McNinch motions to the woman, who has remained seated throughout the introductions but hasn’t taken her eyes off me since I walked in. “This is Paige Wilson, my assistant. She’s got a couple of forms for you to sign, Chief Burkholder. We’ve got to keep all of this on the up-and-up with Uncle Sam.”

“Call me Kate.”

Nodding, he motions to the forms on the table. “We pay a small stipend, plus mileage, expenses.”

The forms are in typical government triplicate. The pages that require a signature are marked with red flags. Everyone’s in a hurry, so I give the forms a cursory read-through and scribble my name.

When I’ve finished, Bates says, “I’ve wanted to meet you since Tomasetti assisted with the Slaughterhouse Murders. Hell of a case for a small town.”

“It was a tough one.” The very thought of that investigation and all its gnarly implications still makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Agent Tomasetti was a tremendous help to the entire department.”

“He tells us you used to be Amish,” McNinch says.

That’s always the thing everyone wants to know. They don’t care about my résumé or law-enforcement background or my degree in criminal justice. They don’t ask about my solve rate from when I was a detective in Columbus. They want to know if I was Amish; if I wore homemade dresses and rode in a horse-drawn buggy and lived my life without electricity and cars. “I grew up Amish,” I say simply.

In my peripheral vision, I see the woman lean slightly to one side, and I wonder if she’s checking to see if I’m wearing practical shoes.

“I understand you’re also fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch,” McNinch says.

I nod. “That’s particularly beneficial, especially with regard to breaking down some of the cultural barriers.”

“So far we’re batting zero in the way of garnering much useful information,” Bates says.

“Local law enforcement isn’t getting much from the Amish families,” Tomasetti adds, clarifying the matter.