Vern nods, then leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. “Like I said, he broke it at work.” He looks at his wife, who’s gone silent and still. “When he was about eighteen, Mama?” he asks.

“Seventeen, Papa,” she says. “Folks at the farm store were so nice. Paid for everything, and his boss gave him a hundred-dollar bonus for being such a good boy.”

“The remains found belong to a young man who could have been about your son’s age when he disappeared. There’s evidence that this young man had broken his right arm and had to have two plates with screws implanted to repair it.”

Sue gasps, presses her hand over her mouth as if to smother it. “It’s him. Oh, dear Lord.”

Vern gives a single hard nod, then raises his gaze to mine. “What happened to him?” he asks. “How did he die? He was so young.”

“We don’t know the manner or cause of death yet.”

Shaking his head, he looks down at the floor.

I give them a moment to digest the news and look around the room. On the end table is a framed photograph of an attractive young man with a mischievous grin, tousled hair and laughing eyes. “Is that your son?” I ask.

Vern nods. “Last picture we took of him.”

“He looks happy,” I say.

“Handsome, too.” Sue smiles at the photo. “Took the picture on his birthday.” A soft, sad sound squeezes from her throat. “Didn’t know it’d be his last.”

I pause, then go to my next question. “What’s the name of the doctor who did the surgery on your son’s broken arm?”

“Doctor Alan Johnson,” Vern puts in. “He’s a bone and joint doctor in Millersburg.”

I write down the name. “There’s a serial number on the plate, so we may be able to match it up with your son’s medical records.”

The old man nods. “I hope so.”

“Did Leroy know any members of the Strackbein family?” I ask. “They owned the farm on Gellerman Road where the remains were found.”

“Never heard him talk about anyone by the name of Strackbein,” Sue tells me.

“Did Leroy have any enemies that you know of?” I ask.

“Everyone loved our son,” she replies. “He was polite and conscientious. Had a good sense of humor. He was a hard worker, too.”

I turn my attention to Vern, who’s looking down at the cookies, his mouth working, and I sense he’s holding something back. “Mr. Nolt?”

The old man raises his head and looks at his wife. “He was putting in a lot of hours at the farm store. Trying to save enough money to go to the college in Goshen.”

“It’s an Anabaptist college,” Sue adds.

Sensing there’s more, I prod. “Did he ever get into any trouble?”