Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

by Linda Castillo

“Did you know Paul?” I ask.

  He nods. “I met him several times. At worship. The horse auction. Helped him a few times at the farm.”

  “What about Mattie?”

  He looks down at the floor. I give him a moment, but he doesn’t answer. I’m aware of Glock moving around, looking at the workbench, peering into the trash container.

  “Mr. Kuhns?” I say.

  “I know Mattie.”

  “How do you know her?”

  No reply. I don’t know if he doesn’t want to answer or if he’s so upset he can’t.

  “How do you know Mattie, Mr. Kuhns?”

  “I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

  “How long?”

  “Six months or so.”

  “What was the nature of your relationship?”

  His gaze flicks toward the door and I wonder if his wife is inside. I wonder if she knows he’d recently had his sights set on another woman. His silence is telling.

  “I know you approached her about a relationship,” I tell him.

  He winces as if I slashed him with a blade. “I wasn’t … I mean I didn’t … we didn’t…” He lets the words trail as if he’s not sure how to finish the sentence. “I figured that’s why you’re here.” He doesn’t meet my gaze.

  “Were you stalking her?”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you would just answer the question.”

  “No. I would never do such a thing.”

  I glance over at Glock to see him shake his head. “Do you own a vehicle, Mr. Kuhns?”

  “I don’t drive. I have no use for a vehicle. If I need to travel, I hire the Mennonite down the street.”

  “Where were you three nights ago?”

  His eyes widen as if he’s suddenly realized why we’re here. “I was here. Working.”

  “Can anyone substantiate that?”

  “My wife.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No.”

  I stare hard at him. “Tell me about your relationship with Mattie.”

  “That is in the past, Chief Burkholder. I do not wish to speak of it.”

  “Mr. Kuhns, this is a police investigation. You don’t have a choice.”

  A flash of anger crosses his features. “Who are you to ask me such a thing?” he snaps. “Who are you to judge me?”

  He’s referring to my being ex-Amish, but I let the condemnation behind his words roll off me. “I’m the chief of police, and I’m conducting a murder investigation.” I step toward him, put my finger in his face. “If I were you, I’d answer the question. If you don’t, I’ll get a warrant and we’ll finish this at the police station. Do you understand?”

  His face goes crimson. Sweat beads on his forehead and upper lip. I can’t tell if it’s temper or humiliation, but if a man can look like a volcano about to blow, Wayne Kuhns is Mount Pinatubo. “She and I…” he stammers. “We were … friends.”

  “Did you have a sexual relationship with her?”

  A flush of embarrassment deepens his color. His eyes skate away from mine. “No.”

  “Did you want a sexual relationship with her?”

  He looks everywhere except at me.

  “Shall I interpret that as a yes?” I ask.

  “I did nothing wrong.”

  “Who broke it off?”

  “She did.” He sighs. “What happened … is in the past. I’ve prayed for forgiveness and made peace with the Lord. And myself.”

  “Were you angry when she told you she wanted to be left alone?”

  His eyes narrow and I know he’s trying to figure out just what she told me, how much I know. “No.”

  “Were you angry when she threatened to tell your wife you were bothering her?”

  Another, deeper flush. “I didn’t get angry. I respected her wishes.”

  “Did Paul know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you ever have words with him?”

  “Never.”

  “Does your wife know?”

  “No.” He fastens his gaze on the floor at his feet and shakes his head. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Does anyone else know about it?”

  “No.”

  I take him through some of the same questions I asked Mattie earlier to see if their answers correspond. He replies mechanically, without looking at me. Hating me, I think. Hating the questions and realizing the consequences of his actions are going to adversely affect his life.

  “Is your wife inside, Mr. Kuhns? I need to speak with her.”

  “No.”

  “No, she’s not inside? Or no, you don’t want me to speak with her?”

  Splotches appear on the skin at his collar and climb up his throat like a rash. He blots sweat from his forehead, looks from me to Glock and back to me. “She knows nothing of this.”

  “Mr. Kuhns, I’m not trying to make this difficult or uncomfortable for you,” I tell him. “But this is a homicide investigation and I need to speak with your wife.”

  He makes no move to accommodate my request. “You do not have my permission to speak with her.”

  Behind me, I hear Glock laugh.

  “I don’t need your permission,” I tell him.

  “She is with child,” he hisses.

  “If I were you, I’d start figuring out how to fill her in because she’s obviously going to have some questions for you when we’re finished.” I look at Glock. “Let’s go.” I make eye contact with Kuhns and motion toward the door.

  “You are going to burn in hell, Kate Burkholder.”

  “I have a feeling I won’t be alone,” I mutter and start toward the door.

  *

  The interior of the house smells of candle wax and sweet rosemary from a meal that had been cooked earlier in the evening. Kuhns takes Glock and me through the dimly lit mud room and into a kitchen filled with the bright light of an overhead gas-powered fixture.

  “Wayne?” A lilting female voice calls out from somewhere in the house. “I just swept the floor so you’d better brush off all that sawdust—” A young Amish woman wearing a gray dress with an apron appears in the doorway. Her words trail when she spots Glock and me. “Oh. Hello.”

