“Nolt?” For an instant, he looks confused. “You mean the Nolt boy from years ago?”

“He disappeared in 1985. Do you know him?”

Wiping his hands on his trousers, Abram crosses to me. He’s got blood on his right palm, dried blood that’s gone brown beneath his nails. I’m relieved when he doesn’t offer his hand for a shake.

“I saw him around back then,” he tells me. “But I don’t know him.” Those hawk eyes narrow. “This got something to do with them bones found out on Gellerman Road?”

“I can’t get into the details of the case just yet,” I tell him.

He removes a kerchief from his pocket, lifts his hat, and wipes sweat from his forehead. “I don’t know anything about any missing people. We’re Swartzentruber, you know. We don’t associate with the Mennonites, unless it’s to hire one of them to drive us someplace.”

“How do you know Leroy is Mennonite?”

He shrugs. “Must have heard it somewhere, I guess.”

“Did you ever hire Leroy to drive you?”

“Always used that Yoder Toter up Dundee way.”

“How well did you know Leroy?”

“Not at all. Might’ve seen him around town is all. Or up to the farm store in Painters Mill.”

“Do you know who his friends were?”

“No.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

He sighs. “Chief Burkholder, you can ask the same question twenty different ways, but you’re always going to get the same answer. I don’t know Nolt. I never did. If you want to know something about him, maybe you should talk to the Mennonites.”

One of the men standing behind him chuckles, but I ignore him and focus on Kaufman. “What about your sister?” I ask.

“Abigail? What about her?”

“I heard she knew Leroy. I heard they were friends. Close friends.”

His reaction is subtle—fingers opening and closing, mouth tightening into a more pronounced frown—telling me the mention of his sister hit a nerve.

“You misunderstood.” His voice is level and calm, but he can’t quite conceal the annoyance in his eyes. “Abby has been with Jeramy since they were kids.”

I wait, but he says nothing, staring at me as if he’s considering ordering me off his property.

“All right, Mr. Kaufman.” Nodding, I move as if to leave, then I pause and look around the barn. “Did you ever raise hogs here on your farm?”

“Never cared for hogs.” He motions with his eyes to the small herd of cattle in the pen. “Always had cows.”

I look past him, where two more calves are in a tiny pen, awaiting their turn for castration. I see the outline of the knife in Kaufman’s pocket. Bloodstains on his hands. “I’ll let you get back to work then.” I make eye contact with the other two men and start toward the door.