Page 21 of The Hidden One

“Can you tell me anything about the muzzleloader found at the scene?”

“Evidently, both the body and the gun were buried in a shallow hole. Back then, the area had been wooded, but it was cleared a few years back. Anyway, we took a metal detector out there and found the gun straightaway.”

“Spent bullets? Casings?”

“A single ball. Fifty-cal. Buried a few inches in the ground.”

I think about that a moment. “But there were two wounds?”

He lifts one shoulder, lets it drop. “Investigators figured one hit him while he was standing and the ball got away. The other—the one we found—when he was on the ground.”

I nod. “How did you identify the muzzleloader?”

“It was a damnedest thing.” Smirking, he scrubs his hand over his shorn head. “A couple of deputies took it out to Bowman and the guy admitted the gun was his. He’s like: ‘Oh, that’s mine. Thank you for returning it.’” The sergeant punctuates the statement with a laugh. “At that point, we had motive, means, and opportunity. We had a body and a suspect. So we secured a warrant and made the arrest.”

It doesn’t seem to have occurred to him that while they do, indeed, have a case, it’s not rock solid. For example, why would Jonas leave his muzzleloader at the scene and so readily admit it was his?

“We searched the Bowman house, too,” the sergeant adds. “We found a half-empty box of fifty-caliber balls. Same brand as the one found at the scene.”

“Is there any other information you can share that hasn’t been released to the public?”

“Not at this time.”

I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he’s not telling the truth. And that he doesn’t mind that I know.

The sergeant glances at his watch, which is my cue to wrap it up. “Is the DA going to stick with second-degree murder?” I ask. “Is there any chance the charge will be reduced?”

“Last I heard, the DA’s of the mind that Bowman threatened the victim and then made good on it. He’s gotten off scot-free for eighteen years. Rumor has it, he’s going to go with first-degree murder.”

CHAPTER 7

Jonas and his wife live in a modest midcentury frame house just outside Belleville. The property isn’t in town per se, but the place is a far cry from rural. There are no barns or pastures, no livestock or pens—just the low-slung house and a large metal building at the rear. An ancient hackberry tree shades the entire front yard. A sign next to the driveway tells me this is also home to Bowman Cabinet and Wood Design.

As I make the turn, I’m thinking about my meeting with Jonas earlier, the number of years that have passed since I knew him, and how little I really know about him and his family. I’ve no idea what to expect. The driveway takes me to a parking area behind the house and the red metal building. The door stands open and when I get out I’m met with the whine of a saw and what sounds like the rumble of a generator. I’m about to head that way when the slam of a door from the house draws my attention. I glance toward the house to see a boy of about ten bound down the steps of a small porch. He’s wearing dark trousers with a blue work shirt and single-strap suspenders. A banded straw hat is clamped down over a headful of curly red hair.

He freezes upon spotting me, his eyes going wide. I see a freckled face, a turned-up nose, and lips that are smeared with something purple. He’s cute in a puppy-dog kind of way. Hazel eyes dart from me to the Explorer and back to me.

“Wie geht’s?” I smile and start toward him. How’s it going?

His mouth opens. I can’t tell if he’s surprised because an Englischer spoke to him in Deitsch or if he thinks I’m about to grab him and cart him off in my spaceship.

“I’m Katie from Painters Mill,” I say. “Is your mamm home?”

The boy lets out a squeal akin to the screeching of tires, then turns on his heel and runs as fast as he can back into the house.

Laughing, I ascend the steps and knock.

An Amish woman answers with the caution of a woman who’s been forewarned about a potentially dangerous foreign invader. She’s pretty and in her mid to late thirties, with the same features as the boy: hazel eyes, freckles, and a mane of curly red hair pulled back and tucked into a kapp. She’s wearing a green dress with a white apron that’s stained with what looks like tomato juice, and off-brand sneakers. Judging from her expression, she has no idea who I am, so I quickly introduce myself.

“I’m the chief of police in Painters Mill,” I tell her.

“Chief Burkholder.” She softens, presses a hand against her chest, and lets out a laugh that speaks more of nerves than humor. “Jonas might’ve mentioned you a time or two.”

I try not to show my surprise. “Call me Katie.” I pause. “The Diener thought I might be able to help.”

“Oh.” Her smile fades and for an instant, I think she’s going to burst into tears—or collapse. Instead, she motions to the doorway. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.

She steps back and swings open the door. An awkward moment ensues and she sticks out her hand for a shake. “Where are my manners? Scattered all over the place, just like the rest of me. I’m Dorothy, Jonas’s wife.”