“His blood?” I ask. “Someone else’s?”
Another lengthy pause. This time, he looks around, at anything but me, as if trying to find some mental or emotional refuge. His mouth trembles. “It was on his … underthings. He wore the English kind, you know. White. And there was blood.”
A dozen innocent explanations buzz my brain. A cut finger. A blister on a thumb. A lost bandage. “Did you ask him about it?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Did you—”
“No!” He cuts me off. “I’ve said all I’m going to say, Kate Burkholder. That is going to have to be enough. No more questions. Not about Aden. Not about anything. And if you can manage, we’d prefer if you didn’t come back.”
CHAPTER 20
“One step forward, two goddamn steps back.” Sheriff Mike Rasmussen stands against the wall, his arms folded at his chest, looking tapped out and ready to call it a day.
It’s ten P.M. and I’m sitting at the table in the storage-closet-turned-meeting-room Mona has fondly dubbed “the war room.” Tomasetti is sitting across from me, fingers pecking on the tablet in front of him. The rest of my officers and a patrol investigator with the Ohio State Highway Patrol left an hour ago after a frustratingly unproductive briefing. The whiteboard on the wall is tattooed with snatches of information that’s been scrawled, erased, and re-scrawled, the blue marker smeared across its face like a bruise.
In the last hour, the three of us have gone through the file on the homicide of Aden Karn twice, accomplishing little, and arguing a lot. Now, Paige Rossberger’s file is open in front of me; the table is papered with reports and photographs, official forms, and handwritten notes. In the hours we’ve been here, all of it has run together into a mass of data overload.
“I don’t see a connection.” Rasmussen sighs. “There’s no link between the victims. Karn was Amish. A farm kid from Painters Mill. Rossberger was English. A grocery clerk and part-time hooker from Massillon. I don’t think these two homicides are related.”
“Too much of a coincidence not to be,” Tomasetti mutters.
“Gotta be something there,” I add.
Rasmussen tosses us an annoyed expression. “According to the geniuses that have graced this room this evening, we’re fresh out of ideas.”
I look down at the cup of coffee in front of me that’s long since gone cold. I didn’t want to leave without finding something—anything—that might move the investigations forward.
Shoving the mug aside, I pick up my notes from the day Glock and I interviewed June Rossberger. The words are blurred.
No ties to Painters Mill
Fired from job
Possibly still working the street
Not answering cell—calls or text—responds to texts
No boyfriend
No close friends/associates
No known enemies
Vehicle missing—red Altima—BOLO!!
“If I had to guess, I’d say it was one of her men.”
“Only dates safe guys.”
I drop the papers with enough flourish to draw the attention of both men.
“Paige Rossberger’s mother told me her daughter only dated ‘safe’ guys,” I say.
Rasmussen sighs. “I’m just not buying into the Amish-kid-calls-hooker theory.”
“It’s viable,” Tomasetti puts in.
“Paige Rossberger was careful about who she hooked up with.” I look from man to man. “She would have considered Karn safe. He was Amish. A twenty-one-year-old farm kid. He called her for a date. And she came.”
“Loose connection.” But some of Rasmussen’s skepticism falls away. “If you want to run with that theory, you’re going to have to back it up with something.”
I don’t have anything solid, but I run with it if only to see where it goes, if there’s something there besides a brick wall. “According to his roommate, Karn’s girlfriend refused to have sex with him until after they were married. But Karn liked women, liked sex, didn’t want to wait. Let’s say he made contact with Rossberger.”
“He didn’t own a car,” Rasmussen points out.
“She did,” I counter. “The red Altima, by the way, which is still missing. Let’s say she drove from Massillon to Painters Mill and they met up.” I remind them of the sex toys I found in Karn’s closet. “According to Wayne Graber, Karn was sexually active with other women, even though he was engaged. So, it’s feasible that they met up.”
“Scenarios?” says Tomasetti.
Rasmussen goes first. “Where did they meet?”
“Karn’s place,” I say. “Wayne Graber told me Karn had brought women there on occasion.”
“Would be easy to check registration with the Willowdell Motel, too,” Tomasetti puts in.
I make a note to follow up. “I’ll do it.”
“Sex toys and hookers is kind of risqué for an Amish kid, isn’t it?” Rasmussen mutters.
“Fits with the profile we’ve built on Karn.” Tomasetti keeps pushing forward. “When did they meet up?”
I flip the page of the legal pad. “I’ll see if I can get my hands on Karn’s work schedule. Talk to his roommate and see if I can come up with a timeline of when he might’ve been free. Compare all of that to the time of death from the coroner.”
The meeting has become an open brainstorming session. Verbal free association. No direction or self-censoring. It’s a technique used to unearth new ideas or take an investigation in a different direction. Put forth theories no matter how unlikely. Discard what you don’t use. Dig into what’s worth digging into.
Tomasetti picks it up from there. “Rossberger was killed first. She was sexually assaulted. Strangled. Asphyxiated.”
“This is where the theory falls apart.” Rasmussen takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “It’s a fucking leap. Karn doesn’t even have a record.”
I remind him of my conversation with Christina Weaver. “She’s credible, Mike. I couldn’t get the whole story from her, but the incident was extremely violent. Her mother had to take her to the doctor. That’s all they would say.”
The sheriff digests the information, his mouth looking as though he’s bitten into something rancid. “Jesus.”
“I think Mr. All-American Boy had a dark side,” Tomasetti says. “He meets up with Rossberger. Takes her somewhere private, rapes and murders her. Wraps her body in plastic and dumps it.”
The sheriff throws up his hands. “Okay, so we add a dead guy to our suspect list?”
Tomasetti laughs, but it’s a cynical sound. “And of course, it leaves us with a big, fat glaring question.”
“Who killed Karn?” I mutter.
“I think the pimp or boyfriend angle might work,” Rasmussen says.
I plow ahead. “Let’s say the boyfriend followed her. Realized she had sex with another guy. He stalked her. Accosted her. Murdered her. Dumped her body. The next day, he takes care of Karn.”
“Again, all of that would have required some degree of privacy,” Rasmussen points out.
Tomasetti steps in. “There are several deserted properties in the area. Abandoned barns. Plenty of woods.”