Page 43 of An Evil Heart
“What about her?”
“Fisher had a thing for her and now Aden’s dead.”
He tosses me an irritated frown. “I got nothing else to say.”
“I’ve been talking to a lot of people about Aden. I keep hearing he was a good guy. Kept his nose clean. The only ongoing disagreement he had was about the truck. And Emily.” I motion toward Fisher. “And now I catch you and Fisher in a physical altercation. What am I supposed to think?”
Temper darkens his face. “What the hell do you want from me?”
“The whole truth would be a good start.”
“I loved Aden like a brother.” For the first time, emotion resonates in his voice. “Not a minute goes by that I’m not thinking about him. Or wishing he was still around.” Even as his voice breaks his hands clench into fists, his anger focused on me, as if I’m responsible for the pain.
He’s on the edge, so I give him another push. “I’m getting the runaround and I don’t like it.”
“You want the truth?” His mouth pulls into a snarl. “Maybe you ought to do your damn homework.”
“Why don’t you get me started? Point me in the right direction?”
“If you want the truth so badly, maybe you ought to get the hell off my back and go talk to Emily Byler’s ex.”
My interest surges. I’d asked about the existence of an ex-boyfriend, but no one had mentioned it and not once did a name come up. “Who is he?”
“Try Gideon Troyer on for size.”
I almost can’t believe my ears. Gideon Troyer is the grandson of the bishop, a larger-than-life man who’s presided over the church district since I was a kid. In the backwaters of my mind, I recall Clara Byler’s reaction when I’d asked about a past boyfriend and for the first time her discomfiture—and her silence—makes sense.
“Emily was involved with Gideon before Aden?” I ask.
“How’s that for an inconvenient truth?”
I search my memory for what I know about Gideon. He still lives in the area. I’ve pulled him over once or twice… I pin Wayne with a look. “He’s quite a bit older than Emily, isn’t he?”
Wayne hefts a bitter laugh. “No one wants to talk about that, either, do they?”
“Were there problems between Aden and Gideon?”
“You mean aside from Gideon being a jealous son of a bitch?” His eyes harden on mine. “And yet here you are hassling me and that dumbshit Fisher.”
Ignoring the jab, I pull out my notebook and write down the name, underscore the wordsjealousandage.“Why didn’t you mention this last time we talked?” Even as I ask the question, I already know the answer.
“That’s a stupid question coming from a formerly Amish woman.” Another bitter smile twists his mouth. “You know as well as I do that there’s not a soul in the district willing to break that Amish code of silence, especially when the guy’s name is Troyer.”
CHAPTER 12
When you live in a town the size of Painters Mill, especially if you’re a cop, you know or know of just about everyone. I’ve known Gideon Troyer since I was a kid simply because I was Amish and he is Bishop Troyer’s grandson. I never knew him well; he’s quite a bit younger and male to boot, so our paths never crossed. As chief, I know he leads a quiet life and has never been in trouble with the law.
After arriving home last night, I spent an hour or so combing through the ever-growing file I’ve amassed on the murder of Aden Karn, trying to connect the dots, and failing miserably. I ran Gideon Troyer through the pertinent databases only to determine I was right about him. He doesn’t have a record. Never been arrested. Not even a traffic citation. The only information I could come up with was his age and address. Striking out there, I turned to social media. Most people assume the Amish don’t have online social lives. For the vast majority, that is correct. But duringrumspringa,or if a guileful adult has access to a computer or cell phone for his business, some find a way. Keeping all of that in mind, I spend a couple of hours scrolling through page after page of more-than-I-ever-wanted-to-know brain rot.
At some point after I went to bed, Tomasetti’s cell phone sounded loudly. I vaguely remember a murmured apology as he rolled out of bed, and the brush of a kiss on my cheek before he left.
It’s a little after sevenA.M.when I make the turn onto the road where Gideon Troyer lives. I’ve just pulled into the narrow lane that bisects a cornfield when I spot the elevator hood of the picker skimming the tops of the corn. I stop and get out to the clank-and-rumble of the picker. The contraption is a single-row, which means it only picks one row of corn at a time, and is being pulled by two aged Percheron horses. A wagon has been attached to the rear of the picker, where the cleaned ears of corn are thrown by the elevator belt. An Amish man stands on the platform section of the picker, leather lines in hand, and guides the horses between the rows. It’s painstaking physical labor that, for a field this size, will take several dawn-to-dusk workdays to finish.
I cross through the ditch and climb over the fence at the edge of the field. I’m not sure he’ll stop; honestly, I wouldn’t hold it against him if he didn’t. Still, I stand there at the edge of the field and wait. I know from my research that Gideon Troyer is twenty-four years old. Blond hair sticks out from a straw summer hat. Blue eyes. The description from the Ohio Bureau of Motor Vehicles fits.
I’m relieved when I hear his shouted “Whoa!” over the rattle of the machinery.
“Looks like it’s going to be a good harvest,” I call out to him inDeitschas I traverse the distance between us.
