The door swings open, and I find myself facing a tall man with strawberry blond hair and a scruffy beard the color of peach fuzz. “Todd Long?” I ask.

His gaze flicks from me to Tomasetti, who’s coming up the stairs. “Can I help you?”

I show him my badge. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

He stares at my badge and his adam’s apple spasms twice. “Uh . . . what about?”

“A crime that was committed a few days ago.”

“I don’t know anything about a crime.”

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I sigh. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you yet.”

He stares at me, his eyes blinking.

“Can we come in?” I ask.

I can tell he doesn’t want to let us in. But he can’t seem to come up with a good excuse for refusing. Reluctantly, he steps back and opens the door. “Sure.”

I step into the living room. The trailer is too cold for comfort and smells of cigarette smoke and burnt pizza. Todd Long is about six feet tall with a lean build and big, slender hands. His pale complexion and strawberry blond hair makes for a nice contrast with the navy Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt and faded jeans. His face is an interesting one with high cheekbones, a chiseled mouth that would put Marlon Brando to shame and eyes the color of a deep-water lake on a sunny day.

“What’s this all about?” His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti. He seems nervous. I wonder what he’s got to be nervous about.

“Someone reported seeing a truck like yours out by the Plank farm the night that family was killed,” Tomasetti begins.

“What?” Long’s face goes even paler. “Like mine? I wasn’t there.”

“You know about the murders?” I ask.

He turns slightly to face me, a deer being approached by wolves from different directions. “I heard about it on the news. That was some bad shit.”

“Where were you Sunday night?” Giving us only half of his attention, Tomasetti strolls into the kitchen.

“I was at the Brass Rail.” Fast answer with no hesitation.

“Can someone vouch for you?” I ask.

“Sure. I was with a buddy of mine.”

“Who?” Tomasetti asks. “We need names.”

“Friend of mine by the name of Jack Warner. The bartender might remember me, too.”

I pull out my pad and jot down the name. “What time were you there?”

“I got there at about nine. Stayed till closing.” His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti. “Look, I didn’t know those people. Hell, I don’t know any Amish folks. I sure as hell don’t have any reason to hurt ’em.”

In the kitchen, Tomasetti opens a couple of drawers, peeks inside. “Anyone borrow your truck recently?”