“Geauga County isn’t far from Painters Mill,” I tell him.

“We’re located in upstate New York, by the way, about twenty miles from the Canadian border, not far from Malone.” He sighs. “Anyway, over the years, these Amish families established a solid settlement and integrated into the community. They were good citizens, good neighbors, and their presence here was, frankly, good for the town. Some of the local merchants started doing business with the Amish, selling everything from eggs to quilts to furniture. Folks started coming into Roaring Springs from miles around to buy things. Tourists started showing up. Everything changed three years ago when the bishop passed away and the congregation nominated an Amish preacher by the name of Eli Schrock.”

“Name’s not familiar,” I tell him.

“Rumor has it that Schrock—and a few of his followers—felt the previous bishop had been too lenient with the rules, so Schrock tightened the screws. I’ve heard he’s big into the separation thing. Most of the Amish stopped coming into town, stopped selling their trinkets, and basically stayed away.” He huffs a short laugh. “Mayor didn’t like it much; he was banking on Roaring Springs being the next Lancaster County. Of course, the Amish weren’t breaking any laws and they’re certainly entitled to stay separate if that’s what they want.

“Once Schrock took over, the Amish community just kind of faded away. We saw their buggies and hay wagons around on occasion, but they were quiet and law enforcement never had a problem with them. No neighbor disputes or anything like that. Honestly, no one paid much attention to them until this dead girl showed up.”

“Where was the girl living?” I ask.

Papers rattle on the other end. “With Abe and Mary Gingerich.”

“What’s your take on them?”

“Talked to them at length after the girl was found. They’re decent. Religious. Quiet. They were pretty broken up about the girl, but I got the impression they don’t care much for us non-Amishers.”

“Do you have a sense of what might be going on, Sheriff Suggs?” I ask.

“I’ve been sheriff of Franklin County for more than sixteen years. I know this county like the back of my hand. But honestly, Chief, I don’t know shit about what goes on up there in that Amish settlement.” He sighs heavily. “Look, I don’t judge people because of how they dress or what they believe. I sure don’t have anything against the Amish. But it’s sort of common knowledge around here that some of those people are odd.”

“Anything specific?” Tomasetti asks.

“Last summer, there was this Amish kid, ten or so years old, came into town with his mom. The cashier at the grocery noticed he had bruises all over his legs. She called us, claiming they looked like whip marks. One of my deputies drove out there. No one would talk to him—not a soul stepped forward. So we involved Child Protective Services. They investigated but were unable to locate the boy or the family.