In Plain Sight (Kate Burkholder)

by Linda Castillo

  * * *

  I’m in my office at the police station, running the names of the players involved in the Kline case through OHLEG and LEADS, law enforcement databases that will tell me if any of them have criminal records. Noah Kline. Ashley Hodges. Doug Mason. Duke Mason. Benjamin Weaver. Not a single one of them has ever been in trouble with the police.

  I’ve filled several pages of my legal pad with names and motives and possibilities. The name that keeps bubbling to the top of the list is Doug Mason. The jealous ex-boyfriend. Is he vindictive enough to have run down Noah Kline? The two boys he claimed to be with at the sub shop after homecoming corroborated his story. Still, there’s an hour or so that’s unaccounted for. Did Doug drive around, listening to some mysterious “tick” in his car? Or did he go looking for Noah Kline and act on some dark impulse he couldn’t control?

  “Chief?”

  I look up to see my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie Metzger, standing in the doorway. “I just took a call from Ashley Hodges. She’s in the park. Hysterical. Says someone attacked her.”

  I get to my feet. “Is she hurt?”

  “Says she’s just shaken up.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A minute.”

  Grabbing my keys, I head toward the door. “Who’s on duty?”

  “Skid.”

  “Tell him to meet me there.”

  * * *

  Creekside Park is a pretty little green space that’s been around as long as I can remember. There’s a playground complete with a swing set, a slide, and old-fashioned monkey bars. A fountain featuring a giant catfish spurting water draws kids to splash around in the summer months. A small, trickling stream spanned by a wood footbridge cuts through the park’s center. All six acres of it is jam-packed with stately hundred-year-old trees.

  I’m not sure what to expect when I arrive. Generally speaking, Painters Mill is a safe town; parents don’t hesitate to let their kids play outside or walk to and from school. My first thought is that whatever happened to Ashley Hodges is related to what happened to Noah Kline. But how?

  The final vestiges of dusk hover above the treetops to the west when I pull into the park. The shadows swallow me as I idle along the narrow asphalt roadway. There’s no sign of Skid. I hit my high beams and keep an eye out for Ashley.

  I find her walking alongside the road, huddled in a hoodie, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. She startles upon spotting my headlights, then recognizing my vehicle, raises both hands and runs toward me.

  I stop and pick up my radio mike. “Ten twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene. “I’ve got her. Stand by.” I’m about to hail Skid when his flashing lights appear in my rearview mirror.

  Grabbing my Maglite, I get out and start toward Ashley. “What happened?” I ask. “Are you all right?”

  She stumbles toward me, sobbing. “Chief Burkholder!”

  I set the beam of my flashlight on her, catch a glimpse of a ravaged face streaked with tears. A thin line of blood on the right side of her mouth. She reaches me, throws her arms around my waist and clings.

  “Someone attacked me,” she chokes.

  Her entire body trembles. Wanting to get a better look at her, I ease her to arm’s length. “Are you injured?”

  “No,” she says in a tremulous voice.

  Vaguely, I’m aware of Skid coming up behind me, listening, the beam of his flashlight illuminating the surrounding trees and brush.

  “Do you know who it was?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “He wore a mask.”

  “Did he have a weapon?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How long ago?” I ask.

  “Just a few minutes.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “He ran into the park.” She motions toward the playground.

  “What was he wearing?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she cries. “Just . . . a skull mask. And a hoodie, I think. Dark. Blue or black.”

  I glance at Skid. “Go.”

  Nodding, he takes off in the direction she indicated.

  I speak into my radio and hail the sheriff’s department. “Ten forty-eight A,” I say, using the code for suspicious person. “Male. Dark hoodie. Skull mask. Creekside Park.”

  I turn my attention back to Ashley. “Did you call your parents?”

  “My mom’s on the way.” She swipes tears from her face. “I can’t believe this happened.”

  The sound of tires alerts us to an approaching vehicle. I turn, see the white Escalade pull up beside my Explorer. The door swings open and Belinda Hodges gets out.

