In Plain Sight (Kate Burkholder) Page 3

  From his place on the shoulder of the road, Tomasetti indicates the skid marks in the gravel. “Vehicle went off the road here. Went through the ditch and entered the field.”

  “There’s no indication he tried to stop, at least initially.” Holloway takes it from there, motions toward the ground where he’s standing. “I pick up the victim’s footprints here. He’s running. Moving fast. It looks like the vehicle came at him from behind.” He walks about twenty feet and points out a place where the mud is smooth and slightly compressed. “There’s no way to tell exactly what happened, but I believe the victim was struck at least twice by the vehicle. There are marks in the mud where he went down. There’s blood.”

  For the span of a full minute the only sound comes from the caw of crows from the greenbelt and the bawling of a cow at the back of the Schlabach farm.

  “Are you saying the driver of the car purposefully ran him down?” I hear myself ask.

  Holloway nods. “I think that’s a likely scenario.”

  “Is it possible this was a bunch of teenagers clowning around?” Tomasetti asks. “An inexperienced driver? Maybe they’d been drinking? Something like that?”

  “Absolutely,” Holloway says. “This isn’t an exact science. We don’t have a lot to work with, so this is basically theory.”

  “It would be helpful to see the vehicle,” Tomasetti says.

  Holloway sighs. “Whatever the case, we’re dealing with a hit and run. Someone struck that kid and left him lying in the field. If he dies, even if this was an accident, the driver could be facing a vehicular homicide charge.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Tomasetti and I are in the Explorer heading toward Painters Mill. We left Skid at the scene. Over the next few hours, the BCI crime scene investigator will photograph and videotape the area, and plaster the tire ruts in an effort to pick up tread and any marks that are unique to the tires. If at some point we’re able to identify the driver or the vehicle, we’ll have the plasters on hand to run a comparison.

  I call Mona and ask her to set up a tip line. “There’s a five-hundred-dollar reward for any information that leads to an arrest and conviction.”

  “Got it, Chief.”

  “Thanks.” I end the call to find Tomasetti contemplating me.

  “Tell me about Doug Mason,” he says.

  “He’s the ex-boyfriend of the girl Noah Kline was with last night.”

  “He the jealous type?”

  “And a bully, evidently.” I tell him about the text messages Craig Hodges found on his daughter’s phone.

  “Nasty stuff,” he says.

  “Especially after two months have passed.”

  “Long time to stew.”

  “Or boil over.”

  Doug Mason and his parents live in Painters Mill in a nicely renovated older home set on a large lot with a dozen or so mature trees. I park curbside and find two teenaged boys and an adult male throwing a football in the front yard.

  “Someone’s got some nice wheels.” Tomasetti points to the silver muscle car sitting in the driveway. “Looks just washed.”

  “Not the kind of vehicle a dad would drive,” I say as we get out.

  The three men stop what they’re doing and watch us approach.

  “Christopher Mason?” I say when we’re a couple yards away.

  The man tosses the football to one of the boys, his eyes flicking from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “I’m Chris Mason.”

  I show him my badge. “I’d like to talk to you and your son, Doug, if you have a few minutes.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “There was an incident on Township Road 4 last night involving Noah Kline,” I tell him, keeping it purposefully vague. You never know when someone you’re talking to is going to volunteer information they couldn’t know—unless they were at the scene.

  “Heard about that,” the man says. “How’s the kid?”

  “Critical. It’s serious.”

  He jerks his head knowingly, suspicious of us now, unsympathetic about the injured boy. “I figured you’d show up sooner or later.”

  Tomasetti speaks for the first time. “Why’s that?”

  “Evidently, you talked to Craig Hodges.”

  Neither Tomasetti nor I say anything.

  As if on cue, Chris Mason keeps talking. “Look, just because Doug dated Ashley doesn’t mean he had anything to do with what happened to that Amish kid. Doug’s a good boy. He learned an important lesson with Ashley, and he’s moved on.”