  “Mrs. Kuhns?” I say.

  “Yes?” She sends a questioning look to her husband. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m Chief Burkholder and I’m looking into the deaths of Paul Borntrager and his children. I’m sorry to bother you this evening, but I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “I don’t see how I can help you.” Looking baffled, she enters the kitchen, and for the first time I notice her bulging midsection and I realize she’s nearly to term. “We barely know the Borntragers.”

  Paul rounds the table, pulls out a chair, and slumps into it, saying nothing. I offer my hand to the Amish woman and we shake.

  “I’m Hannah,” she tells me, her gaze flicking to Glock. “Would you like coffee? I think I’ve got lemonade, too.”

  “No thank you, ma’am,” I say. “Just a few questions and then we’ll leave you to the rest of your evening.”

  She nods, her expression turning grim. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard about Paul and the children. It’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard. I took a pie over to Mattie yesterday. Poor thing is all broken up.”

  “How well do you know the Borntragers?” I begin.

  “Just to say hello, really.” Her eyes narrow and I know she’s still wondering why we’re here. Why we’re asking questions about a family she had little or no contact with. “I spoke to Mattie briefly a couple of weeks ago at worship. I ran into her at the grocery store last month.”

  “Would you mind telling me where you were three nights ago?”

  “What?” She casts a did-you-hear-that look at her husband. “I was here. Why are you—”

  “Alone?”

  “I was with Wayne.” Her brows knit. “Why are you asking me that?”

&
nbsp; “Both of you were here? All night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Kuhns, did you ever have any kind of disagreement or dispute with Mattie or Paul?”

  “Of course not. I told you. I barely knew them. How can you have a dispute with someone you don’t even know?”

  “What about your husband? Did he ever have any kind of argument or disagreement with them?”

  “No.” She looks from me to her husband, as if she’s the only one in the room who didn’t get the punch line of some joke. “What’s going on here?”

  “These questions are just routine. We’re exploring all sources of information. Thank you for your time,” I tell her. “We’ll see ourselves out.” Glock and I start toward the front door. I feel her eyes on my back as we traverse the living area.

  “You think he’s going to come clean?” Glock asks when we’re outside.

  “I don’t think he has a choice.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Solving a case is akin to putting a puzzle together. The kind that has a thousand infinitesimal pieces, some of which are missing, damaged, or false. Initially, none of those pieces seem to have a place in the big picture. They’re the wrong color or shape or size. It’s my job to persevere and figure out which ones to toss aside, which ones to keep. One excruciating piece at a time, an image will emerge.

  After leaving the Kuhns’ place, I drop Glock at the station and start for home to grab a shower and then head to Wooster to see Tomasetti. Somewhere between the station and my house, I change my mind. I blame the case, of course. Work is an acceptable excuse—especially when you’re a cop—and one he’s obliged to understand. The problem is, it’s a lie.

  John Tomasetti is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I know I’m risking this thing we’ve created between us. But some small, self-destructive part of me won’t let me reach out. Perhaps the same part that won’t let me partake in the happiness that’s within my grasp for the first time in my adult life.

  It’s 10:00 P.M. and once again I’m behind the wheel of my Explorer, camped out at the dead-end turnaround fifty yards from the mouth of the Borntrager lane. The light inside the house went dark half an hour ago. Nothing has moved since. Not a single vehicle or buggy has been on the road, not even to turn around. I don’t think anyone is going to show up, but sitting here is better than going home to face an empty house and my own uneasy thoughts.

  My mind is on Mattie tonight. Oddly, the things I’m dwelling on have little to do with the case and everything to do with the past that built us into the women we are today. I wonder where her thoughts have taken her tonight. Is she agonizing over the deaths of her husband and children? Is she thinking about the words between us? Wondering if Wayne Kuhns did something unforgivable? Blaming herself for not handling the situation differently? Is she as troubled as me?

  At ten-thirty, I call Tomasetti.

  “I take it you’re not going to make it,” he says without preamble.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. You’re exactly where you want to be and that’s the way it should be.”

  Something in his voice scrapes at my conscience. Makes me feel callous and self-centered. I tell him about Wayne Kuhns.

  “Are you watching her place now?” he asks.

  “I thought I’d camp out for a couple of hours.”

  “You sure you’re not hiding out?” he asks after a moment. “From me?” From us?

  He doesn’t have to say the words; we’re both thinking them. “I could be.”

  “You know, Kate, sooner or later we’re going to have to deal with this white elephant that’s been hanging out with us for the last few months.”

  My initial impulse is to tell him I don’t know what he means, but the response would be disingenuous. I’m well acquainted with the white elephant he’s referring to, and while it’s the one subject I don’t want to broach, I owe it to him—to myself—to be honest. If only that weren’t so damn hard.

  “Do you want me to spell it out for you?” he asks. “Clear the air?”

  His tone reveals no anger. But his frustration with me comes through the line as clearly as if he’d shouted the words. “You don’t have to spell it out.”

  “One of us has to, or things are going to stay the same until one of us gets sick of it.”

