Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

eye.
    Snagging a bottle of ibuprofen that expired two months ago from the medicine cabinet, I down four of them with a full glass of tap water and drag myself into the shower.
    *   *   *
    Ask for a lot, get a little.
    That’s been my mantra when dealing with Painters Mill’s governing body, the town council. In the three years I’ve been chief, that philosophy has served me well. At 9:00 A.M. I’m standing before the six council members and Mayor Auggie Brock, ten minutes into my pitch for the allocation of funds so I can hire a new police officer. I’ve given them a summary of the Borntrager investigation, ending with my encounter in the woods last night. It took them less than a minute to shoot down my request, so I moved on to Plan B, which is additional budgeting for overtime.
    Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m not above using whatever tool I have at my disposal to get what I want. That includes brandishing the hen’s-egg-size bruise on my cheek and my burgeoning black eye, both of which are in full bloom this morning. My wounds are drawing plenty of attention, and I make sure everyone gets a damn good look, because they are the biggest bullet in my box of ammo.
    “Three members of the Borntrager family were killed,” I explain. “The incident is still under investigation, but the evidence gathered by the Holmes County sheriff’s office and my own department suggests this was no ordinary hit-and-run accident, but a deliberate act of homicide.”
    Auggie gasps with the appropriate level of shock. “I’ve heard the rumors, but murder ? My God, Kate, are you sure?”
    I give him my full attention and decide to put my neck on the chopping block. “I’m reasonably certain Paul Borntrager and his two children were murdered.”
    “Do you know who did it?” he blurts.
    “Not yet, but the investigation is ongoing.”
    Town councilwoman Janine Fourman speaks up. “Chief Burkholder, with all due respect to you and your department, murdering a family of Amish people with a truck seems rather far-fetched and, frankly, an odd way to kill someone.”
    She’s in her midfifties, with dyed black hair, shifty brown eyes, and a body as short and round as a milk-fed heifer. We’ve butted heads a dozen times in the years I’ve been chief. Still, I give her points for making it this far in a town that still has a boy’s-club mentality. I suspect she’s got her sights set on the mayor’s office, an ambition that would be detrimental to not only me, but my department.
    “She’s got a point, Kate,” Auggie says. “A hit-and-run seems like a roundabout way to go about it. And what would the motive be?”
    I bullet-point everything we’ve uncovered so far, beginning with the lack of debris at the scene and the bogus invoice, and ending with the attempted break-in, the foot chase, and ensuing struggle last night.
    Councilman Stubblefield grimaces. “Is that how you got the tattoo there on your face?”
    I nod, let him take a good, long look at it. “I believe the suspect I chased is the same person who killed Paul Borntrager and those kids. I believe Mattie Borntrager was his target. If I hadn’t been there last night, he might have killed her and her young son.” I pause to let that sink in and look from member to member. “I think he’ll try again.” I make eye contact with Auggie. “I need eyes on that house twenty-four–seven, Auggie. That means a budget for overtime.”
    The mayor’s expression twists as if he’s in the grip of a stomach cramp that’s going to end badly. “Kate, I know you’re stretched thin—”
    “I’ve been stretched thin for three years,” I cut in.
    “Painters Mill isn’t exactly New York City.” Bruce Jackson pipes up for the first time.
    I don’t look at him, don’t let my annoyance alter my expression.
    Auggie spreads his hands, a generous king who’s run out of bread for his starving peasants. “You’re already over budget.”
    “The budget allotted the police department wasn’t adequate to begin with,” I point out.
    “You signed off on it,” Janine interjects.
    I ignore her, knowing that if I speak I’ll overstep the boundaries of civility, which won’t help. “My officers can’t even take a vacation day without my having to call someone in to cover. This woman and her son, and the community as a whole, deserve better than that. They deserve protection.”
    I can’t tell if they’re moved by my argument or if this is just another