Reuben and Naomi Kaufman live on a farm several miles south of Charm just off of County Road 600. It’s a huge place with two big bank-style barns and a white silo in dire need of fresh paint. In the field that runs alongside the frontage road, two aging draft horses nibble overgrazed grass next to a mossy pond. I turn into the gravel driveway and park my borrowed unmarked Crown Vic beneath the shade of an elm tree and take the sidewalk to the front porch. The two-story farmhouse is plain with tall windows covered on the inside with dark fabric. Two rocking chairs sit on a porch that’s been recently swept, but there are no flowerpots or hanging planters. Some Amish plant elaborate gardens, row after row of vegetables bordered by hundreds of beautiful flowers—petunias and daisies and geraniums. This garden is as plain as the house, with a dozen or more rows of tomatoes, corn, and green beans.

In light of the shooting last night, I’d considered bringing Glock with me, but Reuben and Naomi Kaufman are Swartzentruber, and I suspect they’ll be more inclined to talk to me if I’m alone. That’s not to say my being formerly Amish will open any doors. My fluency in Pennsylvania Dutch may help. But I’ve found that when dealing with Old Order Amish, especially with my being a cop, the fact that I left the fold trumps my heritage every time.

It’s a beautiful day. The humidity adds a slight haze, but a breeze and the shade make the air feel good against my skin as I start toward the house. A mourning dove coos from the wind vane mounted atop the nearest barn. Sparrows chatter at me as I walk past a bird feeder filled with millet and crushed corn. I ascend the steps, open the storm door, and knock.

A moment later, the door opens and I find myself looking at a plump Amish woman in a dark gray dress that reaches nearly to her ankles. She’s wearing the traditional kapp over steel gray hair that’s thinning at her crown. “Can I help you?” Her inflection tells me she speaks Pennsylvania Dutch more often than English.

“Guder nammidaag.” Good afternoon. “Mrs. Kaufman?”

“Ja.” Her pale blue eyes sweep over me, taking in my uniform, and her nose wrinkles slightly, as if she’s breathed in some unpleasant odor. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, ma’am. Everything’s fine.” I show her my badge and introduce myself. “I’m working on a case, and if you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“We’re Amish. I don’t see how we can help you with some Englischer case.”

“May I come inside, Mrs. Kaufman? I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

After a moment of hesitation, she opens the door.