  “Do you mind if we ask him a couple of quick questions?” I ask.

  I see him working that over, trying to come up with an excuse to refuse. Before he can say anything, the two boys saunter over to us, expressions curious. They’re close in age, physically fit, their dark hair damp with sweat and sticking to their foreheads.

  Still holding the football, the oldest of the two boys eyes us suspiciously. “What’s going on?”

  Chris Mason introduces him. “This is my oldest son, Doug.” He’s a nice-looking kid with baby blue eyes, ham-sized shoulders, and a face that exudes boy-next-door charm.

  “And this is Duke, my youngest.”

  Duke is wearing a Painters Mill High School Football jersey. He’s the taller of the two, with angular arms and legs, and feet he hasn’t quite grown into.

  Both boys mutter an unenthusiastic hello.

  Tomasetti jumps into good cop mode. “That’s a nice-looking GTO,” he says motioning toward the muscle car. “1969?”

  Doug Mason perks up. “Seventy.” Though he’s apprehensive about our presence, he grins, his pride in his car shining through the veil of nerves. “Me and Dad restored it.”

  “Four fifty-five?” Tomasetti asks, referring to the size of the engine.

  The boy’s chest puffs out. “Four hundred.”

  Tomasetti whistles and smiles back, his new best friend, rapport successfully built.

  “Looks like you just washed it,” I say.

  “Been raining, so . . .”

  The father sighs, letting us know he’s not pleased with my comment.

  “Doug, can you tell us where you were last night?” I ask.

  “What?” The boy looks from me to his dad.

  “Noah Kline was in some kind of accident,” his father tells him.

  “Oh. Wow.” The boy’s forehead wrinkles. “How bad?”

  “He’s in the hospital,” I tell him.

  “Shit.” As if realizing the response is inappropriate, he ducks his head, slants a look at his dad. “Sorry.”

  I repeat the question.

  Doug shrugs. “I went to homecoming like everyone else.”

  “Alone?”

  “He’s got a girlfriend,” his younger brother interjects. “Laura Simms. You can check.”

  Doug shoots his brother an annoyed look. “Jeez, shut up, dude.”

  I watch both boys for any telltale signs of deceit, but see nothing overt. “After homecoming, what time did you and Laura leave?”

  “Eleven or so. She had to be home by eleven thirty.”

  “Where did you go after you dropped her off?” I ask.

  Duke makes a sound of irritation. “Are you saying my brother did something to Noah Kline?”

  Tomasetti skewers him with a dark look.

  “Doug is so over Ashley.” The young man rolls his eyes, teenager style. “Look, everyone’s wondering why she’s going out with some Amish dude. I mean, she’s straight fire and he doesn’t even drive a car.”

  “That’s enough, son,” Chris Mason says mildly.

  “Maybe they ought to look at Ashley’s old man,” the boy says. “I don’t want to throw shade on the guy, but Jason says his dad hates it that Little Miss Perfect is going out with someone who only went to the eighth grade.”

  “Jason?” I ask.

  “Ashley’s brother,” the boy tells me.

  “Duke, go inside and help your mother with lunch.” Chris Mason points at the house. �
��Now.”

  Giving us a final, withering look, the boy starts toward the house.

  The elder Mason watches his son depart and then turns his attention back to us, his expression penitent. “Sorry, he’s a little protective of his brother.”

  That’s not the way I would describe the boy’s behavior, but I hold my silence. Tomasetti and I turn our attention to the other boy.

  Doug Mason swallows. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Where did you go after homecoming?” I ask.

  “Me and Laura sat in the driveway for about fifteen minutes. Uh . . . you know . . .” He blushes. “Then I drove back into town and met a couple of guys at the sub place. We ate and goofed off.” He rattles off the names of his friends.

  I jot them down. “You went home after that?”

  “Well, the engine was ticking, so I drove around a while. You know, listening, trying to figure out what it was.” He shrugs. “Then I went home and hit the sack.”

