Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel (6 page)

Something cold and sharp scrapes up my back. “The driver made no attempt to stop?”

“Looks that way,” Maloney replies.

“The road surface was wet,” I tell him, thinking aloud. “Is it possible he tried to stop, but couldn’t due to conditions?”

“That son of a bitch didn’t even tap the brake,” Rasmussen mutters.

“Could we be dealing with some kind of mechanical failure?” It’s an optimistic offering, but I pose the question anyway.

Maloney shrugs. “It’s possible, I guess.”

“If someone’s brakes fail and they slam into a fucking buggy, you’d think they’d stop and render aid,” Rasmussen growls.

Maloney nods. “Even if they get scared and panic, they’d call 911.”

“Unless they’ve got something to hide.” I say what all of us are thinking. What we already know. “We’re probably dealing with a DUI.”

“That’s my vote,” Rasmussen says.

“Or some idiot texting,” Maloney puts in.

I think of Paul Borntrager’s last minutes. He’d been broken and bleeding and yet his only concern had been for his children. I think of Mattie, holding vigil at the hospital, waiting for word on the condition of her only surviving child. I think of David, an innocent little boy, hurting and frightened and fighting for his life. I think of the three lives lost and the countless others that will be destroyed by their passing. I think of the pain that has been brought down on a community that’s seen more than its share of heartbreak in the last few years. And gnarly threads of rage burgeon again inside me.

I study the scene. My mind’s eye shows me a horse and buggy approaching the intersection. I hear the clip-clop of shod hooves against the asphalt. The jingle of the harness. The creak of the buggy. The chatter of the children, oblivious to the impending tragedy. Dusk has fallen. It’s drizzling. Visibility is low. The road surface is wet. Concerned about the coming darkness, Paul would have been pushing the horse, hurrying home. Around them, the symphony of crickets from the woods fills the air.

There would have been a flash of headlights. An instant of horror and disbelief as Paul Borntrager realizes the vehicle isn’t going to stop. He plants his feet, hauls back on the reins. A firmly shouted, “whoa!” Then the horrific violence of the impact. No time to scream. An explosion of wood and steel and debris. The horse is killed instantly, the harness rigging ripped from the buggy. The victims are ejected, their broken bodies violently impacting the earth.

“A lot of the Amish try to avoid the busier roads after dark,” I say.

Both men look at me as if I’ve inadvertently spoken the words in Pennsylvania Dutch. I add, “They know it’s dangerous.”

“We’ve all seen how impatient some of these damn drivers can be,” Rasmussen mutters.

“I cited some guy from Wheeling a couple of days ago for passing a buggy on a double yellow line,” Maloney says. “I’d like to show him some photos from this scene.”

The three of us nod and then Rasmussen glances at his watch. “It’s too late to canvass.”

“I’ll get someone out here first thing in the morning.” I think about that a moment. “The driver might be looking for a body shop in the next few days.”

Rasmussen nods. “We’ve got five or six body shops in Millersburg. I’ll send a couple of my guys out first thing in the morning.”

“There are three in Painters Mill,” I tell him. “We might include Wooster, too.”

“I’ll notify Wayne County,” Rasmussen offers.

“Let’s pull past DUIs, too,” I suggest.

“Can’t hurt.” Rasmussen’s eyes sharpen on mine. “Any chance the kid saw something?”

“It’s possible, but he was in critical condition and in surgery when I left the hospital.” I glance at my watch. “I’ll find out and keep you posted.”

But we know the majority of crash victims rarely remember the minutes preceding a crash, especially if they’ve sustained a head injury or lost consciousness.

“With this kid being Amish,” I begin, “even if he saw the vehicle and remembers it, he may not be able to tell us the make or model.”

“Well that’s just fucking peachy,” Rasmussen mutters. “We need to find this son of a bitch, people.”

CHAPTER 4

Deputy Maloney, Sheriff Rasmussen, and I spend several hours walking the scene, photographing, video-recording, sketching, and surmising. At 2:00
A.M.
, Glock shows up with four large coffees from LaDonna’s Diner, and we swarm him like zombies seeking flesh. It’s hours before his shift starts, but he possesses a sort of sixth sense when it comes to showing up when he’s needed. He never seems to mind putting in the extra time, even though he’s got two babies and a wife at home. I’m invariably glad to have him on scene and unduly thankful for the caffeine.