  “Mom!”

  “Sweetheart!” The woman runs toward us, heels clicking against the asphalt. “What on earth happened?”

  She reaches us, gets a look at her daughter’s face, and gasps. “Oh my God! Your lip is bleeding.” Pulling her daughter into her arms, she looks at me. “Who did this?”

  As the girl tells her mother about the attack, a Holmes County sheriff’s deputy rolls up behind my Explorer. I go to him, give him the basics, and ask him to stay with the women while I assist Skid.

  I take off at a jog and enter the trees, speaking into my shoulder mike. “Skid, what’s your twenty?”

  “At the fountain, heading west.”

  “I’m ten seven-six,” I say, letting him know I’m on my way.

  I catch up with him at the footbridge that spans the creek. “Anything?” I ask.

  “Nada,” he says.

  Our boots echo hollowly against the wood planks as we cross the bridge, the twin beams of our flashlights bobbing, not quite penetrating the shadows. I hear the gurgle of water below. Around us, the trees whisper and sway.

  On the other side of the bridge, we pause, listening, shining our flashlights into the thick darkness ahead. We’ve just started down the trail when a flicker of light through the trees snags my attention.

  “Kill your light,” I whisper, dousing my own.

  Skid reacts quickly, and we’re plunged into darkness. He comes up beside me. “I saw it,” he says quietly. “Fifty yards, straight east, on the path.”

  We watch for a moment and sure enough the light flickers again. “He’s running,” I whisper. “Let’s go get him.”

  We charge into the darkness. Skid pulls ahead quickly. I let him, speak in a low voice into my lapel mike. “Ten seven eight,” I say, using the ten code for need assistance. “Ten eighty-eight.” Suspicious activity. “Subject is on the west side of Creekside Park. Past the footbridge. Westbound. Unit intercept at Weisenbarger Street.”

  Skid reaches the end of the asphalt and keeps going. It’s too dark to see, so I flick on my Maglite. Trying to anticipate where the subject will go next, I cut slightly right, plunge headlong into the ditch, and enter the woods. Branches tear at my jacket as I run. The beam of my flashlight bounces with every stride, light playing crazily over the ground and brush and branches. I can’t see Skid, but I catch the occasional flicker of his light; I hear him breaking through brush a few yards ahead and to my left.

  I’m running full out when I reach a secondary trail, and I pour on the speed.

  “Stop!” I hear Skid shout. “Police Department! Stop!”

  He’s fifteen yards away from me now, outrunning me. I follow the sound of his footsteps. Thrusting my Maglite forward, I squint into the darkness, trying to spot the subject through the thick foliage.

  “Halt!” Skid shouts. “Painters Mill PD! Stop!”

  The curse that follows tells me our subject doesn’t heed the order.

  Weisenbarger Street lies a hundred yards ahead. It’s a through street with easy access to the highway. Chances are, the son of a bitch is trying to reach a vehicle, either his own or someone is waiting for him.

  I run another hundred yards, fight my way through a tangle of low-slung branches. I’m out of breath, a stitch forming in my side. The sound of an engine roars in the distance. I look up to see the flicker o
f headlights through the trees.

  I reach Skid, who has stopped. Huffing and puffing, he bends, sets his hands on his knees, speaks into his shoulder mike. “Subject is on Weisenbarger,” he pants. “In a vehicle. Southbound.”

  A Holmes County deputy’s voice cracks a response over the radio, letting us know he’s still a mile or so away.

  “Damn.” Skid shakes his head, his eyes meeting mine. “Son of a bitch runs like a damn cheetah.”

  “Or else we’re old and out of shape.”

  He laughs. “Not a chance.”

  Using our Maglites, we head back toward our vehicles. Midway there, I spot something shiny and out of place on the ground, half buried in fallen leaves.

  I shift my beam to the object. “What’s that?”