  “What time was that?” I ask.

  “Twelve thirty or so.”

  About the time Noah Kline was walking home.

  “Have you ever had any problems with Noah Kline?” I ask. “Any arguments or disagreements?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “What about Ashley? Did the two of you ever argue?” I ask, aware that Tomasetti has made his way over to the car. He runs his hand over the gleaming hood as if in admiration, but I know he’s checking for damage, dents or chips in the paint—or blood.

  The boy glances from Tomasetti to his father, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Look, I didn’t like it when we broke up. I was pissed when I found out she was seeing Noah Kline. I mean, he’s frickin’ Amish. So I sent her a couple of texts. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “Did you break up because of Noah?” I ask.

  He grimaces, looks down at his sneakers. “She broke up with me, so you’ll have to ask her.”

  “Were you jealous when you realized she and Noah were going out?” I ask.

  “No, ma’am.” He says the words with gusto, but he’s not a very good liar.

  “Were you on Township Road 4 at any time in the last twenty-four hours?” I ask.

  “I don’t go out that way.” The boy’s eyes go wide. “You think I ran him over?”

  “I think I want you to answer the question.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.” He steps back, looks up at his father. “Dad? What the hell?”

  “You got your answer, Chief Burkholder.” Chris Mason sets his hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezes. “Doug had nothing to do with the Kline boy getting hurt. If you have any more questions, we’ll do this with an attorney present.”

  I close my notebook. “Thank you for your time.”

  A few minutes later, Tomasetti and I are back in the Explorer. “What do you think?” I ask.

  “I think he just reminded me why I don’t trust any male under the age of thirty,” he grumbles.

  “Jealousy can be a powerful motive.”

  “Teenagers don’t have the strongest impulse control to begin with.”

  “In light of the texts he sent Ashley Hodges, I’d say he just moved to the top of my suspect list.”

  * * *

  According to Mervin Kline, Benjamin Weaver had once been best friends with Noah, but the two boys had some sort of falling out. Located ten miles west of Painters Mill, Killbuck is a small village with a population of about eight hundred souls. Benjamin lives a few miles out of town in a small house nestled in the hills along scenic State Route 520. The driveway is a gauntlet of potholes and the occasional piece of junk. An older sedan sits next to a beat-up looking Jeep Grand Cherokee. A chain-link fence encloses the front yard that’s been stomped to dirt. A sorrel gelding watches us from a loafing shed surrounded by livestock panels at the back of the house.

  “Jeep is covered with mud,” Tomasetti says as he opens the door.

  He gets out and starts toward the vehicle. I’m on my way to the house when a twentysomething man wearing insulated coveralls and a ski cap comes through the door. He does a double take upon spotting me.

  “Can I help you?” he asks.

  I have my badge at the ready. “Benjamin Weaver?”

  His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti, who’s a few yards away looking at the Jeep, and back to me. “I’m Ben.”

  “Do you know Noah Kline?”

  “Yeah, I know him.” He grimaces. “I heard what happened. You guys find out who did it?”

  I’m thinking about the grapevine, how quickly news travels, and I wonder if it’s common knowledge that the incident wasn’t an accident—or if this young man knows more than he should. “We’re talking to everyone who knows him.” I pause, watching him. He seems more interested in Tomasetti and his proximity to the Jeep.

  “How do you know Noah?” I ask.

  His gaze shifts back to me. “I’ve known Noah since we were kids. We grew up together. We’ve been friends for years.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “A couple of months ago.”

  “That’s a long time not to see your best friend,” I say.

  A cognizance flits across his expression. “I reckon you talked to his datt.”

  “I understand you had an argument with Noah.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.” He heaves a sigh of resignation. “Yeah, I’m pissed at Noah. But I had nothing to do with what happened to him.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “I drove down to the Brass Rail, had a few drinks, and played some pool.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah, I was alone.”

