“You guys want coffee?” Betancourt asks.

“I’d kill for a cup.” Suggs looks at me. “He’s been fussing with that fancy coffee maker for fifteen minutes. You’d think he was some kind of connoisseur.”

Betancourt grins as he goes to the stove and pours. “We can sit at the booth there. Facilities are in the rear if you need them, Chief.”

I slide onto the bench seat. Through the mini blinds, I notice that the snow has dwindled to flurries, but the sky to the north threatens another round. Betancourt sets three cups on the table and then slides in next to me, careful not to get too close. Professional.

Suggs takes the seat across from us. “We thought it would be a good idea for all of us to sit down and talk before you go in.”

I sip coffee that’s hot and strong and very much appreciated. “I have questions and some ideas I want to toss out.”

“We were hoping you would,” Suggs tells me. “We’re not exactly in our element here.”

Betancourt opens the folder on top and slides a single sheet of paper toward me. “This is everything we have on Eli Schrock, the bishop.”

“Kind of a skinny file.” Suggs reaches for a folded newspaper beneath his coat and passes me the latest edition of The Bridge. “The Amish newspaper as per your request.”

“Thanks.” Setting the newspaper in front of me, I look down at the information sheet on Schrock. He’s forty-eight years old. Born in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, to Swartzentruber parents. Six siblings. No education beyond the usual eighth-grade level. Married Anna Yoder at the age of twenty-six. She was killed in a buggy accident four years later. No children. Never remarried. His work history includes farming and a twelve-year stint as a furniture maker. He inherited his parents’ farm when they passed, but sold it a few years later and used the money to buy eight hundred acres north of Roaring Springs.

Upon his arrival, he became active in the local Amish community and quickly earned the reputation as a rabble-rouser. A few years after arriving, he was elected ordained minister of the church district. During that time, he received two citations from the sheriff’s department for failure to display a slow-moving vehicle sign on his buggy.

“Except for those citations, he’s kept his nose clean,” Suggs adds.

Betancourt slides a photo toward me. “That’s the only picture we could find. I think it’s a few years old.”

The photograph is black and white with poor resolution, as if it had been taken from a distance and enlarged. Schrock has no idea his photo is being taken. He’s not an attractive man, but his face is commanding. He’s dressed in black. Long beard that’s still dark. Angular face. Dark gray eyes with a piercing countenance. Heavy black brows.

“From what I’ve been able to piece together,” Betancourt tells me, “he left Lancaster because of some problems with the other leaders of the district. The deacon. Even the bishop.”