We exit the vehicle and take the sidewalk to the porch. Tomasetti knocks and we wait, watching each other, not speaking. Then the door swings open and I find myself staring at a baby-faced young man with brown hair and matching eyes. He wears a Metallica T-shirt with faded jeans and dirty white socks. His hair is sticking up on one side, and I suspect we roused him from a nap.

“Can I help you?”

I can tell by his inflection that he grew up Amish. He’s got that distinctive accent I recognize immediately.

“Gideon Stoltzfus?” Tomasetti presents his identification.

“Yeah.” He blinks at the ID. “What’s this about?”

“We’re working on a case and we’d like to ask you a few questions,” I say. “Can we come in?”

“Uh . . . sure.” He opens the door cautiously, as if expecting us to pounce on him and wrestle him to the ground.

We follow him to a small kitchen that smells of burned popcorn. The place is comfortable and relatively clean, but I can tell it’s a bachelor pad. Knotty-pine cabinets line robin’s egg blue walls. I see faux granite countertops. An obese dachshund lies on a grimy throw rug by the sink, probably deaf, because it didn’t bark when we entered. There’s a high-tech coffeemaker with a built-in grinder and timer. A tiny micro wave sets on the counter, its door standing open. Cheap art hangs on the wall. Country music rumbles in another part of the house. I hear the yappy bark of a second dog, which has apparently been barred access to visitors.

At the counter, Stoltzfus turns to us and shoves his hands into his pockets. “You want some coffee or something?” He motions to a small table that’s not quite large enough for three people.

“We’re fine.” Tomasetti’s smile looks like a snarl.

Stoltzfus is an unassuming man with a quiet demeanor. He’s wondering why we’re here. His eyes shift from Tomasetti to me and he begins to fidget. I wonder why he’s so nervous.

Tomasetti lets him sweat for a minute before asking his first question. “I understand you run an Underground Railroad for young people wanting to leave the Amish way.”

“Underground Railroad?” Stoltzfus laughs, but it’s a tight, tense sound.

Tomasetti glowers. “What’s so funny?”

Stoltzfus’s Adam’s apple bobs twice. “I’ve never heard it put like that. It sounds kind of dramatic.”

“Why don’t you clear things up for us and just tell us what you do,” I say.

His eyes flick again from Tomasetti to me. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

“We just want to know how you work.” I offer my best girl-next-door smile. “Why don’t you start by telling us how you find the young people who need help.”