Page 27 of An Evil Heart
We spend another twenty minutes in the house looking through the kitchen drawers, the desk off the living room, even the bathroom andgarage, but there’s nothing of interest, certainly nothing remotely connected to the murder of Aden Karn. The one scenario that rises above everything else is the disagreement about the truck. Six hundred dollars isn’t exactly killing money. It’s a sad fact, but I’ve seen people killed for less.
CHAPTER 7
The early stages of a homicide investigation are a frenetic mix of interviewing witnesses, false starts, hard stops, and sleep deprivation. It’s been nearly twelve hours since Aden Karn’s body was discovered and all I have to show for my efforts is a half-baked theory and a headache the size of Lake Erie.
I’ve put multiple calls in to Mike Rasmussen, the sheriff of Holmes County. I’ve also called John Tomasetti, who is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation—not to mention the man I’ll be marrying in a few days. Unfortunately for me, neither man has returned my calls.
I’m in my cubbyhole office at the police station, trying to jump-start a brain that’s running on caffeine and frustration, when my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, peeks in.
“Everyone’s here, Chief,” she says, referring to my small team of officers. “Including the pizza.”
Frazzled as I am, I smile. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that.”
Snapping up my legal pad and the file I’ve amassed in the last hours, I follow her to the meeting room. It’s an impossibly small space jammed with a beat-up table, six mismatched chairs, and my entire team of officers—all five of them. The aroma of pepperoni and yeasty crust wafts from the pizza box on the tabletop. I go to the half lectern at the head of the table.
“Sorry for the late meeting, but I think all of you have heard about the murder this morning.” I look down at the two squares of pizza on a paper plate someone has set out for me. “I think we can eat and talk at the same time.”
“We’ll see,” Pickles mutters from his place across from me.
Since everyone has already put in a full day and then some, I get right to it, outlining everything I learned from my visit to the morgue.
“I’m leaning toward the scenario that Karn was targeted,” I tell them. “The killer knew his route. Knew his routine. Evidently, he felt he could get away without being seen.”
“He picked the right spot.” Mona Kurtz is a rookie and my only female officer, but she never hesitates to jump in with her thoughts when we’re brainstorming, a trait I appreciate very much. “Hansbarger Road is pretty secluded.”
“A lot of trees out that way, too,” Skid adds.
I look at Pickles. “What did you and T.J. find out about crossbow and/or bolt sales in the area?”
He straightens, flips open his notebook. “I checked with Larry Peterson over at Nussbaum Sports first thing. They do not sell crossbow or combination bows. I also spoke with Pat Donlevy over at DonlevySporting Goods.” He glances down at his notes. “In the last six months, they sold three crossbows, one combination bow, and half a dozen boxes of bolts.”
He rattles off the names of four individuals, two of whom I’m familiar with in a nod-on-the-street kind of way. “Any of them have a criminal record?” I ask.
“They’re clean,” Pickles puts in.
Which doesn’t automatically rule them out, but always good to check. “Go talk to them. Find out if they have any connection to Karn. See if they have alibis. Find out if they’ve let anyone borrow their bow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If nothing pans out, let’s expand our six-month time frame to one year and include sporting goods stores in Millersburg.” I look at Pickles. “Speaking of, I want you to run up to the Walmart there and see if anything pops.”
“I’m on it,” the old man says.
I glance down at my notes. “Glock, tell me about the canvass.”
“I checked every farm on the block, Chief.” He denotes the roads that intersect Hansbarger. “I hit two more farms off the township road. Some of the folks mentioned seeing Karn riding his bike, mornings and evening. No one recalled seeing him this morning. No one saw any other individuals. No one on foot. No vehicles. No buggies or bikes. Nothing unusual.”
“Do any of them have a security camera or game cam?”
“One game cam.” He grimaces. “Battery was dead.”
“Did you contact Buckeye Construction?” I ask, referring to Aden Karn’s employer.
“Talked to his boss, Herb Schollenberger. He says Karn was well-liked.Easy to get along with. Reliable. Never missed a day. No problems with coworkers or clients.”
“Someone didn’t like him,” Pickles mutters.
“Roommate, Wayne Graber, told me he rides with a guy by the name of Kevin Waddell,” I say.