  Tomasetti climbs the steps to the porch and joins us. Ben looks at him, curious, a little intimidated. Tomasetti doesn’t identify himself, never takes his eyes off the young man, saying nothing about the Jeep.

  “What was the argument about?” I ask.

  “He courted my little sister, Loretta, for a while.” The corners of his mouth turn down, as if he’s swallowed something foul. “She was only sixteen at the time. Shy. Sweet. He was her first boyfriend and she was crazy about him. I was cool with the whole thing. I mean, Noah’s a good guy, right?” Shaking his head, he looks down at his work boots. “Or so I thought.”

  “What happened?”

  “He slept with her.” Emotions akin to anger and shame flash in his eyes, and I think about how deep some Amish mores go. “She thought they were going to get married. Then all of a sudden he’s with that English girl and it’s like my sister doesn’t exist. It just about killed her, and it sure didn’t do shit for her reputation. You know how the Amish are.”

  “Did you confront him?” I ask.

  “I called him out on what he did. If you want to call that a confrontation, go for it.”

  “Did the argument get physical?”

  “No, but if he’d pushed it, I’d have happily beat his ass.”

  Tomasetti rolls his eyes. “How did your Jeep get so muddy?”

  “I went coyote hunting down to the wildlife area two nights ago. Got stuck out by the creek.”

  “Anyone go with you?”

  “Nope.” He looks from Tomasetti to me and back to Tomasetti. “Like I said, I didn’t have nothing to do with what happened to Noah.”

  “So you say.”

  “So I say.” He looks away, zips up his coveralls. “Look, I gotta get to work. Are we done here?”

  * * *

  Ashley Hodges was running late. Usually, she left her volunteer job at the Buckeye Ridge Home for the Retired at 6:00 P.M. Tonight, Mrs. Henderson, who was legally blind and her favorite resident, had wanted her to read the final chapter of the mystery novel they’d been reading for the last week and Ashley hadn’t been able to say no. Though it was nearly dark now, Ashley didn’t mind. She’d been enjoying the book, too. Besides, staying busy kept her mind off Noah.

  She worried about him every minute of every day—and she missed
him so much she could barely stand it. She’d called the hospital four times today. Each time the news was the same: He’s in critical condition. Since she wasn’t family, it was all they could tell her. Tomorrow, she was going to ask her mom to drive her out to the Kline farm so she could talk to Noah’s parents. If only he would wake up so she could talk to him, see his smile . . .

  She was a few blocks from home, walking fast, embroiled in her thoughts, backpack straps digging into her shoulders, when the shadow came at her out of nowhere. Strong arms wrapped around her, trapping her arms at her sides, and swung her around with such force that she lost her balance.

  Ashley yelped. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind. She hit the ground on her back, the backpack jabbing her spine. Then the man was on top of her, straddling her. Panic sparked and then a steady stream of terror had her struggling mindlessly against a heavy body and muscles that were incredibly strong. A tidal wave of horror washed over her at the sight of the mask. It was a skull mask with black eyes and hit or miss teeth.

  She screamed, but it was cut short when he slapped a leather-clad hand over her mouth hard enough to cut her lip. “Shut the hell up and listen!” he hissed.

  Heart slamming against her ribs, adrenaline pumping pure fear through her blood, Ashley tried to dislodge him. She lashed out, grabbing the material of his coat, and shoving at him with both hands—to no avail.

  “Cut it out!” Drawing back, he slapped her.

  Ashley went still, breathing hard.

  He shoved a finger in her face. “You keep your fucking mouth shut or we will shut it for you permanently,” he snarled. “You got that?”

  Ashley stared up at him, comprehension and dread snaking through her. She could barely see him through the tears, the veil of shock. Still, she knew what he wanted, and she nodded.

  “Say it.” Giving her face a final, vicious squeeze, he removed his hand. “Do it!”

  “I won’t tell,” she choked.

  He got to his feet, looking at her, the mask macabre in the semidarkness. He pointed at her, a silent and effective threat, and then he turned and ran.