Page 88 of An Evil Heart
“So you say.”
“Just giving you fair warning.” He gives me a good-natured frown. “So you know what you’re getting into.”
“I know exactly what I’m getting into,” I tell him. “And I know everything I need to know about you.”
He starts to say something, but I raise my hand and press my finger to his lips. “Despite all those flaws, I love you.”
Blinking, he looks away, his jaw tight and working, stoic.
“It was good for me to come here,” I say. “To meet them.”
“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 fourP.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 crossbowa 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.