I’m standing next to my Explorer when a Painters Mill volunteer fire department tanker pulls onto the shoulder. I watch the young firefighter disembark, link the hose, and begin to flush the blood from the road and grassy areas. A few yards away, local farmer and town councilman Ron Jackson arrives in his big John Deere to haul the dead horse to the landfill.

Glock wanders over and we watch a big Ford dually back a twenty-foot flatbed trailer to the debris field. A red-haired man from a local wrecker service contracted by the sheriff’s department gets out. Maloney and Rasmussen don gloves and begin picking up pieces, dropping them into bags, and loading them onto the trailer.

For several minutes Glock and I stand there, sipping our coffees, watching.

“Hell of a way to start the day,” he says.

“Coffee helped.” I smile at him and he smiles back.

“You get anything from the vehicle?” he asks.

I tell him about the lack of debris and he shoots me a look. “That’s weird,” he says.

We stare at each other, our minds working that over. “Maloney thinks this guy was going upwards of eighty miles an hour,” I say.

“There should have been debris.”

“A lot from the buggy,” I say.

“Maybe the debris from the vehicle got mixed in with it.”

Even as he says the words, something tugs at my brain, worrying me like a child yanking at his mother’s dress to get her attention.

“Seems like the impact would have fucked up the grille of a vehicle,” Glock surmises. “Or busted out a headlight or signal light or
something
.”

The feather touch of a chill brushes across the back of my neck, and I realize the lack of debris is the thing that’s been bothering me all along. “They’re going to haul everything down to impound, take a closer look under some lights.”

Rasmussen approaches us. “I think we’ve got everything loaded up.”

I address the sheriff. “Did you find any more debris from the vehicle?”

“Just the side-view mirror so far,” Maloney replies.

I see a creeping suspicion enter the sheriff’s eyes. “If that son of a bitch was going as fast as you say, he should have left pieces scattered all the way to Cleveland.”

“Even with the work lights and generator, it’s dark as a damn cave out here,” Maloney says. “Maybe we missed something. Maybe it got tossed in with all those pieces from the buggy.”

“Driver might have had a brush guard on his front end,” Glock offers.

Rasmussen nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Even with a brush guard, he would have busted out a headlight or knocked off some plastic. Vehicles have a lot of plastic these days.”

“Maybe it’s some kind of homemade job,” Glock offers.

Maloney tosses him an interested look and adds, “All you need is a welder and some steel.” He turns to me. “Any vehicles from around here come to mind?” he asks. “Souped-up truck, maybe?”

“Or a fuckin’ tank,” Glock mutters beneath his breath.

Images of a hundred vehicles scroll through my mind. Stops I’ve made. Citations I’ve issued. Recent DUIs.

“A lot of farm trucks,” I tell them. “I’ll see if I can come up with a list.”

“A lot of them farm boys got welders,” Maloney adds.

The sheriff makes a sound of frustration. “We’ll take a closer look at everything in the morning. In the interim, if you see something that fits the bill, make the stop.”

He tips his hat and the two men start toward their respective vehicles.

I glance at my watch, surprised to see it’s almost 3:00
A.M.
“You want body shops or farms?” I ask Glock.

“Body shops.” He grins. “Amish don’t trust me for some reason.”

“That’s because you cuss too much.”

He grins. “Now that makes me feel misunderstood.”

“Hit every body shop or auto shop that does collision work, including anyone who works out of a home shop or keeps a can of Bondo on his workbench. If someone brings in a vehicle with a messed-up grille, I want to know about it.”

“I’m all over it.”

“I’ll get Skid and Pickles to cover these farms in the morning.”

We saunter to the place where the accident happened and look in both directions. The grassy shoulder is trampled from all the traffic and muddy where the fire department flushed away the biohazard. The tractor that hauled away the dead horse left deep ruts. I think about the hit-and-run driver and something scratches at the back of my brain.

“Where was he going anyway?” I say, thinking aloud.

“If he was headed west,” Glock replies, “he was on his way to Painters Mill. Millersburg, maybe.”

