“Holy shit.”
“Not confirmed, but we’ve got entry and exit wounds, so the bolt may have gone clean through.”
He nods. “You want me to look around? See what I can find?”
I look at the bicycle and try to ascertain which direction the victim may have been traveling. “Hard to tell which direction he was going, but might be a good idea to start with the woods there on the east side of the road.”
“I’m on it.”
“I’ve got another officer on the way to help.”
“Got it.”
I thank him and walk back to the victim, turn my attention to Doc. “Any idea how long he’s been dead?”
“Not long,” the doc tells me. “There’s no livor present. There’s no rigor, both of which begin at around the two-hour mark, give or take.”
“So it just happened,” I murmur.
The doc studies the platter-size pool of blood. Gently, he pulls open one of the eyelids and sighs. “My best guess is one to two hours, Kate. Of course, there are a lot of variables, so that time frame is not set in stone. I’ll be able to tell you more once I get a core body temp.”
I get to my feet, and I’m aware of the dull throb of anxiety in my gut. I look down at the victim. The position of the body. The bicycle. The lunch box. I take in the amount of blood that’s leaked from his mouth. That’s when I notice the quarter-size spot of blood on the asphalt beneath the back of his head.
“Doc?” I motion toward the blood. “Is there some kind of wound on the back of his head?”
The doc leans closer to the victim and shifts the head slightly. Sure enough, a tuft of hair is matted with blood. Using his fingertips, he separates the hair so that the scalp is visible. “Looks like a laceration.”
“Something that happened in the fall, maybe?” Even as I ask the question, I realize it’s not in a place that would be injured in the course of a fall.
“This looks like a penetrating wound,” he says.
I stare at him, flummoxed. In the back of my mind, I recall a suicide I investigated a couple of years ago. A man put the muzzle of a revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I think of the damage done. The angle of the bullet. Most importantly, the location of the exit wound.
“Doc, is it possible there’s another wound … inside the mouth?”
“It would explain the heavy bleeding.” Grimacing, as if he knows where my mind has taken me, he looks down at the victim. “Kate, if this man was killed with a bolt from a crossbow as we suspect, I think it’s safe to say it was not self-inflicted.”
“Even if it was some kind of bizarre accident, someone would have had to take the crossbow.”
“It appears we have a puzzle on our hands.” The doc sits back on his heels, his expression perplexed. “I’m not going to be able to explain any of this until I get him on the table.”
“We’re going to need to bag his hands,” I say.
“You got it.”
While the doc works, I look around, taking in the logistics of the scene. A second deputy has arrived and is tapping a length of rebar into the ground so he can finish taping off the area. I spot Skid in the woods with another deputy, ostensibly looking for a bolt from the crossbow. I look across the open field. The pond where a family of ducks flaps their wings. The smattering of trees growing alongside the fence. Such a peaceful, bucolic stretch of road. Who saw fit to shoot a young Amish man with a crossbow, possibly twice? Someone who then had the wherewithal to remove the bolts and take them.
Pulling out my cell, I dial Dispatch.
Lois picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Chief. Any news on that DB?”
“I need you to run Aden Karn through LEADS,” I say, referring to the Law Enforcement Automated Data System. I spell both the first and last names. “Check for warrants. If he’s been in trouble. If there have been any calls to his home.” I recite the address from his ID. “Find out who owns the property. Find out if anyone else lives there.”
“You got it.”
I end the call, shove the phone back into its compartment, and glance over at the doc. “Any idea when you can do the autopsy?” I ask.
“Tomorrow.” Taking his time, the doc heaves himself to his feet, sets his gaze on mine. “You’ll be doing the notification?”
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other for a too-long moment. A silent communication passes between us, uncomfortable, and yet it bolsters me, and I realize Doc has been in my shoes. He’s a doctor, after all. A pediatrician. And there have been times when all the medical know-how in the world wasn’t enough. He, too, has had to rip out a parent’s heart. He knows that the pain that comes with that obligation is nothing compared to the agony that’s been doled out by fate.
After a moment, Doc crosses to me. He sets his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
CHAPTER 3
Angela and Lester Karn live in Painters Mill proper two blocks from the boot and shoe shop they own and operate, The Gentle Cobbler. I worked for them for a short while when I was a teenager, the last summer I lived in Painters Mill. I was seventeen at the time, discontent and getting into trouble, and my parents thought the added responsibility would be good for me. The Gentle Cobbler was an Amish-owned business, after all. I wasn’t a very good employee and spent most of my time screwing up. In the end, I got caught wearing a pair of shoes I’d pilfered from the shop and planned to put back on the shelf the next day. I wore those strappy sandals with three-inch heels to an outdoor rager and ended up snapping off a heel. Lester fired me, putting me out of my misery and effectively ending my career in retail sales.
As an adult, I’ve frequented their shop a dozen times. Tomasetti bought a pair of work boots last winter and we spent a few minutes chatting. Lester and Angela are a nice couple. They’re at the shop every day except Sunday. I happen to know they open their doors at ten A.M., which is just twenty minutes from now, so I head that way.
I’m so focused on the task ahead that I barely notice the old-fashioned streetlamps and parking meters as I turn onto Main Street. I pull nose-in to the spot in front of the shop and sit there a moment wishing with every cell in my body that Aden Karn wasn’t dead and I didn’t have to walk through that door and destroy the lives of the two people inside. Though there’s a CLOSED sign in the window, I see the lights on inside, and the silhouette of someone moving around.
Dread keeps pace with me as I cross the sidewalk to the door. Through the window, I see Angela Karn behind the counter, working on the cash register. Lester is standing on a footstool, adding shoeboxes to a shelf. I tap on the glass.
The Amish man turns and does a double take upon seeing me. He smiles as if pleased, and the ache that follows feels like a boulder in my gut. I wait while Lester climbs down from the step stool and strides to the door, his gait jaunty. He’s in his mid-fifties now with a round belly and the full salt-and-pepper beard of a married Amish man. He’s wearing a white shirt and gray trousers with suspenders. Because he works with the public, he’s traded the typical straw flat-brimmed hat for a black felt one.
I shore up with a deep breath and the door swings open. Vaguely, I’m aware of the bell jingling. The smells of leather and shoe polish and eucalyptus wafting out.