“Let’s check for ID.” Shifting position, I reach into the front pocket of his trousers. I find a folding pocketknife. A few coins. I check the other front pocket, find a handkerchief.
I make eye contact with Glock. “Help me roll him so I can check the back pockets.”
“Yep.”
As gently as possible, we roll the victim just enough for me to dig into the back pocket of his trousers. I tug out a beat-up leather wallet, spot the ID behind the plastic window. It’s a nonphoto ID issued by the Ohio Bureau of Motor Vehicles. This type of ID is used by many Amish who have a religious objection to having their photo taken.
“Aden Karn.” I say the name slowly, the familiarity of it reverberating in my head. “Twenty-one years old.”
“Damn. He’s young.” Glock shakes his head, slants me a look. “You know him? The family?”
“I know his parents.” I get to my feet, unexpectedly shaken, hoping it doesn’t show. “Not well, but I worked for them when I was a teenager.”
“This kid live at home?” he asks.
I look down at the ID and shake my head. “The Karns live in town a few blocks from their shop. According to his ID, this young man lived a couple of miles from here.”
I take a moment to collect myself, scan the field, the flock of crows cawing in the trees. I feel Glock’s eyes on me. We’ve worked together nearly every day since I became chief. We’re not friends in the conventional sense, but we’re close in a way that goes deeper than friendship. We share a kinship, the tie of a brotherhood to which both of us are bound. We don’t talk about it, but it’s there nonetheless, and in this moment I’m thankful because his very presence has lessened some of the burden I feel pressing down on my shoulders.
Cautiously, we back away from the victim, doing our best to retrace our steps.
“Call County and get some deputies out here,” I tell him as I snap off the gloves. “We’re going to need to tape off the area. Get the road blocked.”
“You got it.”
Sirens wail in the distance. I glance at the SUV, see the children moving around inside. They look young. Growing restless, probably. The body is visible to them, but I can’t cover it without the risk of contaminating the scene.
“I’m going to talk to the witness,” I tell him.
Touching the brim of his hat, Glock starts toward his cruiser.
I approach the woman. She’s straightened to her full height, but her face is the color of paste.
“Ma’am?” I say to her. “You all right?”
“Oh my God,” she says in a quavering voice. “Sorry I’m such a basket case. That poor guy. Is he dead?”
“I’m afraid so,” I tell her.
I guess her to be in her mid-thirties. Judging by the bulge of her belly, she’s pregnant. Brown hair pulled into a ponytail. No makeup. She’s wearing a pink sweatshirt, yoga pants, and flip-flops.
“Can you tell me what happened?” I ask.
Her eyes flick to the dead man, then back to me. A fresh round of tears spill over her lashes. “I was taking the kids to school, like always. Been taking this route because it’s so pretty. Kids like the ducks in the pond over there. Named all of them.” She uses the tissue in her hand to wipe tears from her cheeks. “We’re driving along and my seven-year-old spots him. She’s like: ‘Look, Mommy, that man had a bike wreck!’
“For God’s sake, I almost ran over him.” A breath shudders out of her. “I stopped just in time, pulled over, and … there he was. All that blood.”
She’s getting herself worked up, so I press forward. “Did you see anyone else in the area? Any other vehicles? Or buggies?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “There’s hardly ever anyone on this road. That’s why I take it. No traffic.”
I look past her to see the ambulance pull up behind my Explorer along with a cruiser from the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department. I spend another ten minutes with her, asking the same questions in different ways, giving her a chance to tell me more, but her account remains the same and she’s unable to give any new details.
I pluck a card from a compartment on my belt, add my personal cell phone number to the back, and hand it to her. “If you remember anything else, even if it doesn’t seem important, give me a call.”
“I will,” she assures me.
Two paramedics and a sheriff’s deputy are standing a couple of yards from the body when I approach. I’ve met the deputy several times over the years. He’s a rookie with a cocky personality, but generally a pretty solid cop. We volunteered for a fundraiser last summer to raise money for the local library, spent an afternoon flipping bratwursts and burgers for kids.
“Chief Burkholder.”
“Hi, Matt.” We exchange a handshake. Behind me, I’m aware of the woman pulling away and Glock approaching.
“That guy’s deader than a doornail,” the deputy says. “What the hell happened? Hit-skip? Where’d all that blood come from?”
“Not confirmed, but I think he may have been shot,” I tell him. “Or stabbed.”
“Holy shit.” He sends a look in Glock’s direction, as if my assessment isn’t quite trustworthy.
Glock stares back at him, his expression deadpan.
I address the deputy. “Would you mind blocking off the intersections for me? No one comes in or out except the coroner and law enforcement.”
“Uh … sure.” Looking put out that he’s been relegated to a rookie task, he strides toward his cruiser.
Glock hands me a nicely-done smile.
“There aren’t many houses out this way, but I think we need to canvass. Give Pickles a call to help you,” I say, referring to my only part-time officer, Roland “Pickles” Shumaker. “Hit every farm. Stop all vehicles. Pedestrians. Anyone working out in the field. See if they heard or saw anything. Get names and contact info.”
“I’m on it.” Glock starts for his cruiser.
I pull out my cell phone and, without getting too close to the victim, snap a dozen photos of the body from different angles. I zoom in to get a close-up of the bloodstain on the front of the shirt, especially the hole in the fabric, and I work my way around the body. I notice a few details I missed earlier. Leather work gloves peek out from the back pocket of typical Amish trousers, telling me he may have been on his way to work. A straw hat is crumpled beneath him, as if he fell on top of it.
As I take in the particulars of the scene, questions begin to boil. Was this random? Or was he targeted? Was he riding his bike to work and someone drove by and shot him? Did a vehicle stop and an altercation ensued? Or was this some kind of freak accident? The only things I know for certain at this point is that the person responsible is a danger to the community and it’s my job to find him before he hurts anyone else.
CHAPTER 2
While waiting for the coroner to arrive, I document every aspect of the victim and scene. I take photos of everything within a fifty-foot radius: the bicycle, the lunch box, the hat, the tire imprints in the gravel shoulder, even the beer bottle in the ditch, the scrap of paper in the grass. Relief settles over me when I see the coroner’s Escalade roll up to the caution tape.