  Skid toes away the leaves. “Pocketknife. Blade is out.” His gaze meets mine, unspoken words floating between us.

  “He was armed.” I kneel for a closer look. It’s an expensive-looking knife, about eight inches long, including the handle. “Nice of him to leave it for us.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.” He shifts the beam of his flashlight. “What’s that on the blade?”

  “Some kind of inscription.” I move closer and read. “Savage.”

  We exchange a look.

  “What the hell does that mean?” he asks. “A name?”

  “Maybe.” Pulling out my cell, I snap several photos. Then I remove a small paper bag from my duty belt and use my gloved hand to work the knife into it.

  I look at Skid. “Check to see if there are any residents in Painters Mill with that last name.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll check with the knife shop in the morning. See if it was purchased there.”

  As we walk back to our vehicles, I find myself thinking about Ashley Hodges. I don’t believe this was a random attack, but why would someone accost her? What was their motive? Is the incident related to what happened to Noah Kline? If so, why is someone targeting this couple? I think about the people who may have had reason to harm Noah Kline—or at least want him out of the picture. Doug Mason. Ben Weaver. Maybe even Craig Hodges. All of them are likely physically fit enough to outrun the likes of Skid and me. But how does the name Savage fit into the equation? Or does it?

  * * *

  The Cutting Edge knife shop is located in downtown Painters Mill, a block from the police station. I’m waiting for the owner when he opens the doors at 10:00 A.M. It doesn’t take long to ascertain he sold the knife.

  “It’s a Smith & Wesson first-response drop-point plain-blade pocketknife.” He takes the bag containing the knife and turns it over in his hands. “Very popular, especially around Christmas.”

  “Do you recall who bought this one?” I ask.

  “No, but I can look.” He disappears into a back room behind the counter and returns with a sleek iPad tablet. He slides his index finger over the screen. “Here we go. Christine McDowell. Lives right here in Painters Mill. She bought five of them.”

  “That’s a lot of knives.” I think about that a moment. “Were all of them inscribed?”

  He taps the screen. “I engraved all five knives for her.”

  “How were the other four engraved?”

  “That’s why I remember the sale. I thought it was odd that all five knives had the same engraving: Savage.”

  * * *

  Christine McDowell is eighteen years old and lives in a small apartment on Ivester Court two blocks off the traffic circle. She graduated from Painters Mill High in the spring and works as a cashier at Fox’s Pharmacy.

  It’s nearly 11:00 A.M. when I park in the driveway behind an older Camry, take the steps up to Apartment 2, and knock.

  A muffled “shit” sounds from the other side of the door. The deadbolt snicks and I find myself looking at a petite redhead with large blue eyes, fifteen pounds of extra weight stuffed into faded bell bottom jeans, and an expression that has bad attitude written all over it.

  She sighs. “Look, if this is about the parking tickets—”

  “This isn’t about tickets,” I cut in. “Can I come in?”

  “Um.” Her eyes flick sideways as if she’s trying to remember if she left anything unseemly in plain view. “Sure.”

  I enter a slightly messy apartment that smells of fast food and the barely there redolence of cigarettes. I cut to the chase. “I understand you bought some knives from The Cutting Edge a few months ago.”

  “Knives?” She blinks, tries to assume an innocent countenance, but she doesn’t quite manage. “Hmmm.”

  I pull out my cell and show her an enlarged photo of the knife. “You purchased five of them. Including this one.”

  “Oh, that.” Her laugh is as phony as the innocent expression. “They were on sale for twenty-five bucks each. I sold them online for forty. Made a nice little profit.”

  “Who did you sell them to?” I pull out my notebook and pen. “I need names.”

  “I don’t remember.” A wiliness flickers in her eyes followed by a flash of amusement. She’s playing with me, enjoying this. “It was months ago. I sell a lot of stuff.”

  “Did you keep any paperwork?”

  “I’m not a paperwork kind of girl.” One side of her mouth curves. “Sorry.”

  “If you bought them to sell, why did you have them engraved?”

