Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(14)

“At the station.” I’m walking toward the road, looking down at the ground, when I spot tire marks in the moist soil. Not from a buggy, but a car or truck. “I got tire imprints, too.”

A thoughtful moment and then, “Tread?”

I pull the mini Maglite from my duty belt and kneel. “Yup.”

The rumble of thunder in the distance reminds me that we don’t have much time. “Tomasetti, if these marks get rained on, we’ll lose this.”

“I’m on my way.”

A few minutes later, his Tahoe rolls up on the road and stops. Leaving the engine running, the headlights shining in my direction, he gets out and starts my way. “An agent with some plaster should be here in twenty minutes.”

“Rain isn’t going to wait,” I tell him.

“That’s why they invented garbage bags.” He snaps open a large trash bag. “Might work if it doesn’t pour.”

Flipping on my flashlight, I take him to the tire-tread marks, shine my beam on the ground. He squats, careful not to get too close.

“Looks like he came down the road, heading east,” I say. “Pulled over here. Left that imprint.” I shift the beam to the falling-down fence at the edge of the property. “From there he went to the fence, used the trees for cover. Walked to the house, sticking to the fence line, and then cut over, keeping out of sight in case someone drove by.”

His gaze jerks to mine. “You got guys out canvassing?”

I nod, but we both know that in light of the tire tracks, the man we’re looking for is probably gone.

“Dogs?” he asks.

“County is working on it.”

“If this guy knew Mary Yoder and those kids were coming, if he knew their routine, he may have gone inside and waited for them,” he says.

“If they were already here,” I say, “all he had to do was sneak up to the house along this fence line and make entry.”

“If he knew the victim, he’s likely local.” Tomasetti looks around as if trying to imagine the scenario. “Were they targets or did they surprise him?”

“If he targeted them, who was he after?” I murmur. “Mary Yoder? Or the girl? Both?”

Kneeling, he spreads the bag over the tire-tread imprints.

“How’s it coming along inside?” I ask.

“It’s a damn mess, Kate.” He anchors the plastic with a couple of stones, rises, and sighs. “Mary Yoder wasn’t just stabbed,” he tells me. “She was butchered. Slashed. Defensive wounds. She put up a hell of a fight.”

“You think this is personal? That he knew her?”

“Or he’s a fucking psycho or both.”

“You guys get anything?”

“Footwear imprints. Large. Definitely male. A shitload of blood. Probably hers, but if he cut himself and they can isolate a second set of DNA, it could be helpful.”

He reaches into the side pocket of his jacket. “Crime scene agent found this on the victim.” He pulls out a clear plastic bag containing a single sheet of notebook paper. “We’ve still got to log it, but I wanted you to take a look to see if it means something that might help us find the kid.”

I shine my flashlight on the bag. White notebook paper. Lined. From a spiral binding. Printed in pencil by an inept hand.

Food gained by fraud tastes sweet, but one ends up with a mouth full of gravel.



“Mean anything to you?” he asks.

“It’s from the Bible,” I say. “A proverb, I think.” I look at him. “Something to do with deception.”

“Any idea how this might fit with any of this?”

I shake my head. “No clue.”

We fall silent, look around, trying not to notice that it’s nearly dark. “Tomasetti, this woman … she was a grandmother. Amish. Who does something like that? And why take the child?”

He shakes his head. “The first thing that comes to mind is that he’s a sexual predator.” He shrugs. “Maybe he wanted the kid, the woman got in the way, and it’s no more complicated than that.”

The words are a physical pain. My mind whirrs with what I know—and all I don’t. “That level of violence. It seems like … overkill. Like he wanted her dead, not just out of the way.”

“Or he was afraid she’d identify him.”

Neither of us put into words what we’re thinking. That the same could be true for the girl.

I tell him the story about Eddie Graber.

“You think he’s capable of something like that?” he asks.

“He’s got the physical strength. A temper. Self-control issues.” I shake my head. “I don’t know him very well. I’m going to talk to them.”

I look around the property, the dilapidated house, the isolated and overgrown nature of the land.

“How did he know they’d be here?” I say, thinking aloud.

“Could be a crime of opportunity. He was in the area. Saw them.” He shrugs. “Or maybe he’s a stalker. Had his eyes on the kid for some time. Followed them. Figured this was his chance.”

“You think he lives in the area?”

“I think that’s the most likely scenario.” But he sighs. “Tough to figure what’s in the mind of someone capable of hacking an Amish grandmother to death.” His expression darkens. “We need to find that kid.”