“If he was stinking drunk, where was he coming from?”

Our gazes meet. “The Brass Rail,” we say in unison.

The Brass Rail Saloon is a couple of miles down the road; the scene of the accident is smack dab between that bar and Painters Mill. It’s one of the area’s more disreputable drinking establishments. If you want to get drunk, fight, buy dope, or get laid—and not necessarily in that order—The Brass Rail Saloon is one-stop shopping.

“Probably a long shot.” But I can’t quite dispel the rise of dark anticipation that comes with the possibility of that all-important first lead.

“Unless the bartender remembers someone leaving in a souped-up truck five minutes before the accident.”

“Stranger things have happened.” I fish my keys out of my pocket. “Let me know what you find out from the body shops, will you?”

“You bet.”

I leave him there, frowning and looking just a little bit worried.

*   *   *

I swing by the house for a shower and a few hours of sleep. I don’t notice the blood on my shirt until I’m standing naked in the bathroom and look down at my uniform heaped on the floor. I’m usually pretty mindful of any kind of biohazard, but I don’t remember when I picked it up. I don’t know whose it is.

I look down at my hands and see dried blood on my palms and beneath my nails and cuticles. That’s when it strikes me this blood represents the death of a man I’ve known most of my life. The deaths of two innocent children. The injury of a third child. And the hell of grief for a woman who was once my best friend.

Unnerved, I turn to the sink, grab the bar of soap, and scrub my hands with the single-minded determination of a mysophobe. When my flesh is pink, I twist on the shower taps as hot as I can bear and spend the next fifteen minutes trying to wash away the remnants of the accident, seen and unseen.

By the time I pull on a tee-shirt and sweat pants, I feel settled enough to call Tomasetti. I want to believe I’m calling him because he’s a good investigator. Because he’ll offer some gem of advice. Because he’s great to bounce ideas with and he rarely fails of give me something I can use. But the truth of the matter is I need to hear his voice. I want to hear him laugh, hear him say my name. Or maybe I just need him to help me make sense of this.

I walk into the kitchen. The wall clock tells me it’s three thirty in the morning; I shouldn’t bother him at this hour. Like me, Tomasetti’s an insomniac. Sleep is tough to come by some nights. For a moment, I sit there debating. In the end, my need to talk to him overrides decorum. I grab my cell phone off the counter where it’s charging, pour myself a cup of cold coffee, and punch in his number.

He picks up on the second ring. “I was just thinking about you.”

I can tell he was sleeping, and that he’s withholding his usual upon-wakening grumpiness. His voice, so calm and deep, fills me with a sense of optimism and reminds me that the good things in life balance out the bad.

“You were asleep,” I tell him.

“This might come as a shock to you, but a man can actually think about a woman while he’s sleeping.”

“So you were multitasking.”

He pauses. “Is everything all right?”

He asks the question with the nonchalance of someone inquiring about the weather, but he knows something’s wrong. I don’t like it, but he worries about me. Because I’m a cop. A woman. Or maybe because he knows how easily those you care about can slip away.

I stick to cop-speak as I tell him about the hit-and-run, using terms like “hit-skip” and “juveniles.” I don’t mention my past friendship with Mattie or that I’d known both of them since I was a kid. I don’t tell him that when I close my eyes I see the faces of those dead children.

I don’t have to; he already knows.

“How well did you know them, Kate?” he asks.

To my horror, tears sting my eyes. Though he can’t see me, I wipe frantically at them, as if somehow he’ll know.

“Mattie was my best friend,” I blurt. “I mean, when we were kids. I knew Paul, too. Back when he was a skinny Amish boy with a bad haircut. We lost contact after I left, but those days were—” I fumble for the right word.

“Formative.” He finishes for me.

“I never had that kind of friend again.”

“Until I came along.”

I laugh and it feels good coming out. “I knew you were going to make me feel better.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Not really. Holmes County is the primary agency.”

“You notified NOK?”

There are times when silence is louder than words. This is one of those times. But I know if I speak, he’ll know I’m an inch away from going to pieces.

“Are you okay?” There’s nothing casual about the question this time. He knows I’m not okay and he’s trying to figure out what to do about it.

“This is going to sound corny, but I think I needed to hear your voice.”