Page 71 of Shamed

“I’m ten minutes out.” I hit my emergency lights, crank the speedometer to eighty. “What’s the bishop’s condition?”

Another hesitation. “I don’t know yet. But it’s serious, Chief. Get here as quick as you can.”

I arrive at the Troyer farm to an ocean of emergency vehicles. The road in front of the house is blocked off on both sides by Holmes County Sheriff’s Department cruisers. A deputy sets out flares. I yank out my badge, roll down my window. He motions me past and I speed by without speaking.

As I barrel up the lane I see an Ohio State Highway Patrol Dodge Charger. Two more cruisers from Holmes County. Tomasetti’s Tahoe is parked at an odd angle behind a buggy to which a horse is hitched. There’s an ambulance and a fire truck with the Painters Mill volunteer fire department. Glock’s cruiser is parked a few yards away. Half a dozen cops mill about.

I park behind the Tahoe and throw open my door. I’m out and running before I even know where I’m going. I spot Glock standing next to Sheriff Mike Rasmussen. Both men give my bruised face a double take as I stride toward them.

“Chief?” Glock says, looking concerned.

“What happened to Troyer?” I ask.

“Kate.” Rasmussen’s expression is grim. He’s looking at me as if he isn’t quite sure he can give it to me straight, so I make an effort to tone it down, yank back my emotions, stuff them back in their hole.

“All we know is that he was shot,” the sheriff tells me.

He motions toward the buggy a few feet away. “Wife said he was over at the Helmuths’. He was late getting home. She walked out here and found him in the buggy. Troyer was slumped over, unconscious. We’re still trying to figure things out, but it looks like he was shot elsewhere and the horse brought him home.”

“His wife ran half a mile to the neighbors, and they called 911,” Glock adds.

Beyond him, I see Tomasetti; he’s talking to a trooper, but he’s caught sight of me. Abruptly, he ends his conversation and heads my way. “Chief Burkholder.”

I start toward the buggy. I’m midway there when he sets his hand on my shoulder, turns me around. Concern sharpens his features, tightens his mouth. “What happened to your face?”

“I got jumped,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“Kate…”

“I can’t talk right now.”

“You need to see this,” he snaps.

I waver, turn to him. I watch as he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a clear plastic bag. There’s something inside. A smear of blood on the plastic. The ground swells and dips beneath my feet when I recognize the eyeglasses inside. They’re small and round with thick lenses. Lenses that are cracked and covered with blood.

The sight is a jab to my solar plexus that takes my breath. For a moment, I can’t speak. Finally, I manage, “They’re Elsie’s. Where did you find them?”

“Buggy. On the seat.” He shakes his head. “We don’t know if Troyer had them for some reason or if the shooter left them.”

“He left them for us to find,” I say. “The son of a bitch.”

“I’m going to rush them to the lab. Have the blood analyzed, check for latents.”

“Dear God if he hurt that child,” I hear myself say, trying to breathe, get oxygen into my lungs.

He grimaces, looks away. “I’ll have Ivan confirm the glasses belong to the girl.”

It’s not going to be easy. I want to be there, I realize. But I can’t leave. “I need to talk to the bishop’s wife.”

“Go,” he says. “I’ll take care of this.”

I start toward the buggy. I’m ten feet away when I spot the pool of blood on the gravel. There’s more inside the buggy, dripping down the side. Someone has set up mini orange cones demarking the pool. I walk around the buggy, taking in details. There’s an afghan on the seat, also stained with blood. A thick smear on the seat front. Dear God …

I look over my shoulder toward the men. Glock and Rasmussen have followed me over. “Where did this happen?” I ask.

“We’re trying to figure it out,” Rasmussen says. “We’ve got a trail of blood. Deputies are tracing it now.”

“Where’s his wife?” I ask.