Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

example—or he was under the influence of alcohol or drugs and his reflexes were so slowed he didn’t react to the situation.”
    “Could have been texting,” T.J. offers.
    Swearing beneath his breath, Pickles leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “Or if he went to the trouble of having the front end of his truck reinforced, he planned this and carried it out.”
    T.J. looks from Pickles to Maloney. “Is that what you think?”
    Maloney looks at me. “If you combine the reconstruction with all the other data we’ve gathered…”
    “If it quacks like a duck, it’s a fuckin’ duck,” Glock puts in.
    “It sounds like it was premeditated,” Mona says from her place at the door. She blushes, but no one seems to notice. No one looks at her. No one argues.
    “Kind of a messy way to knock off someone,” Skid says. “I mean, a lot of variables involved. One miscalculation and he could have disabled his truck, gotten a flat tire, or stranded himself at the scene.”
    “If that’s what happened, this guy definitely took some risks,” Maloney puts in.
    “He wanted it to look like an accident,” Glock says. “That’s the only explanation that makes sense. He planned it, carried it out, and covered his tracks.”
    “That fits,” T.J. says.
    Maloney looks down at his phone, frowns at the display. “’Scuse me, Chief. It’s the boss. Gotta take this.”
    I move to the podium. “If we are dealing with premeditation,” I say, “was it a crime of opportunity? An impulse thing? He planned to kill someone— anyone —and waited for the right set of circumstances? Or, for reasons unknown, did he target Paul Borntrager?”
    “Why would someone want to kill an Amish man and his kids?” Mona asks. “That’s what doesn’t make sense.”
    T.J. chimes in. “Good Amish family. Solid reputation. No enemies. I don’t get it.”
    A few feet away, the cadence of Maloney’s voice changes. I glance over at him to find his eyes on me and I know he’s got something. Everyone else has noticed, too, and the room falls silent, all eyes on the deputy. After another minute, he pockets his phone and crosses to where I’m standing and addresses me. “Couple of kids playing in that old grain elevator down in Coshocton County found some human remains this afternoon.”
    The words penetrate my brain like a bullet traveling in slow motion. They are words I’ve dreaded for seventeen years, but I always knew would come. Still, even after all this time, I’m not prepared. Shock echoes through my body. The floor tilts beneath my feet. I stare at Maloney, a thousand thoughts running through my head. They are not the thoughts of a cop, but of someone who knows something they shouldn’t.
    “Chief?”
    I’m aware of Maloney looking at me oddly. The rest of my team silent and staring. I know someone spoke, but I have no idea what they said or if it was directed at me.
    “Do you have any open missing person cases?” Maloney asks and I know he’s repeating the question. “Cold cases?”
    “Nothing off the top of my head.” I’m operating on autopilot, going through the motions. Lying. “How old are the remains?”
    “All they got is bones, so probably months or years. They’re waiting for the coroner to arrive now.”
    I think of Tomasetti and something frighteningly close to panic leaps inside me. Aside from my sister and brother, he’s the only person in the world who knows I shot and killed a man when I was fourteen years old. He knows my family covered it up and that the crime was never reported to the police.
    “Are you talking natural causes?” Glock asks. “Or foul play?”
    “Considering the bones were hidden at the bottom of the boot pit, I’d venture to say we’re looking at a homicide.”

 
    CHAPTER 9
    The criminology texts will tell you that a murderer always returns to the scene of the crime. As I leave the city limits of Painters Mill and head south toward Coshocton County, I realize I’m no different. I wonder if other killers have an all-consuming need to know what the police are doing so they can plan their next move and stay one step ahead.
    The grain elevator is the last place I want to be—the last place I should be, considering my involvement—especially when I’m in the midst of a difficult case that requires all of my time and energy. I tell myself I’m duty bound to make an appearance and offer up the resources of my department, even if the offer is token. The truth of