Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel (13 page)

“Did you hear about that accident out on Delisle last night?” I begin.

“You mean that buggy wreck?” He turns to the cabinet behind him and pulls down a white mug.

“There were three people killed.”

“Man, I hate to hear that.” He checks the mug to make sure it’s clean and sets it on the bar in front of me. “Them damn buggies is hard to see at night.”

I want to tell him they are particularly hard to see if you’re knuckle-dragging drunk and doing eighty, but I hold my tongue. “Did you work last night?”

“I’m here ’bout every night.” He doesn’t meet my gaze as he pours coffee into the mug. “You want creamer, Chief?”

“Black’s fine.” I reach for my wallet, but he stops me.

“It’s on the house.”

“Thanks.” I pick up the mug and sip. The coffee is weak, but it’ll do. “Jimmie, do you remember who was in here about this time yesterday?”

“Aw, we were so damn busy, I couldn’t even get away to take a piss.” He picks up a glass that’s already dry and starts wiping. I can tell by the way he’s concentrating on the task that he knows where my line of questioning is going and he doesn’t want any part of it.

“Anyone overly intoxicated?”

“Not that I noticed. Pretty mellow crowd out here most days.” He wipes the glass faster and harder. “I cut off anyone gets out of line.”

“So you say.”

Jimmie sets down the glass, picks up another.

“The Brass Rail isn’t too far from where that wreck happened,” I tell him.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that, Chief.”

“We think the driver might have been intoxicated,” I say conversationally. “If someone left here and headed toward Painters Mill, they would have had to cross that intersection.”

He dries faster, harder, and scrapes at a spot with a dirty thumbnail.

“Do any of your regulars drive a Ford F-250?” I ask.

“I dunno.”

“Jimmie.” I say his name sharply.

He looks up from the glass and meets my gaze. His mouth is slightly open and in that small space between his lips I see he’s got a bad case of meth-mouth. “What?” he says.

“There’s a five-hundred-dollar reward for information.”

He tries not to look interested, but he doesn’t quite manage. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Any information that leads to an arrest and conviction.”

“Can they stay anonymous?”

“Far as I know.”

He turns away, picks up another glass and runs his towel over it. “Leland Dull was in here ’bout seven last night. Had some big fight with his old lady. He was all shit-faced and mean. You know how he gets. You didn’t hear it from me, okay?”

I’m familiar with Dull. He and his wife live in Painters Mill, a small house by the railroad tracks. My officers have been called to their address several times in recent months. Leland has been arrested twice for domestic violence. Both times were alcohol related. If he was here last night, he would have had to pass the intersection where the accident occurred in order to get home.

“What time did he leave?” I ask.

“’Bout seven-thirty, give or take.”

“What was he driving?”

“Don’t know about that.”

I pull a ten-dollar bill from my wallet and lay it on the bar. “Behave yourself, Jimmie.”

“Hey, don’t forget about me if this pans out,” he says.

I don’t look back as I start toward the exit.

*   *   *

Leland Dull and his wife, Gail, live on a tree-lined street of circa 1960 bungalows that might have been quaint if not for the tumbling-down chain-link fences and yards trampled to dirt. The neighborhood would have been redeemable if not for the railroad tracks fifty yards from their front doors and the freight trains that rattle by four times a day.

I asked my second shift dispatcher, Jodie, to run his name for outstanding warrants. He comes back clean, but I discover a twelve-year-old conviction for vehicular manslaughter. According to police records, he was driving home late one night, missed a curve in the road, and drove through a house, killing the homeowner, a seventy-year-old woman. The county attorney dropped the charges down from vehicular homicide to vehicular manslaughter, and Dull pled guilty. He was sentenced to two years at the Mansfield Correctional Institution, but ended up doing nine months.

Chances are Leland Dull wasn’t involved in this particular accident. But considering his history of drinking and driving, his proximity to the scene on the night in question—and the fact that he drives a truck—I’m obliged to check him out.

I find the house with no problem and park in the driveway, behind an old Dodge pickup. I can’t see the front end of the truck from where I’m sitting. I hail dispatch, let them know I’m 10-23, get out and start toward the vehicle. A quick walk around reveals no damage.

