“Uh-huh.” Neither the tone of his voice or his expression give away his frame of mind, but I see him studying the bandage on the bridge of my nose. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. No stitches. CAT scan is fine.” I shrug, trying not to wince because my shoulder hurts. “Kind of pissed about the Explorer, though.”
“I put a call in to the mayor.” Glock grins. “I figure I’d save you the headache and break the news.”
I smile back. “You enjoy provoking Auggie.”
“I’ll take the fifth on that.”
Rasmussen clears his throat. “You feel up to answering a few questions, Kate?”
I nod. “Did you get him?”
The sheriff shakes his head. “He beat it out of there quick.”
“Did you find anything at the scene?” I ask. “Brass? Tire tread?”
“A single .22 casing.” Rasmussen nods at Tomasetti. “We brought in BCI. I don’t know if they’ll assign John the case.…” His voice trails as if he’s not exactly sure how to end it. “You know, personal relationships and all.”
The sheriff knows we’re involved; I’m pretty sure he knows we’re living together, too. I don’t, however, know if Tomasetti has communicated either of those things to his superiors at BCI. If he has, he won’t be working this case.
“Even if I’m not officially assigned,” Tomasetti says, “I can help expedite things, cut through some of the red tape.”
“We appreciate that.” Rasmussen turns his attention to me. “Kate, I know you’ve already been through this half a dozen times. Can you do it one more time for us? Take us through everything that happened this evening?”
“I was on my way to my house in town,” I begin, thinking of the fight I’d had with Tomasetti, “and dispatch called, telling me my brother, Jacob, had been in a buggy accident out on County Road Fourteen.” I look from Tomasetti to Glock. “There wasn’t an accident, was there?”
Glock shakes his head. “No accident. And no sign a buggy had been there. Your brother was home and didn’t know anything about it.”
“Do you know who called it in?” Rasmussen says.
“Dispatch said the call came in from the Amish pay phone on Hogpath,” I tell them.
“We’ll ask around. See if anyone saw anything,” he tells me.
“One thing we do know,” Tomasetti says, “is that whoever made the call wanted you out there, Kate. This wasn’t random.”
“Or they wanted a cop out there,” I say. “Maybe any cop would’ve sufficed.”
“They mentioned your brother specifically,” he points out. “They used that information to lure you out there.”
“CR Fourteen is pretty remote,” Glock puts in. “Not many houses. Lots of trees.”
“Perfect place for an ambush.” Tomasetti scrubs a hand over his face.
I spend fifteen minutes taking them through everything that happened, from the moment I arrived on the scene until the Holmes County deputy showed up.
When I’m finished, the sheriff asks, “Do you have any idea what kind of vehicle was parked on the road?”
I shake my head. “I’m not even one hundred percent sure there was a vehicle. It was dark. All I really saw was the glint of something up ahead. I think it was my headlights shining off the hood or windshield. But I didn’t get a good look at it.”
Tomasetti glances at Rasmussen. “You’re aware that Kate, the police department, and the township of Painters Mill were recently sued, correct? It’s a contentious case.”
“There’s motive for you,” Glock says. “Sounds like something that fuckin’ Kester would pull.”
Rasmussen nods. “I’ll get someone out there to talk to Kester and his wife. Roll their asses out of bed.”
“You might talk to Paula Kester’s father, too,” I tell him.
“A lot of animosity from all three of them,” Tomasetti says.
Nodding, Rasmussen turns his attention back to me. “Any other disputes or arguments you’ve been involved in? I mean, as chief?” He clears his throat. “Or your personal life? Neighbors? Anything like that?”
It feels strange to be the recipient of such questions. Usually I’m the one asking them. “No.”
“You piss off anyone in the course of your job?” he asks. “Maybe someone doesn’t like the way you handled something? Got pissed off about a ticket?”
“Not recently.” I say the words lightly, but no one laughs. “The only other case I’m working on is the remains that were discovered under that barn,” I tell him.
“Foul play involved?” the sheriff asks.
“It’s possible, but we’re not sure yet. We don’t have a cause or manner of death. But I’ve been asking questions.”
“To whom?”
I list the names and give the spellings. “Vern and Sue Nolt. Rachel Zimmerman. Clarence Underwood. Abigail and Jeramy Kline. The Amish women at the sewing shop in town.” I go on to tell him about the possibility that domestic hogs were involved in the man’s death.
“Holy shit,” he mutters. “Hogs?”