Page 76 of An Evil Heart
“Fits with the profile we’ve built on Karn.” Tomasetti keeps pushing forward. “Whendid they meet up?”
I flip the page of the legal pad. “I’ll see if I can get my hands on Karn’s work schedule. Talk to his roommate and see if I can come up with a timeline of when he might’ve been free. Compare all of that to the time of death from the coroner.”
The meeting has become an open brainstorming session. Verbal free association. No direction or self-censoring. It’s a technique used to unearth new ideas or take an investigation in a different direction. Put forth theories no matter how unlikely. Discard what you don’t use. Dig into what’s worth digging into.
Tomasetti picks it up from there. “Rossberger was killed first. She was sexually assaulted. Strangled. Asphyxiated.”
“This is where the theory falls apart.” Rasmussen takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “It’s a fucking leap. Karn doesn’t even have a record.”
I remind him of my conversation with Christina Weaver. “She’s credible, Mike. I couldn’t get the whole story from her, but the incident was extremely violent. Her mother had to take her to the doctor. That’s all they would say.”
The sheriff digests the information, his mouth looking as though he’s bitten into something rancid. “Jesus.”
“I think Mr. All-American Boy had a dark side,” Tomasetti says. “He meets up with Rossberger. Takes her somewhere private, rapes and murders her. Wraps her body in plastic and dumps it.”
The sheriff throws up his hands. “Okay, so we add a dead guy to our suspect list?”
Tomasetti laughs, but it’s a cynical sound. “And of course, it leaves us with a big, fat glaring question.”
“Who killed Karn?” I mutter.
“I think the pimp or boyfriend angle might work,” Rasmussen says.
I plow ahead. “Let’s say the boyfriend followed her. Realized she had sex with another guy. He stalked her. Accosted her. Murdered her. Dumped her body. The next day, he takes care of Karn.”
“Again, all of that would have required some degree of privacy,” Rasmussen points out.
Tomasetti steps in. “There are several deserted properties in the area. Abandoned barns. Plenty of woods.”
“What about security cams?” I ask. “Game cams? Any businesses or homes we can check?”
“I’ll get some deputies on it first light.” Rasmussen punches something into his cell. “We get anything on Rossberger’s cell phone?”
“We expedited a warrant to the provider,” Tomasetti tells him. “We’re still waiting. I’ll light a fire first thing in the morning.”
“What about her vehicle?” I ask.
“We got an active BOLO,” Rasmussen says. “State Highway Patrol is on alert. As it is, we got nothing.”
“You get anything from Karn’s neighbors?” Rasmussen asks.
“We canvassed the area around the crime scene where Karn was killed,” I tell him. “But we haven’t talked to his neighbors about seeing a female or a red vehicle. I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.”
The sheriff looks at his watch. “I don’t think we’re going to figure it out tonight. I couldn’t think my way out of a damn box at the moment. Let’s sleep on it. Hit it again tomorrow.” He lifts his jacket off the back of the chair nearest him. “I’m going to bed.”
CHAPTER 21
I have no idea if my theory about Aden Karn is anywhere close to reality or if I’m completely off base. I don’t have so much as a single link and I have exactly zero in terms of hard evidence. Rasmussen is of the belief that Rossberger had an as-of-yet-unidentified boyfriend who found out she was prostituting herself, flew into a rage, and murdered her and, later, killed the man who paid her for sex. While we do have multiple theories to explore, we’re no closer to having a suspect.
If Christina Weaver’s story is true, there’s no doubt Karn had a dark side. Did that dark side play a role in his death? A cop should never blame the victim for any crime committed against them. It’s wrong on every level, professionally unethical, and personally corrupt. That said, an investigator must have the temerity to take a hard look at a victim who participated in high-risk behaviors or lived a reckless lifestyle, because those two things can raise the odds of someone becoming the victim of a crime.
This morning, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I sent Mona to theWillowdell Motel to take a look at the check-in register, to see if Karn or Rossberger paid for a room in the days before the murder. Glock is talking to the neighbors near Karn’s residence in the hope someone saw Rossberger’s car or a woman fitting her description. I dispatched Skid to Buckeye Construction to confirm the hours that Karn worked and to find out if he took any time off or left early. I don’t expect any earth-shattering information to come of any of it, but at least we’re not twiddling our thumbs.
It’s midmorning by the time I pull into the lane of the Byler farm. I find Clara and her husband, Andy, sitting at the picnic table, a sweating pitcher of what looks like lemonade between them.
“Guder mariye,” I call out as I approach. Good morning.
“Hi, Chief Burkholder,” Clara says wearily.
