Page 93 of An Evil Heart
“Thank you.”
When they’re out of sight, he crosses to me, tugs a handkerchief from his pocket, and hands it to me. “He got you pretty good with that branch.”
I take the kerchief, press it against the cut on my browbone, try not to wince. “Please tell me I don’t need stitches.”
“Butterfly bandage will probably do.” He glances over to make sure T.J. is out of sight, then reaches up and brushes his knuckles against my face. “Some ice might help.”
I sigh. “I’m not going to have a black eye for our wedding, am I?”
“Maybe.” A smile touches his mouth. “But you look good in blue.”
It’s not exactly a tender moment, but I find myself smiling and for the span of several heartbeats, we smile at each other. I feel that familiar flutter of breathlessness in my chest and despite the dark events of the past week, a burst of pure happiness breaks through. In that moment, I’m not Kate Burkholder the chief of police. I’m Kate Burkholder the woman who is about to marry the man I love.
I look down at the bag in my hand, pull myself back down to earth. “What do you think about Fisher?” I ask.
“I think he’s a solid suspect. Those bolts are certainly damning.” He shrugs. “Multiple people said he had a thing for Emily Byler.”
“Criminals aren’t exactly the brightest bulbs in the pack.”
“We’ll know a lot more after we get him into the interview room.”
“Be nice to tie this up,” I say.
“Chief of police might just have time to get married.” He puts his arm around my waist, and we start toward the hill that will take us back to the gas station.
It’s tenP.M.and I’m sitting in a windowless interview room at the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, trying not to acknowledge the headachepounding my skull. The scuffed-up table in front of me is secured to the floor with bolts and surrounded with four plastic chairs. Next to me, Tomasetti leans back in his chair, scrolling through his phone. Sheriff Mike Rasmussen manspreads in the corner, studying a page of his leather-bound notebook. The only sound comes from the buzz of the light overhead. A video camera watches us from the ceiling.
“CSU did a presumptive Hexagon OBTI test on both bolts.” Tomasetti doesn’t look up from his phone as he speaks. “Both tested positive for human blood.”
My mind jumps to the next logical question. “Was there enough residue to extract DNA?”
“Bolts were sent to the lab,” he says. “DNA will probably take a week or so, depending on how backed up the lab is. I’ll jam it through if I can.”
“Gonna match,” Rasmussen predicts.
“I sent a photo of the broadhead to Doc Coblentz earlier,” I tell them. “Preliminarily, he believes the incised wounds on Karn’s body could be from those bolts.” I consider a moment and add, “I’m no expert, but even a cursory visual comparison of the shape of the broadhead to the wounds looks spot-on. Same number of points. Size seems about right.”
“Forensic pathologist should be able to confirm,” Tomasetti adds. “We might be able to get that as early as tomorrow.”
I look at Tomasetti. “Did you guys process the scene?”
“Just finished up. Sent several items to the lab.” He swipes left. “Box cutter. Duct tape. Bedsheets from the back room.”
I think about Paige Rossberger. “Plastic sheeting?”
He nods. “There was a partial roll in a storage closet. We may or may not be able to match it.”
“Maybe we can match the details of the cut,” I say.
“We should know in the next day or so.”
A sharp rap sounds on the door a moment before it swings open. A Holmes County sheriff’s deputy escorts Vernon Fisher into the interview room. His hands are cuffed behind his back. He’s clad in wrinkled blue coveralls and thong sandals, and his usual cockiness has given way to a downcast persona. The smirk has been replaced with a morose expression that tells me he knows he’s in serious trouble. From where I’m sitting, I can smell the stink of nervous sweat.
I make eye contact him and motion to the chair across from me. “How’s your evening going so far, Vernon?”
He gives me a withering look. I try not to smile, but I’m not sure if I succeeded.
The deputy fishes a key from his utility belt, unlocks one cuff, and motions Fisher into the chair. When he obliges, the deputy secures the cuff to a security ring in the center of the table, cranks it down tight, and leaves the room.