“Ain’t you going to kick the tires?”

I glance up to see Leland Dull standing a few feet away, glaring at me as if I’m about to steal his truck.

“Or maybe you ought to whip out one of them
CSI
Q-tips and swab the hood for blood. Hell, break out the shovel. Maybe I got a fuckin’ body buried in the backyard.”

He’s sixty years old with a full head of white hair that’s gone yellow and hasn’t seen a decent cut in a couple of decades. The stubble on his chin tells me he hasn’t shaved for a few days, and I’m pretty sure the smell wafting over to me isn’t from the aging mutt at his feet.

I pull out my badge and show it to him. “You’re not confessing to anything, are you, Leland?”

“What are you doing on my property?”

“I just want to ask you a few questions.”

He’s looking at me as if he’s thinking about traversing the space between us and slugging me in the mouth. Leland Dull is a vicious drunk and a woman-beating son of a bitch. There’s a small, angry part of me that wishes he’d take his best shot.

I gesture toward the Dodge. “That your truck?”

“It’s parked in my driveway. Who the hell else would it belong to?”

“You got any other vehicles?”

“I got a Corolla. Wife drives it.”

“Any other trucks?”

“Nope.”

“Where were you last night?”

“Here.”

“You make any stops on your way home from work?”

“Nope.”

“Leland.” My lips curve, but the smile feels nasty on my face. “You know it’s against the law to lie to the police, don’t you?”

“I swung by the Brass Rail after work.”

“What time was that?”

“A little after five.”

“What time did you leave the bar?”

“I ain’t sure. Seven thirty or so.” His eyes narrow. “What’s this all about, anyway?”

“What route did you take home?”

“Same route I always—” He cuts the words short. “Oh, for shit’s sake. You don’t think I’m the one killed them Amish, do you?”

“I’m asking you a simple question.”

“You’re looking for an escape goat is what you’re doing. Well, you’re sniffing up the wrong ass.”

I puzzle over both of those statements a moment and make an effort not to laugh. “I’d appreciate it if you just answered the question.”

“I took CR 14 to the highway, damn it.”

I walk to his truck, make a show of looking at the front end. “Were you drunk?”

“On fuckin’ apple juice.”

I turn my back and walk to the detached garage, peer through the window. The glass is grimy, but I can see there’s no vehicle inside. Just an old washer and dryer. A table saw against the wall. A couple of fifty-gallon drums.

I hear him behind me. “Why are you snooping around my garage, anyway?”

“The official term for it is taking a look around.” I turn, make eye contact with him. “What’s in those fifty gallon drums, Leland?”

I hear a sound like chalk against slate. It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s grinding his teeth. I walk over to him, stop a scant foot away. I’m so close I can smell the dead-animal stench of his breath. The odors of filth and rage coming off him in waves. He’s only a few inches taller than me, older and slower, but he’s got eighty pounds on me. I suspect that beneath all that wrinkled, stinking skin is a reserve of muscle I’d be wise not to underestimate.

“Do you know anything about that hit-and-run?” I ask.

His lips curl, like two worms exposed to flame. “I think it’s time you hit the fuckin’ road.”

I turn away and start toward the Explorer. “Thanks for your cooperation,” I tell him and slide in without looking back.

CHAPTER 11

Ten minutes later I’m on my way to Pomerene Hospital to talk to Mattie, not as a friend this time, but a cop. I’m not convinced the deaths of Paul Borntrager and his two children were acts of premeditated murder, but with the evidence leaning in that direction, the possibility must be explored. That means I need to ask the hard questions I’ve been putting off, and delve more deeply into Paul’s life. I need to know if he’d had any recent disagreements or disputes. If he had any enemies or if there’d been any threats against him or his family.

It’s also my responsibility to keep Mattie apprised on how the case is progressing. That entails relaying some of the details I’d been withholding to spare her the pain of knowing the “accident” was, in fact, something more sinister. None of it’s going to be pleasant, especially when I’m tired and cranky and increasingly distracted by the discovery of Lapp’s remains.

