“What about security cams?” I ask. “Game cams? Any businesses or homes we can check?”
“I’ll get some deputies on it first light.” Rasmussen punches something into his cell. “We get anything on Rossberger’s cell phone?”
“We expedited a warrant to the provider,” Tomasetti tells him. “We’re still waiting. I’ll light a fire first thing in the morning.”
“What about her vehicle?” I ask.
“We got an active BOLO,” Rasmussen says. “State Highway Patrol is on alert. As it is, we got nothing.”
“You get anything from Karn’s neighbors?” Rasmussen asks.
“We canvassed the area around the crime scene where Karn was killed,” I tell him. “But we haven’t talked to his neighbors about seeing a female or a red vehicle. I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.”
The sheriff looks at his watch. “I don’t think we’re going to figure it out tonight. I couldn’t think my way out of a damn box at the moment. Let’s sleep on it. Hit it again tomorrow.” He lifts his jacket off the back of the chair nearest him. “I’m going to bed.”
CHAPTER 21
I have no idea if my theory about Aden Karn is anywhere close to reality or if I’m completely off base. I don’t have so much as a single link and I have exactly zero in terms of hard evidence. Rasmussen is of the belief that Rossberger had an as-of-yet-unidentified boyfriend who found out she was prostituting herself, flew into a rage, and murdered her and, later, killed the man who paid her for sex. While we do have multiple theories to explore, we’re no closer to having a suspect.
If Christina Weaver’s story is true, there’s no doubt Karn had a dark side. Did that dark side play a role in his death? A cop should never blame the victim for any crime committed against them. It’s wrong on every level, professionally unethical, and personally corrupt. That said, an investigator must have the temerity to take a hard look at a victim who participated in high-risk behaviors or lived a reckless lifestyle, because those two things can raise the odds of someone becoming the victim of a crime.
This morning, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I sent Mona to the Willowdell Motel to take a look at the check-in register, to see if Karn or Rossberger paid for a room in the days before the murder. Glock is talking to the neighbors near Karn’s residence in the hope someone saw Rossberger’s car or a woman fitting her description. I dispatched Skid to Buckeye Construction to confirm the hours that Karn worked and to find out if he took any time off or left early. I don’t expect any earth-shattering information to come of any of it, but at least we’re not twiddling our thumbs.
It’s midmorning by the time I pull into the lane of the Byler farm. I find Clara and her husband, Andy, sitting at the picnic table, a sweating pitcher of what looks like lemonade between them.
“Guder mariye,” I call out as I approach. Good morning.
“Hi, Chief Burkholder,” Clara says wearily.
I reach the table. “I heard it was a good service yesterday.”
“We think so,” she says.
“A comfort to be sure.” Andy cocks his head. “You have news for us?”
“Actually, I was hoping to speak to Emily for a few minutes. Is she around?”
“She’s inside. Lying down, I think.” The Amish woman hits me with a stern look. “It’s been a trying few days to say the least. Might be best just to let her have some peace for a day or two.”
I look down at the ground, then raise my gaze to hers. “I know this is a difficult time. For all of you. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”
Andy starts to say something; I see the protest in his eyes, but his wife sets her hand on his shoulder and rises. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside. “I’ll take you to her.”
I follow her up the porch steps and into an overheated kitchen that smells as if it’s been cooked in all morning. Clara motions me into a chair at the table. I watch her continue into the living room and then the hall. She stops at the first door, pushes it open, and peers inside. “Chief Burkholder is here to see you,” she says in Deitsch.
A lengthy silence and then comes the whispered reply from Emily. “What does she want?”
“Just a few questions, I reckon. Says it’s important. You get yourself together and come on out now. You hear?”
Clara makes eye contact with me as she enters the kitchen. “Sis unvergleichlich hees dohin.” It’s terribly hot in here. She goes to the gas-powered refrigerator and pulls out a plastic pitcher. “I got some mint tea left over.”
“Dank,” I tell her.
The woman sets two glasses on the table, fills them with tea, and exits through the back door.
I’ve just taken my first sip when Emily enters the kitchen. She’s wearing a black dress that’s wrinkled, a black bonnet over her kapp, tights, and practical black shoes. Though she and Aden Karn weren’t yet married, she’ll likely continue to wear black for several months, while she’s in mourning. There’s an untidiness about her appearance that signals something is amiss. A few strands of hair have come loose to hang down in her face. Tights bagging at her ankles. Worse, her eyes have a hollow look that wasn’t there last time I spoke to her.
“I know this has been a terrible few days for you,” I begin. “I’ll keep it short.”
“It’s okay,” she replies in a monotone voice.
Moving as if in a trance, she goes to the cabinet next to the sink and pulls out a glass, fills it with tap water, and then brings it to the table and sits. She hasn’t noticed the tea her mother already set out. It’s as if she isn’t quite there.
For an instant, I consider delaying talking to her out of concern, but I think of where I am in terms of the case and set my sympathy aside.
“Did you find out who did it?” Emily asks after a moment.
“Still working on it.”
“How could someone do something like that?” she whispers. “I still can’t believe he’s gone. Such an awful thing. I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Someone who’s very troubled and angry.”
She looks at the two glasses in front of her as if trying to remember why they’re there.
“Do you know of anyone who might’ve been angry with Aden?” I ask.
“There is no one.” I can tell by the way she shakes her head that she’s going to give me more of the same I’ve heard about Karn a hundred times before. “Everyone loved Aden. He was sweet. Made people laugh. He helped them when they needed it.”
I think of Christina Weaver, the scene Jimmie Baines described in the parking lot of the Brass Rail, and I feel a surge of impatience, take a moment to frame my question in a way that won’t upset her. “I’ve been talking to a lot of people who knew Aden,” I say. “Some of those people are under the impression that he had a temper.”
“That’s just crazy talk,” she says. “He hardly ever got mad. Had the patience of a saint.” Despite the certitude in her voice, her gaze skitters away from mine.