Breaking Silence

“He a suspect?”

The thought makes me feel slightly nauseous. “Let’s just say he’s a person of interest.”

“Got it.”

I give him a look as I reach for the door. “Let’s get the barn taped off.”

At the rear of the Explorer, I open the hatch and pull out my crime-scene kit. There’s not much to it—just a box of disposable gloves, several pair of shoe covers, yellow crime-scene tape, a sketch pad and notebook, evidence bags, a dozen tiny cone evidence markers, a couple of inexpensive field-test kits—for cocaine and crystal meth—and a digital camera.

“Going to be a tough scene to process,” Glock comments.

He’s right. The place has literally been trampled—by the fire department volunteers, the police and paramedics, whoever has been caring for the livestock. “We’re not going to find much.”

“Whatever we do find is contaminated.”

“Won’t do us much good if this ever goes to court.”

The big door still stands open, someone’s attempt to air the place out. The smells of hogs, hay, barn dust, and manure greet us like an offensive old adversary when we walk inside. The barn is filled with deep shadows. Looking around, I spot a lantern hanging from a rafter, pull it down, and light the wick.

Setting my crime-scene kit on the wood windowsill, I open it and hand disposable gloves and shoe covers, the crime-scene tape, and adhesive tape to Glock. “Let’s get it taped off.”

“A little late for shoe covers and gloves.”

“Gotta treat it like a crime scene from here on out.” I look around. “Keep your eyes open for anything that might have been used as a weapon.”

“Will do.”

Quickly, we don the protective gear. While he strings crime-scene tape, I cross to the livestock pens and look around. Someone put the hogs outside, but I can hear them grunting and slopping around in the mud beyond the door. The concrete is slick with muck, both liquid and solids. The smell is overpowering. It strikes me that the pit will need to be emptied, all of its contents gone through. Some lucky BCI agent isn’t going to have a very good couple of days.

I lift the gate latch. The steel groans when I push it open and enter the pen. A hundred or more cloven hoofprints mar the thick sheet of mud. I see human footwear marks with a dozen different treads, and I curse myself for not having been more careful. Looking at the destroyed crime scene, I tell myself there was no way any of us could have known. Still, some caution might have given us a better chance of finding something useful in terms of evidence.

Vaguely, I’m aware of Glock stringing tape a few yards away, the wind hissing through the open door behind him, sleet tapping like delicate fingernails against the glass panes. I grew up on an Amish farm. Being here brings back a lot of memories of my own childhood. We raised cattle for beef, but we also had horses, chickens, and several goats. We farmed corn, soybeans, and wheat. Our barn was much like this one: old, but built to last. The manure pit was smaller, but the concept was the same. I was a tomboy and spent many hours exploring the barn with my brother, Jacob. Datt always left the grate over the pit. I made my sister, Sarah, cry once when I told her there were monsters living in the muck. I never thought of it as an instrument of murder.

I walk the perimeter of the pen. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Something that seems out of place. You never know when something that initially appears mundane will become a piece of evidence. Spotting a pair of leather work gloves on the windowsill, I remove the camera from my pocket and snap four shots from different angles. I do the same with a two-pound coffee can someone probably used to measure feed. I snap two more photos of a big pocketknife that was probably used to cut hay twine. Next, I take a dozen shots of the manure pit from different angles. This is the first step in documenting the scene. Once the CSU arrives, every movable object will be bagged and sent to the lab for examination.

Lowering the camera, I spot a snow shovel leaning against the far wall. The blade is caked with dried muck and I realize it was probably being used to shovel solids into the pit. I think of Solomon Slabaugh’s head wound and realize a shovel would make a pretty good weapon. Stepping back, I snap half a dozen photos. I put the camera in my pocket and squat next to the shovel to examine the blade. A quiver goes through me when I see hair on the back of the scoop. “Shit.”

“Do you mean that literally or figuratively?”

I nearly start at the sound of Glock’s voice. Rising, I glance over at him and motion toward the shovel. “There’s hair on the blade. Looks human.”

“Murder weapon?”

“Maybe.” I bend for a closer look at the hair. “Definitely not from a pig.”

He approaches and squats next to me. “Same color as Solomon Slabaugh’s.”

I’m tempted to put some of the hair in an evidence bag for safekeeping, then decide to let the CSU handle it—mostly for chain-of-evidence reasons. Straightening, I sigh, thinking of the children. As much as I hate the idea of subjecting them to another interview, they’re my best bet at getting my hands on some solid information. “I’ve got some garbage bags in my kit. Bag the shovel. See what else you can find and mark it.”

“You got it.”

Rising, I start toward the gate that will take me out of the pen. “I’m going to talk to the kids.”

“You want me to go with you?”

Snapping off my gloves, I toss them into a trash can, then stop and turn to him. If we weren’t dealing with Amish kids, I might take him up on the offer. But I don’t want to overwhelm or intimidate them. “The fewer non- Amish people present, the more likely they’ll be to open up.”

“Gotcha.”

“You want the bad news?”

“Lay it on me.”

“I’m going to need you to stay here and keep the scene secure until the CSU arrives.”

“No problem.” He pats the coat pocket where he keeps his cell phone. “Just give a call if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Glock.”

I go through the door and into the cold. A strong west wind buffets me as I head up the sidewalk toward the house, and I huddle deeper into my coat, wishing I’d put on a few more layers. At the back door, I knock and wait. A moment later, a tall, thin Amish woman I’ve never met answers. She’s wearing a blue print dress with a black apron, the requisite kapp, opaque hose, and well-worn black shoes. I show her my badge. “I need to speak with the children.”

She doesn’t look happy to see me, even less happy with my request. I’m relieved when she opens the door and ushers me inside. “Sitz dich anne.” Sit down.

The smells of coffee and cinnamon titillate my olfactory nerves as I step inside. Heat from the kerosene stove warms my face. A second woman stands at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. She turns as I sit at the table, nods a greeting, then returns her attention to her task. Being here in this Amish kitchen brings back memories. Growing up, I spent countless hours sitting at a big table just like this one while my mamm fussed at the stove, and I feel an uncharacteristic jab of melancholy for things lost. Not because I want to be Amish, but because I know that once pieces of your past slip away, those pieces are gone forever, and there’s no going back.

I think of my brother, Jacob, and my sister, Sarah, and for an instant I miss them so much, my chest aches. As children, we’d been close. Now they’re strangers; it’s been weeks since I’ve seen either of them. I have two nephews I barely know and a brand-new niece I’ve never met, mostly due to my own evasion. I don’t know why I avoid them the way I do. To say it’s complicated would be an understatement. As I sit at the table with the smells of an Amish house all around, I wonder if they’re part of my lost past, or if they’re part of a future I simply haven’t been able to reach for yet.

“I’m Ellen.”

I’m pulled from my thoughts to see the thin woman who’d answered the door eyeing me suspiciously as she dries her hands on a towel. “Would you like coffee and pie?” she asks.

I wonder if she’d be offering these if she knew I’d once been Amish and that I’d been excommunicated for