At the door to David’s room, I knock quietly and step inside. The air smells of an odd combination of medicine, flowers, and cinnamon. On the windowsill, a little brown teddy bear is tucked into a bouquet of pink carnations. Next to it, several gas-filled balloons tug at the ribbons that bind them to the wicker handle.

David sleeps soundly in the bed. The bruises on his face are in full bloom, but his color is healthy. Mattie is curled on the chair with her head resting on her hands, asleep. In the recliner, a heavyset Amish woman lies on her back, snoring softly. Next to her, a partially eaten tin of homemade cinnamon rolls makes my mouth water.

I’m debating whether to come back later when David speaks from his bed. “You want a cinnamon roll? They taste good.”

I glance over to see him sitting up, looking at me as if I’m some stray that’s wandered into the room and needs feeding.

“Hey.” I feel a smile spread across my face as I go to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“My arm hurts and I miss my
datt
and Norah and Sam.” Using his uninjured arm, he brushes his hand over a cast that runs from wrist to elbow. “It’s broken.”

“I’m sorry about that.” I look down at the cast to see that someone by the name of Matthew drew a cat on it. “I like the artwork.”

His face splits into a big smile. “We have two cats at home. Whiskers and Frito. They’re my favorites. I like it when they purr because it tickles my ear.”

“I like cats, too.”

“
Mamm
says
Datt
and Norah and Sam are with God.”

It hurts me to hear an innocent child make such a profound statement. I nod, not sure what to say to that.

His brows knit and I know he’s trying to understand the incomprehensible: why three people he loved are gone from his life and won’t be coming back. “I think they miss me and
Mamm
, too. But heaven is the happiest place in the world, so we shouldn’t be sad. One of these days, I’ll be there, too, and I’m going to play hide-and-seek with Sammy and botch with Norah.”

I’m not much on touching, but this little boy is so sweet and vulnerable, I can’t keep myself from reaching out and laying my hand over his. He looks up at me expectantly. I want badly to say something to comfort him, to reinforce and confirm what Mattie has already told him. But I find myself so moved I can’t speak.

“Katie?”

I turn to see Mattie rise from the chair. She looks rested, and for the first time since the accident, she’s not crying.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I say.

“I must have drifted off.” She looks past me and smiles at her son.

The boy grins back, and she returns her attention to me. “The doctor says he can go home tomorrow.”

For an instant, she almost looks like the girl I once knew. The one with the infectious laugh and mischievous expression. But grief returns quickly, making itself known in the hollows of her cheeks and the circles beneath her eyes. “That’s great news,” I tell her. “How are you holding up?”

“These chairs aren’t exactly made for sleeping.” Putting her hand to her back, as if in pain, she chokes out a laugh. “I feel the way my brother must have felt the day he got tangled in the reins and the horse dragged him from the hayfield to the barn.”

I hadn’t thought of the incident in years, but it rushes back with enough clarity to make me laugh. I’d been at Mattie’s house, helping her and her older brother, John, spear tobacco. At some point her brother, who had a crush on me, decided he wanted to show off his horsemanship skills and hopped onto the back of a young plow horse. The animal bucked him off. John’s wrist somehow became tangled in the reins and the horse dragged him all the way to the barn.

The recliner across the room creaks. I glance over to see the Amish woman who’d been snoozing rise, eyeing me with unconcealed suspicion. “Hello,” she says.

I nod a greeting, then I turn my attention to Mattie. “Can I speak to you privately?” I motion toward the door. “In the hall?”

“Of course.” She looks at the woman. “Can you stay with David for a few minutes?” she asks in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Ja.”

Mattie follows me into the hall. When we’re out of earshot of the room and the nurse’s station, I stop and turn to her. She’s looking at me expectantly, a little perplexed, and I still don’t know how to break the news. “I need to let you know,” I begin, “the driver that hit the buggy left the scene. It was a hit-and-run. We’re trying to find him.”

“What?” She stares at me in disbelief. “The person didn’t stop?”

“They didn’t stop. And they didn’t call the police. Failure to render aid is against the law, so we’re looking for the driver. I wanted to tell you because it’s all over the news. I wanted you to hear it from me.”

“Paul and the children…” Her voice breaks. “How could someone do such a thing?”