  “I dunno.” She lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Makes them more valuable.”

  “All five knives were engraved with the name Savage. I don’t see how that could make them more valuable.”

  “People like stuff like that. You know, badass.”

  I stare hard at her. “You realize I don’t believe a word that’s come out of your mouth.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Her lips twitch.

  “You know it’s illegal to lie to the police, don’t you?” I slide the notebook back into my pocket.

  She shrugs. “I’m not worried.”

  “Do you know Noah Kline?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  I nod, take a moment to look around the apartment on the outside chance I’ll spot something illegal—a joint or some drug paraphernalia—but there’s nothing there.

  I turn my attention back to the girl. “If I were you, I’d take care of those parking tickets.”

  * * *

  I arrive at the police station to news that Noah Kline is still in critical condition and shows no sign of emerging from his coma. I hope this case doesn’t turn into a homicide investigation.

  In the last hour, I’ve run Christine McDowell through LEADS to check for warrants and any criminal history, but her record is clean. I even braved her social media accounts in the hope she posted something that might be helpful to the case, but there was nothing there.

  Who the hell runs down an eighteen-year-old Amish kid, leaves him for dead, and attacks his girlfriend?

  I pick up my cell and look at the photo of the knife. Savage. What does it mean?

  “Chief?”

  I look up to find my first-shift dispatcher, Lois Monroe, standing in the doorway of my office. “You’ve got a visitor.”

  Ashley Hodges appears beside her. The first time I met her, she looked like the all-American high school girl: bright eyed and engaged, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Now, there are dark circles beneath troubled eyes. A bruise next to her mouth. She looks as if she hasn’t slept in days.

  “Come in and have a seat.” I nod at Lois and then turn my attention to Ashley, motioning toward the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. “Did your parents bring you?” I ask.

  The girl settles into the chair and shakes her head. “I rode my bike.”

  I nod and wait.

  Folding her hands in her lap, she looks down at them. “I think I screwed up.”

  “How so?”

  A pause follows, as if her list of mistakes is so long she doesn’t know where to begin. After a moment, she glances toward the door, as if she’s frightened someone mi
ght overhear what she’s about to say, and then she whispers, “Someone is sending me notes.”

  “What kind of notes?” I ask.

  Reaching into the pocket of her hoodie, she removes two folded scraps of paper and passes them to me. “I only have two. I threw away the first one.”

  The paper is plain and unlined, torn from a notebook, and folded once. Using the tip of my pen, I open the one on top and read.

  WE DON’T APPROVE.

  The words are printed in what looks like black marker. All caps. “Any idea who it came from?” I ask.

  Without looking at me, she shakes her head. “No.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “One was in my locker at school. The other one was tucked into my American History book. I don’t know when or how it got there. The first one—the one I threw away—was in a regular envelope in the mailbox at home.”

  I go to the second note. YOU’RE A DIME. DITCH THE CRINGEY AMISH.

  I look at Ashley. “Dime?”

  She frowns, rolls her eyes. “It’s kind of a slang word for ‘A perfect ten.’”

  I stare at the words, something tickling the back of my brain. CRINGEY. I’ve heard the word before.

  “Do you recognize the handwriting?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “How did your parents react?”

  “I didn’t tell them.”

  “Why not?”

  A brief hesitation and then she raises her gaze to mine. “It would just give them one more reason to forbid me to see Noah. They already don’t approve. My dad hates him because he’s Amish. He has all these plans for me. College. Law school.”

  I sigh. “Is that why you didn’t come to me until now?”

  She jerks her head. “This is all my fault. If I’d come to you right away, maybe none of this would have happened.”

  I give her a moment, then ask, “What did the first note say?”

  “Something like: We got eyes on him. I’m paraphrasing, but . . .” Leaning forward, she puts her face in her hands and begins to cry. “I never dreamed someone would actually do something so awful.”

  “Ashley, can you think of anyone who might’ve written those notes?”