’s so tall I have to look up to meet her gaze. She’s rail thin with heavily tattooed forearms. A cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She eyes me with a combination of surprise and disdain.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
I have my badge at the ready. “Mandi Yoder?”
“Yep.”
“I need to ask you some questions about an investigation I’m working on,” I say.
“Actually, I’m on my way to work, so—”
“This will only take a few minutes.”
She looks down her nose at me and then Mona, as if trying to decide which of us to slug first. “Whatever.” She turns on her heel and walks back into her apartment. “You have two minutes, so make it quick.”
We follow her into a messy living room with tall ceilings and scuffed walls. Shabby furniture. A bong is tucked into the lower shelf of an end table. Down the hall, a radio blasts out an old Rush tune. The smell of a litter box that hasn’t been cleaned hangs in the air.
She doesn’t invite us to sit, so we stand next to a coffee table piled with unopened mail, most of which look like past-due bills.
“You’re on rumspringa?” I begin.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m no longer Amish.” She taps a brow piercing. “They don’t much care for gay people so here I am.”
I nod. “I’m investigating the murder of Aden Karn.”
“Heard about what happened.”
“I was told you knew him.”
“Someone told you wrong.”
“But you’d met him?” I ask. “Spent some time with him?”
“I met him once or twice. In passing. I wouldn’t call that spending time, would you?”
“I understand there was an incident at the Brass Rail between you and Karn.”
“I don’t recall anything like that.”
“It happened a couple of months ago,” I tell her. “In the rear parking lot.”
She laughs. “Please tell me you don’t think I killed him.”
“I heard he put his hands on you. Got rough.”
“You heard wrong. I barely knew the guy. End of story.”
“Mandi, we just want to know what happened,” I tell her. “You’re not in any trouble.”
“That’s good since I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You were in Aden’s car that night,” Mona puts in. “You argued.”
She lets out a lengthy sigh, not taking any of this as seriously as she should. “That frickin’ Jimmie Baines is a cokehead. Believe me, I know. You can tell him I said that.”
“It would be tremendously helpful if you just told us what happened,” I say.
She rolls her eyes with drama. “That’s the thing. Nothing happened. There was no incident. No one was involved in anything. And Jimmie Baines is full of shit.” She enunciates the words as if she’s speaking to a two-year-old, then leans close to me, and whispers, “Would it help if I said it in Deitsch? I hear you couldn’t cut being Amish either.”
“Was there anyone else there that evening who might talk to us?” I ask.
Frowning, she studies us as if we’re a couple of skinny mongrels begging for food. Then she points at the door. “Out.”
“Mandi—” I begin.
She cuts me off. “Hit the road.”
I reach into my pocket, pull out my card, and take a moment to write my cell number on the back. “Call me if you change your mind about talking.”
“Whatever.” She takes the card, flips it like a playing card onto the floor. “I have to get to work. Now get out or I’m going to file a complaint.”
* * *
Back in the Explorer, Mona and I sit there a moment, not speaking.
“I don’t think it would be much of a stretch to say we hit a dead end with Yoder,” she says after a moment.
I start the engine. “Yeah, I don’t think she’s going to come around.”
She heaves a sigh. “What now, Chief?”
I glance over at her. “When’s the last time you slept?”
“Um…”
“Go home and grab a few hours and a shower. When you’re back, get with Pickles. I want you guys to expand our search for retailers who’ve sold crossbows. Include Wooster in the search. If you can find any outlying sporting goods locations, include them, too. It’ll take some doing, but it’s … something.”
CHAPTER 19
I used to subscribe to the belief that a person’s loved ones are the people who know them best. It wasn’t until I had some life experience under my belt that I learned the premise couldn’t be further from the truth. Sometimes a person’s loved ones are the last to know—or the last to acknowledge—a fault or weakness. That’s especially true when you’re Amish.
Aden Karn was laid to rest this morning. The funeral was held at the Byler farm, mainly because the barn is big enough to accommodate a large group. I didn’t attend; a funeral is a time that belongs to loved ones and family and I gave them that because they are due. I did, however, park on the shoulder at the end of the lane and watch the procession of buggies pull in. The Amish turned out by the hundreds.
While I eschewed the funeral, I did attend the burial service at the graabhof, or cemetery. I stuck to the periphery of the gathering, doing my best not to intrude. I observed the mourners from afar, looking for any unusual behavior—excessive crying or someone making a scene—conspicuous absences, or the presence of a stranger. But there was nothing unusual. Angela and Lester Karn stood graveside, their expressions downcast and stoic. Emily Byler, clad in black and fighting tears, stood with her parents. Wayne Graber was one of the pallbearers. Even the young men from the gas station showed, dressed in their best Amish attire. I’m loath to approach the Karns on the day they laid their son to rest, but the questions burning inside me will not wait.