“I’m glad you came.”
After a moment, I look down at the memorial. “What do you say we swing by the florist and bring back some flowers before we head home?”
He doesn’t smile, but I see the warmth in his eyes. “I think that’s a fine idea.”
Hand in hand, we walk back to the Tahoe.
* * *
I spend the rest of the afternoon locked in my office, rereading every scrap of paper and digital record I’ve amassed on the murders of Paige Rossberger and Aden Karn so far. I study the autopsy reports and photos, picking apart every detail, every word, looking for something—anything—I missed, looking for things that simply aren’t there. I scrutinize every interview. I look at photos of the victims, the crime scenes, and everything that’s come back from the lab so far.
Striking out there, I study the map I’ve pinned to the wall and I go to it. I circle the crime scenes in red marker, every other relevant location in blue. Lester and Angela Karn’s shop. The Byler farm. June Rossberger’s home in Massillon. Aden Karn’s home. The pickup point at the Lutheran church. The gas station where Vernon Fisher lives. Even the Brass Rail Saloon. I connect the dots, try to come up with routes and timelines, by vehicle or horse and buggy.
All of it leads directly to nothing.
Back at my desk, I spool up the videos I took of the scene on Hansbarger Road and the bridge where Rossberger’s body was discovered, and I watch them again. All the while frustration grinds at the back of my brain.
Nothing there, Kate.
At four P.M. a tap on my door draws me from my focus. Margaret, my newest dispatcher, stands in the hall outside my office, headset clamped over her ears. “You look like you could use some good news,” she says a little too cheerily.
She’s over twenty years my senior—and I was raised to respect my elders regardless of my position as chief—so I swallow the surly response on my tongue. “That could quite possibly be the understatement of the year.”
“Call came in on the tip line, Chief. I think you’re going to want to hear this one.”
So far, we’ve received a total of twelve calls on our “tip line.” Four were obvious pranks. One a wrong number. One blaming the incident on a UFO sighted out by the old drive-in theater. The rest were viable and checked out, but not helpful in terms of the case. We don’t have the budget for an official tip line with a unique number, so we use the main number with an extension that sends callers to voicemail where they are assigned a unique identifying number to ensure their anonymity. From there, they’re instructed to leave a message and urged to call back with any additional information and to check in later to see if they have cash coming from the reward.
“I’m all ears.” I lean back in my chair, my attempt at enthusiasm not quite coming through.
Using my desk phone, she punches the Speaker button, then dials the number, taps in a four-digit code, and sinks into the visitor chair.
The speaker crackles and hisses and then a voice sounds.
“I’m uh…” The male caller clears his throat. “I’m calling about the Aden Karn thing. Look, I don’t want to get involved, but you need to check the young Amish dude has the gas station. Fisher, I think his name is. I ain’t saying he done it, but I seen him out there to Hansbarger with a crossbow a couple weeks ago. Almost like he was practicing or something. Anyway … that’s all I got to say.”
An elongated hiss follows and then the click of the caller disconnecting.
I sit up straighter, look at Margaret. She stares back at me with a slightly smug I-told-you-so expression.
“Play it again,” I say.
This time I listen for unique characteristics of the caller’s voice. There’s static on the line and a slight echo. Still, I make a couple of observations. “He’s trying to disguise his voice,” I murmur.
Across from me, Margaret nods. “Sounds like it.”
“Play it again.”
She does.
This time I notice the Amish-English accent. It’s subtle, but I’m able to discern the upward lilt that softens the vowels. “He’s Amish,” I say. “Trying to conceal it.” Not exactly an earth-shattering revelation. The victim was Amish, after all. Vernon Fisher is Amish. A third of the population of Painters Mill is Amish. Even so, it’s something and worth noting.
I glance at Margaret. “Again.”
This time, I concentrate on the words themselves. What he’s saying, looking for hesitations, indications that he’s lying. I get nothing.
“Is there any way we can get our hands on the caller’s number?” I ask.
“Well, we set it up to be anonymous, but I’ll see what I can figure out.”
“Send a copy of the recording to my cell,” I say, thinking aloud. “Forward it to Tomasetti and Rasmussen, too. Type up a transcript in case we need it.”
“You got it, Chief.” She gets to her feet.
I think about the call in terms of specifics. The caller asserted he witnessed Vernon Fisher using a crossbow at the scene two weeks before Aden Karn was killed. When I asked Fisher if he owned or had access to a crossbow, he said he didn’t. An anonymous tip is by no means a slam dunk, but it may be enough for me to obtain a warrant.
“Call Judge Siebenthaler,” I say. “Tell him I’m on my way over with an affidavit for a search warrant.”
She’s already heading for the door. “I’ll catch him right now, Chief.”
“Margaret?” I say.
She stops, turns, and raises her brows, expecting another barrage of commands.
Instead, I smile. “Nice work.”
Her mouth twitches. “Roger that,” she says, and makes her exit.
CHAPTER 24
I know better than to get my hopes up over an anonymous tip; most of the time they don’t pan out. That I’m enthusiastic stands as testament to my level of desperation. And, of course, my dislike for Vernon Fisher. Judge Siebenthaler is no fan of anonymous tips, either. He balked after reading the affidavit I put together. In the end, he’d acquiesced, but narrowed the scope of what I could search for and where I could search for it, and a task that should have taken an hour ended up taking two.
It’s nearly seven P.M. now and I’m in the Explorer heading toward Vernon Fisher’s gas station. Officer T.J. Banks rides shotgun. Despite having worked through the night and most of the day, he looks fresh and alert as he skims the warrant. “So, we’re permitted to search the main building, attached garage, and one outbuilding?” he asks.
I think about my exchange with the judge and nod. “And we’re limited to confiscating items that are directly related to a crossbow, crossbow paraphernalia or accessories, and/or hunting.”
“So if we find a bloody knife…”
“I think we could legally seize it and make the argument that it’s covered under the ‘hunting’ umbrella.”
“A noose…”
I slant him a look as I make the turn onto the street where the Karns live.
He grins, then sobers. “Do you expect any trouble from Fisher?”
The serving of a warrant is one of the most dangerous duties a cop performs. No individual likes having their privacy invaded, or their things rifled through by the cops. Add a bottle of tequila and half a dozen intoxicated hooligans and this is exactly the kind of situation that could go south.