In the years I’ve been chief, I’ve worked hard to cultivate a positive rapport between the Amish community and the police department. While the relationship isn’t yet where I want it to be, we’ve made headway. I’m loath to undo the progress, but I can’t walk away from this.

I hand him the warrant. “I need to take a look around the premises. This warrant gives me permission to do so.”

“What?” He stares down at the papers. “But … what is this? I don’t understand.”

“It’s a search warrant that grants us permission to search the premises. I’d appreciate your cooperation.”

“Search my mother’s home?” His eyes widen. “But why? You think she did something wrong? You think she broke the law?”

“The warrant explains everything, Mr. Kline. Please read it.” I hit my lapel mike and hail T.J. “Let’s execute the warrant.”

“Roger that.”

Levi’s eyes flick from me to Deputy Fowler, who’s coming up the steps. “I don’t like this,” he says. “I don’t think my mother would like it, either.”

“We’ll try to finish as quickly as possible. In the interim, you should probably find your mother.”

One of the Amish men that had been near the barn has evidently heard the exchange and come over. Two little girls of about six or seven years of age trail behind him. He stops at the foot of the steps and eyes me with unconcealed hostility. “Der siffer hot zu viel geleppert.” The drunkard has just sipped too much.

Ignoring him, I pull out the large garbage bag I’d tucked into my equipment belt and walk over to the wicker basket. While Levi Kline looks on, I pick up the wicker basket and place it inside the bag.

“I don’t understand.” He motions toward the bag. “Why are you taking that? What is the purpose?”

I hand the bag to Fowler, who tapes it closed and tags it with a label. I lower my voice and address the deputy. “The BCI lab is waiting for that. Will you have one of your guys courier it?”

I give Levi a nod and then descend the steps. The older Amish man standing at the base of the steps glares at me as I walk past. I glance left and right and then head directly toward the boy charged with the buggy horses.

“Guder mariya,” I tell him.

He’s too polite to ignore my greeting but looks at me as if I’m some flesh-eating zombie with my sights set on him.

“Have you seen Abigail Kline?” I ask.

His eyes flick toward the house. “Don’t look over there,” I say. “Look at me. Have you seen her?”

His Adam’s apple bobs twice. “She took the buggy.”

“How long ago?”

“Less than an hour, I think. She asked me to harness the horse, so I did.”

“Where did she go?”