from a rogue icicle. Katie was strangled.”
My hand went to my throat. An image of the pretty Amish girl being choked to death filled my mind. I closed my eyes to block the sight, but that only made it more vivid.
Timothy tapped my foot with his boot. “We didn’t see any sign of that.”
“I wouldn’t expect you would. Her face was half-covered by her bonnet, and she was wearing a thick scarf. The coroner thinks whoever did it used the scarf to kill her and then wrapped it loosely around her neck again when it was over.”
“Poor Katie,” I whispered. “What a terrible way to die.”
The police chief grimaced. “It wouldn’t be the way I’d want to go. I’ll take a gunshot straight to the brain, thanks.”
Timothy blanched. No doubt my expression was much the same.
Chief Rose ran a fingernail under the lip of the envelope. “We’re waiting on the full autopsy before we can say anything official. Now, here’s where it becomes interesting.”
Some of the color returned to Timothy’s face.
“Katie Lambright being strangled wasn’t interesting enough?” I asked.
She eyed me with one of her unusual peridot-colored eyes, her shimmering, forest-green eye liner smudged at the corners. “It’s plenty interesting, and more than enough to keep me busy into the new year. However, then I found this.” She slid the manila envelope across the table at me.
My hands hovered over the envelope, unsure if I wanted to see what was inside.
Chief Rose snorted. “It’s not a snake. It won’t bite you.”
I flipped over the envelope and lifted the flap. Inside were a sheet of paper and a photograph of a man. The name Walter Hoover ran across the top of the page. The young man in the photo looked strangely familiar. I gasped, “Is this . . . ?”
Timothy frowned. “It’s a rap sheet for Billy.”
“Bingo.” The police chief beamed at Timothy as if he were her prize pupil. “Troyer wins.”
He settled back into his seat. “What do I win?”
“Satisfaction at being the victor.” Chief Rose pointed to the second sheet. “There you will see Billy’s rap sheet. I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version: He went to federal prison for fifteen years. Grand theft auto. He managed a chop shop in Detroit. Eight years in, he got out for good behavior, but the moment he hits the streets he doesn’t call into his probation office like he should. Instead, he disappears. He’s been using the social security number of a guy who died over twenty years ago. The real Billy Thorpe didn’t have a family who might have caught the illegal use of his number. I imagine Hoover bought it from some con artist.”
“You can buy a social security number?” I asked.
Chief Rose darted a glance at me. “You can buy anything, sadly.”
I examined the man in the photograph and racked my brain for everything that I knew about Billy. It wasn’t much. He loved duct tape, was good at fixing cars—even if the ones he revived weren’t the most beautiful machines on the road—and was a genuinely nice guy. Had I been wrong about the last point? I took another look at the man in the photo. He had sandy-colored hair. “He’s not a natural redhead?” I asked. For some reason, this upset me. Billy always talked about how we were the only true redheads in town and now I learn that we weren’t even that.
Chief Rose barked a laugh. “Of all the details to pick up on, that’s the best you can come up with?”
Timothy’s jaw twitched. “How long has he been in hiding?”
I watched Timothy. Billy was his friend, not mine. What did he think about this information? If I, after only having spoken to him a handful of times, was questioning if I knew the real Billy, what would Timothy be thinking right now?
“Twelve years. He was pretty good at it. We discovered his true identity when we lifted some prints from his single-wide this afternoon. Afterward, I went over to the sheriff’s place and ran the prints through AFIS. The village
My hand went to my throat. An image of the pretty Amish girl being choked to death filled my mind. I closed my eyes to block the sight, but that only made it more vivid.
Timothy tapped my foot with his boot. “We didn’t see any sign of that.”
“I wouldn’t expect you would. Her face was half-covered by her bonnet, and she was wearing a thick scarf. The coroner thinks whoever did it used the scarf to kill her and then wrapped it loosely around her neck again when it was over.”
“Poor Katie,” I whispered. “What a terrible way to die.”
The police chief grimaced. “It wouldn’t be the way I’d want to go. I’ll take a gunshot straight to the brain, thanks.”
Timothy blanched. No doubt my expression was much the same.
Chief Rose ran a fingernail under the lip of the envelope. “We’re waiting on the full autopsy before we can say anything official. Now, here’s where it becomes interesting.”
Some of the color returned to Timothy’s face.
“Katie Lambright being strangled wasn’t interesting enough?” I asked.
She eyed me with one of her unusual peridot-colored eyes, her shimmering, forest-green eye liner smudged at the corners. “It’s plenty interesting, and more than enough to keep me busy into the new year. However, then I found this.” She slid the manila envelope across the table at me.
My hands hovered over the envelope, unsure if I wanted to see what was inside.
Chief Rose snorted. “It’s not a snake. It won’t bite you.”
I flipped over the envelope and lifted the flap. Inside were a sheet of paper and a photograph of a man. The name Walter Hoover ran across the top of the page. The young man in the photo looked strangely familiar. I gasped, “Is this . . . ?”
Timothy frowned. “It’s a rap sheet for Billy.”
“Bingo.” The police chief beamed at Timothy as if he were her prize pupil. “Troyer wins.”
He settled back into his seat. “What do I win?”
“Satisfaction at being the victor.” Chief Rose pointed to the second sheet. “There you will see Billy’s rap sheet. I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version: He went to federal prison for fifteen years. Grand theft auto. He managed a chop shop in Detroit. Eight years in, he got out for good behavior, but the moment he hits the streets he doesn’t call into his probation office like he should. Instead, he disappears. He’s been using the social security number of a guy who died over twenty years ago. The real Billy Thorpe didn’t have a family who might have caught the illegal use of his number. I imagine Hoover bought it from some con artist.”
“You can buy a social security number?” I asked.
Chief Rose darted a glance at me. “You can buy anything, sadly.”
I examined the man in the photograph and racked my brain for everything that I knew about Billy. It wasn’t much. He loved duct tape, was good at fixing cars—even if the ones he revived weren’t the most beautiful machines on the road—and was a genuinely nice guy. Had I been wrong about the last point? I took another look at the man in the photo. He had sandy-colored hair. “He’s not a natural redhead?” I asked. For some reason, this upset me. Billy always talked about how we were the only true redheads in town and now I learn that we weren’t even that.
Chief Rose barked a laugh. “Of all the details to pick up on, that’s the best you can come up with?”
Timothy’s jaw twitched. “How long has he been in hiding?”
I watched Timothy. Billy was his friend, not mine. What did he think about this information? If I, after only having spoken to him a handful of times, was questioning if I knew the real Billy, what would Timothy be thinking right now?
“Twelve years. He was pretty good at it. We discovered his true identity when we lifted some prints from his single-wide this afternoon. Afterward, I went over to the sheriff’s place and ran the prints through AFIS. The village
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