It was an old mountain song from Appalachia, one that immediately took me back to my childhood. Truman looked across our faces, from one to another, and then, lifting his eyes heavenward, he began to sing in a haunting tenor, his voice rising and falling in a quavering and mournful cadence.

Troubles and trials often betray those
causing the weary body to stray.
But we shall walk beside the still water
with the good shepherd leading the way.

Going up home to live in green pastures
where we shall live and die never more.
Even the Lord will be in that number
when we have reached that heavenly shore.

Those who have strayed were sought by the master
He who once gave his life for the sheep.
Out on the mountain still He is searching
bringing them in forever to keep . . .

We will not heed the voice of the stranger
for he would lead us home to despair.
Following home with Jesus our savior
we shall all reach that country so fair . . .

The song finished, Truman said a final prayer, and then the casket was lowered into the patiently waiting earth. Each person filed silently by and dropped a handful of soil into the open grave, the clods falling with a hollow ringing sound onto the top of the metal casket. And it was done.

Out on the mountain still He is searching; I heard those words again in my mind. At least some of the lost ones had been found again. Truman had his granddaughter back. Other girls, too, had been recovered. But how many had disappeared for good, never to be seen aboveground again? Perhaps, God alone knows the answer to that.

The door to the back of the courthouse opened and a deputy stepped outside. He motioned to a pair of federal marshals, who stepped to a prisoner van and opened the side door.

“They’re coming out now,” announced Patricia, who stood at my side.

We had taken a vantage point at the corner of the parking lot, where we could watch and stay out of the way. I had not the least interest in the proceedings that had taken place inside. That was mere formality. This was what I had come for—to see Anson Zimmer, dressed in a prisoner jumpsuit and led away in disgrace. I wanted to see the fallen man. I wanted to see his degradation. I wanted to see the former sheriff as he was taken away, to be held in close confinement until the time of his trial.

A marshal emerged from the door and gave the area a quick glance. Then, from the darkened doorway, Zimmer appeared. His wrists were held together in front of his midsection, cuffed to a chain around his waist. He shuffled slowly and awkwardly, his head bowed with the effort of walking with shackled ankles.