  I bite back the urge to snap at him for bringing up our personal relationship when I’m in the midst of a difficult case. But this discussion has been building for quite some time. Sooner or later—whether I want to or not—we’re going to have to deal with it. Just not tonight.

  “Let’s set it aside for now,” I tell him.

  “Because of the case? Or because I’m asking for something you can’t give?”

  “Because I need more time. I don’t understand why that’s so difficult for you to grasp.”

  I know the instant the words are out that they’re a mistake. Tomasetti won’t be placated by snarky phrases or bullshit. “Is that lover-speak for we’re good as long as things don’t get too complicated for you?”

  His tone is challenging and cool. I sit there, mute, not sure how to reply. It’s as if I’m frozen on the outside, unable to speak my mind. Inside, my emotions are a jumble of molten rock, hot and churning and fusing into something unwieldy and volatile.

  “I didn’t mean to make you angry,” I say.

  “I’d like to know where I stand, Kate. Where we stand. I don’t think my asking for a little clarification is unreasonable at this point.”

  “It’s not,” I concede.

  He waits, putting me on the spot.

  A hundred responses scroll through my mind. I’m sorry. I like things the way they are. I don’t want to ruin what we have. But I’ve said it all before. None of them are the answer he’s looking for. They won’t solve the problem we face now.

  “I’ve given you your space,” he says after a moment. “I haven’t pushed.”

  “I know.”

  When I don’t elaborate, he lowers his voice. “You’re brushing me off. I don’t like it.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want.”

  “Kate, what the hell does that mean?”

  “That means I need some time to figure this out.”

  “If you haven’t figured this out by now, we’re in trouble.”

  “Tomasetti, I can’t discuss this right now. I have to go.”

  He laughs. I don’t know if he’s genuinely amused by this perplexing impasse, or if he’s trying to anger me. “Of course you do. That’s your MO. When things get complicated or difficult, you cut and run.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “I’m not a fair man. You should know that by now.”

  I wait a beat and say, “Tomasetti, what the hell are we doing here?”

  “Arguing, apparently.”

  Silence falls between us. I discern his elevated breathing coming through the line and I wonder if he’s as upset as I am.

  After a moment, he sighs. “For chrissake.”

  The line goes dead.

  I know he’s gone, but before I can stop myself, I say his name. “Tomasetti?”

  I hate the uncertainty, the need, the hurt I hear in my voice. The hiss of the dead line mocks me. I look down at the phone in my hand, rap it hard against the steering wheel. “Nice going, Burkholder.”

  I start to call him back, but change my mind and end the call before it dials. I get out of the Explorer and slam the door hard enough to rattle the window. The impulse to succumb to the supremely adolescent urge to throw my phone into the ditch is strong, but I resist. Barely. Instead, I opt for the more mature route, stride to the front of the vehicle, and kick the tire as hard as I can.

  Feeling like an idiot, more pissed than I have a right to be, I stand there shaking my head at my own stupidity. I’m in the process of clipping my phone to my belt when it vibrates. Mentally, I count to ten, determined to keep a handle on my temper this time. But instead of Tomasetti
’s number on the display, I’m surprised to see CORONER.

  I hit the TALK button. “You’re working late tonight.”

  “I have a feeling I’m not the only one.”

  Dr. Ludwig Coblentz and I have worked together on several cases in the last few years. He’s a respected pediatrician with a busy private practice—and part-time coroner for Holmes County.

  “Kate, I’m finalizing the autopsy reports for the Borntrager children, and I wanted you to know about an irregularity I found on the body of the female victim. The six-year-old female, Norah Borntrager.”

  Thoughts of Tomasetti fall away. I find myself pressing the phone more tightly against my ear. “What do you have?”

  “In the course of the autopsy, in addition to the physical trauma from the accident itself, I found older bruising. On her buttocks. The backs of her legs.”

  “What kind of bruising?” Even as I pose the question, I already know.

  “I believe the bruises were put there by a long, narrow instrument, such as a switch or leather crop.”

  The thought of those kids being disciplined with a switch disturbs me deeply. I want to think Mattie is a gentle soul and would never discipline her children in such a harsh manner. But I know that’s my own bias talking. Even if she didn’t partake in the spanking herself, she looked the other way while her husband did.

  “Doc, are you saying she was abused?”

  He sighs. “Look, Kate, I know some parents paddle their kids. I know it’s an accepted practice in many homes—and many Amish homes. I was spanked as a child and, admittedly, I occasionally spanked my own boys when I thought they needed it. This is different because the vigorous use of a switch is not an acceptable form of discipline for any kid, much less a child with special needs.”

  I tell him about my conversation with Dr. Armitage at the Hope Clinic. “The surviving child, David, told the doctor his father had spanked him for stealing a pie and eating it.”

  “So we have a pattern.” He pauses, thoughtful. “Even though Paul Borntrager—the likely perpetrator of the discipline—is deceased, I’m bound to notify Children Services. As you know, that will prompt an investigation. A social worker will likely perform an in-home evaluation.”

  “As much as I don’t like the idea of putting David through any more emotional trauma, I think that’s our best route. Our only choice at this point.”