She pauses, glaring at me through the gap between the door and the jamb, a wily fox that hasn’t yet escaped the trap.

“Would you mind terribly if I took a quick look in your barn?” I ask.

“Why on earth would you want to do that?”

I offer my best sheepish smile. “There aren’t many like it left. Bank-style, I mean, and in such good condition. I’d love to see the interior, if it’s no trouble.”

She sighs. “I’ll need to put on my muck boots.…”

“Please don’t go to any trouble. I’ll just have a quick peek inside. You don’t have to come out if you’ve things to do.”

Annoyed by my request but not seeing the any reason she shouldn’t grant it, she motions toward the barn. “Go on then. Just be sure to close all the gates. We’ve got goats in the pasture.”

Muttering a thank you, I catch Skid’s gaze and toss him the keys to the Crown Vic. He catches them with one hand and then crosses to the vehicle and unloads the metal detectors.

He meets me in the gravel area in front of the barn. “That was something right out of the Columbo playbook,” he says.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t backfire,” I say.

“Never backfired on Peter Falk.”

“He never had to deal with the Amish.”

The old barn is indeed a historical work of art, with access on two levels and the iconic gambrel roof. We enter via the open sliding door and are immediately swallowed by the shadows inside. I cross the dirt floor, where an antique-looking wagon sits, its bed piled ten feet high with hay. Beyond is a step up to a wood-plank floor. At the rear, a large square door looks out over the pasture. I can hear the red-winged blackbirds and the occasional jug-o-rum bellow of a bullfrog from the pond.

I motion toward the doorway. “Sally Burris said the man she saw fell from a second-story door to the pen below.”

“That one fits the bill, Chief.”

I take the steps to the wood floor and look around. Sure enough, from where I’m standing I see two-feet-square hay chutes cut into the floor. Generally, they’re used to drop hay or grain to livestock housed in the stalls below. The chutes have wooden cover cutouts with leather straps so they can be easily lifted. I look at the chute to my right and imagine a nine-year-old girl sneaking into the barn to spy. She entered from the stalls on the underside of the barn and pushed the cover up from below. One chute in particular offers a decent view of the rear hay door, and I realize Sally Burris’s story holds water.