Pray for Silence

since the Plank family was murdered, and I feel every tick of the clock like the jab of an ice pick. Having worked for two years as a detective in Columbus, I’m well aware that the first forty-eight hours are the most vital in terms of solving a crime. After that, the case goes cold and the chances of a good outcome decrease substantially. I don’t plan on letting that happen.

The farmhouse is plain with badly weathered siding. The barn is octagonal with dirty white paint and tin shingles that have been peeled up by the wind. A tall silo with a rusty dome juts into a low, cloudy sky. A hundred years ago the farm had probably been a showplace. This morning, everything looks as old and tired as I feel.

In the side yard a dozen or more work shirts and trousers hang from a clothesline, flapping like flags in the morning breeze. To my right, pampas grass with spires that shoot ten feet into the air sways to and fro. Beyond, cornstalks rattle in a well-tended garden, and I know the woman of the house fills her days with pulling weeds and canning vegetables.

We exit the Explorer and start toward the front door. The smell of manure is overpowering. Most Amish farms are neat and well managed. The muck is scooped up several times a week and dumped into a manure pit, where it composts and is later used for fertilizer. Evidently, Zook doesn’t exercise good manure management.

Next to me, Glock sighs. “I’ll take you up on the mentholated jelly offer, now.”

“Left it at the scene.”

“Figures.”

Having just left the Plank farmhouse, I can think of more disturbing smells than pig shit, but I don’t comment.

We pass a small ramshackle barn surrounded by a rail fence and an ocean of oozing muck. Dozens of pink pig snouts poke out from between the rails, and I know they’re watching us, hoping for a snack.

At the back door, I knock and concentrate on the trace of mentholated jelly that remains beneath my nose. The door opens to reveal a plump Amish woman wearing a brown dress, a white apron and traditional kapp. We stare at each other for several seconds before I recognize her. Twenty years ago, Alma Gerig and I went to school together. She’s several years older than me, but our Amish school was so small, the older and younger children shared the same room.

She’s gained thirty pounds since I last saw her. Her hair is more gray than red. It makes me wonder what my own life might have been like had I remained Amish. Though I see mistrust in her eyes, she offers a genuine smile. “Katie. Guder mariye.” Good morning.

“Hello, Alma.” Giving her a passable smile, I flash my badge.

Her smile falters. “Was der schinner is letz?” What’s wrong?

“I need to ask you and your husband some questions about something that occurred last night.”

Stepping back, she opens the door wider. She’s nervous now; I see it in the way her eyes flick away from mine. I don’t believe it has anything to do with me personally or the murders. Mistrust between the Amish and the English police has been a problem in this town for as long as I can remember. My being formerly Amish has helped dispel some of the friction, but it hasn’t eradicated it.

“Of course,” Alma says. “Come in.”

Glock and I enter a small living room. The plywood floor is covered with a blue and white braided rug that’s tracked with dirt. Against the far wall, a walnut bench is draped with a worn quilt and a couple of throw pillows. I smell kerosene and frying scrapple and for an instant I’m reminded of my own childhood home. A bittersweet memory best left in the past.

“There was a problem at the Plank farm,” I begin. “A shooting.”

She presses her hand against her breast. “Was anyone hurt?”

“I’m afraid so.” I don’t elaborate. I want her husband there when I tell them about the murders. I don’t believe the Zooks are involved. Still, I want to see their unrehearsed reactions when I tell them the news.

“Has something happened?”

I turn at the male voice and see William Zook approach from the kitchen. He’s a tall, thin man with hunched shoulders and a salt-and-pepper beard badly in need of a trim. He wears a blue work shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a flat brimmed straw hat, trousers and suspenders. His eyes are sharp and suspicious when they land on me.

Showing him my badge, I get right to the point. “Mr. Zook, there was a shooting last night at the Plank farm. I’d like to ask you and your wife a few questions.”

“A shooting accident?” His eyes narrow. “Was anyone hurt?”

Normally, I don’t release the names of the deceased until I’ve notified the next of kin. Since the Planks are from Lancaster County, I’m still working on obtaining NOK contact information, which could take a few hours. With the clock ticking and a killer on the loose, I can’t put my investigation on hold that long. If a member of the Zook family saw something, I need to know about it now.

“The entire family was murdered,” I say.

“Ach!” William presses his hand to his chest.

Across the room, his wife gasps. “The children?”

I glance over at her and shake my head. “There were no survivors.”

Quickly, I shift my attention back to William. His complexion has gone pale. He stares at me as if I’ve just plunged a knife into his chest. “Dead?” he whispers. “All of them?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” Alma covers her mouth with both hands and looks at me over the tops of her fingers. “Who would do such an evil thing?”

“Did you see or hear anything strange last night?” I ask.

Both heads shake, but it is William who speaks. “The Plank house is over a mile away. Sometimes we do not see them for days at a time.”

“When did you last see them?” Glock asks.

William shifts his attention to Glock, his brows knitting. “I saw Amos yesterday morning. I was repairing the fence, near the road. He was in the buggy and stopped to say hello.”

“How did he seem?” I ask.

“Fine. We talked about the corn harvest. He wanted me to butcher a hog for him. I told him I would pick out a fat one for them.”

“How did he seem to you? Normal? Nervous or upset?”

He shrugs. “He seemed the same as always.”

Alma wrings her hands. “Who did this terrible thing?”

“We don’t know.” I turn my attention to her. “Were either of you close to the Planks?”

William answers. “We see them at worship.”

“I quilted with Bonnie, Mary and Annie just last week,” Alma puts in.

As a teenager, I spent many an evening cutting, pinning and sewing fabric. Quilting is the perfect activity for female bonding—and an even better forum for gossip. “Did Bonnie or either of the girls mention any problems? Family problems? Money problems?”

“They mentioned no such thing,” Alma responds.

I look at William. He’s standing so close I can see the crumbs from his breakfast toast in his beard. He smells of pig shit and hot lard. “Do you know if they had any enemies?” I ask. “Anyone who might have been unhappy or angry with them?”

“They were good neighbors.” William shakes his head as if still reeling from news of their deaths. “A happy, generous family. I do not understand how this could happen.”

“Has anyone made any threats against them?” Glock asks.

Alma looks upset. I can’t tell if it’s from the news of her neighbors’ deaths or something else. “Everyone loved the Planks. They were very kind.”

“What about the kids?” I press. “Did any of them ever get into trouble?”

Alma shakes her head. “The children were well behaved. Even Mary, who was going through her rumspringa.”

Rumspringa is the “running around” period Amish teens go through when they turn sixteen or so. It’s their time to experience the world without the social constraints of the Plain life. Usually, that entails some drinking and generally harmless misbehaving; nothing excessive. It’s the period in which teens decide whether or not they want to be baptized. Most ultimately choose to join the church. I’m one of a small percentage