For an instant he’s not sure how to respond. Then he barks out a laugh. “Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That is nothing but trifling talk.

“The Revised Ohio Code requires reflective signage on all slow-moving vehicles.” I lower my voice. “I was there the night Paul Borntrager and his children were killed, Mr. Shetler. It was a terrible thing to behold. I don’t want that to happen to you or your family.”

I can tell by the Amish man’s expression that my words are falling on deaf ears. His mind is made up, and he won’t change it for me or anyone else. I’m trying to decide whether to cite him when my phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down to see Tomasetti’s number on the display.

Opting to call him back, I return my attention to Shetler. “Next time I see you on the road without the proper signage,” I tell him, “I will cite you. You will pay a fine. Do you understand?”

“I believe we are finished here.” Turning away, he climbs back into the buggy.

I stand on the shoulder, listening to the jingle of the horse’s harness and the clip-clop of shod hooves as he guides the buggy back onto the asphalt and drives away.

Snow falls softly on my shoulders. The cut cornstalks whisper at me to let it go. “Jackass,” I mutter.

I’m sliding behind the wheel when my radio cracks. “Chief?” comes the voice of my second-shift dispatcher.

I pick up my mike. “What’s up, Jodie?”

“You’ve got visitors here at the station.”

“Visitors?” For an instant I envision my sister or brother sitting in the reception area, feeling out of place while they wait for me to show. “Who is it?”

“Agent Tomasetti, some suit from BCI, and an agent from New York.”

My memory pings. Tomasetti had mentioned a few days ago that the deputy superintendent wanted to talk to me about an investigation. But the meeting hadn’t yet been scheduled and he didn’t have any details. Odd that they would drop by after hours on a snowy afternoon without giving me a heads-up. Even more unusual that one of the men is from New York.

“Any idea what they want?” I ask.

“I don’t know, but they look kind of serious, Chief.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Like there might be something big going on.”

“Tell them I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Perplexed, trying not to be aggravated, I put the Explorer in gear and start toward the station, hoping Elam Shetler and his family make it home safely.

* * *

I arrive at the station to find Tomasetti’s Tahoe and an unmarked brown Crown Vic with New York plates parked next to my reserved spot. There’s already a dusting of snow on the vehicles. I park and hightail it inside. When I enter reception, I find my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, sitting at her desk, eyes closed, drumming her palms against her desktop to Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep.”