“I didn’t know the Amish kept handguns.”

“They don’t, usually, especially a semiauto,” I reply. “Rifles for hunting.”

“His hands aren’t tied,” Skid comments.

“That wound at the back of his head looks like an exit.”

Skid’s gaze meets mine. “You think he did this?”

I don’t want to acknowledge the ugly suspicions knocking at my brain. That this man snapped, murdered his two sons and then turned the gun on himself. The scenario goes against every conviction most Amish hold dear. I know it’s a generalization. But murder is extremely rare in Amish society. Suicide is almost as uncommon. It is the one sin for which there is no redemption.

“I don’t know.” I look around. “Any sign of the mother?”

“No.”

“I think they have more kids,” I say. “Girls.” I recall the bloody handprint on the back porch, and I’m disheartened by the possibilities crowding my brain. “Let’s check the yard and outbuildings.”

Best-case scenario, we’ll find Mom and the girls hiding and frightened, but alive. The knot in my gut tells me that hope is optimistic.

Without holstering our weapons, we pass through the kitchen and go out through the back door. We glance briefly at the bloody print.

“Could be a woman’s,” Skid says.

“Or a teenager’s.” If my memory serves me, the two girls are in their teens.

His beam illuminates droplets of blood and a single bloody footprint on the concrete. “Looks like someone ran out of the house.”

“Toward the barn.”

After being inside the house, the moonlight seems inordinately bright. My shadow keeps pace with me as I move down the sidewalk. We’ve gone about ten yards when I spot the body. A mature female wearing a plain dress, an apron and white kapp lies facedown in the grass. But it is the sight of the dead infant in her arms that rocks me.

“Jesus Christ.” Skid scrapes a hand over his face. “A fuckin’ baby.”

The gray skin and glazed eyes tell me both mother and child are deceased. Blood clings to the grass like a spill of motor oil. I see a hole the size of a dime in the fabric between the woman’s shoulder blades. “Looks like the bullet went right through her and into the baby.”

“Shot her in the back.”

“While she was running away.”

“Chief, who the hell would do something like this?”

“A monster.” Hoping the look I give him doesn’t reveal the dark emotions thrashing inside me, I motion toward the barn. “Let’s hope he left someone alive to tell us.”

The barn is a massive structure with a stone foundation and rusty tin roof. A cupola and weather vane jut two stories into the night sky. Lower, half a dozen small windows watch us like old, sorrowful eyes. Like many of the barns in the area, the building is well over a hundred years old.