Page 22 of An Evil Heart
“What kind of substance?”
He shrugs. “All I can tell you is that it is not biological.”
“Poison?” I ask.
“No idea.”
“Liquid? Powder?”
“Liquid and slightly oily in nature.” He motions toward the victim’s head. “Curious, I checked the wound inside the mouth for any foreign substance. Sure enough, we found the same.”
“Do you think the substance is from the bolt?” I ask.
“I do.” He shrugs. “We took samples of both and sent them to the lab in London, Ohio, for analysis.”
In the back of my mind, I make a mental note to ask Tomasetti to expedite.
Doc Coblentz looks at me over the top of his glasses. He’s got a doctor’s eyes, innately kind and keenly adept at discerning all those feelings you work so hard to keep tucked away, out of sight.
“Whoever did this took his time,” he tells me. “He stayed calm. Had the wherewithal and physical strength to push those bolts through a human body. With that second shot, he made damn sure that when he walked away, Aden Karn would be dead.”
CHAPTER 6
I sit in the Explorer for several minutes with the window down, trying to make sense of everything I learned from the coroner. Early on, I’d hoped the death of Aden Karn was some kind of freak accident. Someone taking a blind shot or mishandling their weapon. Or even a prank gone awry, the perpetrator panicking and fleeing the scene. Now, it’s obvious none of those scenarios are practicable. Aden Karn was shot as he rode his bicycle on an isolated road. Once he was injured and on the ground, the killer approached him, inserted the bolt head into his mouth, and fired the weapon a second time. It was an up-close-and-personal execution. Cold-blooded and violent. What kind of person commits such a heinous act and why?
Someone intent on killing. A psychopath. A sadist.
All of the above…
The possibilities taunt me as I pull onto the highway and head south toward Painters Mill. According to Angela and Lester Karn, their sonlived with his longtime friend Wayne Graber. According to Emily Byler, Wayne was also involved with the sale of the truck.
I hail Dispatch as I idle through Millersburg. “Anything come back on Graber?” I ask.
My second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, answers. “He’s clean, Chief.”
“I’m on my way to his residence, Jodie. Who’s on?”
“Skid,” she says.
“Tell him to ten-twenty-five,” I say, requesting that he meet me there.
“Roger that.”
I’m not expecting any problems with Graber, but since I don’t know him—and the individual who murdered Karn is as of yet unidentified and still at large—I err on the side of caution.
Aden Karn rented a house on Rockridge Road a few miles from where his body was discovered. It’s a quiet gravel stretch that cuts a path between two large cornfields and dead-ends at the south fork of Painters Creek. I’ve just passed aDEAD ENDsign peppered with holes from shotgun pellets when I spot the mailbox. The number finger-painted on the side matches the address, so I make the turn. The driveway takes me up an incline and through a grove of pine trees, and then a split-level house looms into view. The lower part is brick, the upper story constructed of board-and-batten siding. A big deck bisects the two levels, and beneath it is a portico-type garage.
To my right, a gravel two-track leads to a workshop with dual overhead doors, both of which are closed. Beyond is the greenbelt that runs along the creek. Closer, there’s a well-used burn pit. A couple of lawn chairs. A rusty fifty-gallon drum shot full of holes. There are no vehicles in sight.
It’s after sixP.M.; Graber could still be at work or on his way home. I’d considered calling him, but I want to catch him unprepared. I park in front of the house and get out. A cacophony of birdsong greets me. Thecaws of crows in the cornfield behind the house. It’s so quiet I can hear the rattle of the stalks as a breeze eases through.
I hit my radio as I start toward the house. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene.
“Copy that.”
I take a shoddily constructed flagstone path to the portico garage. A charcoal grill lies on its side to my right. A welcome mat is caked with mud. The door is a nine-light that offers an unobscured view of a small living room. Secondhand furniture inside. Worn carpet that isn’t quite clean. Big-screen TV on the wall.
Standing slightly to one side, I knock, listening for Skid, taking in as many details as I can. Inside, a black cat skulks past the door. A couple of spindly plants beneath a window on the other side of the room. Through an interior doorway, I can see a galley-style kitchen with off-white linoleum and pine cabinets.
