The tech did a good job of maintaining the integrity of the photo. While something with this level of touch-up would probably not be admissible in court, it’s enough for me to recognize the face in the window.

“Oh my God,” I hear myself say.

Shock sends me to my feet. I hang up without saying thank you. And then I’m running toward the door.

CHAPTER 23

I grab Glock on my way out. “We may have a witness,” I say as I slide behind the wheel of the Explorer.

“You’re kidding?” Incredulity laces his voice as he gets in beside me. “Why the hell didn’t they come forward?”

“Because it’s a kid.”

“A kid? Damn. Who?”

“Billy Zook.”

I see him running the name through his brain. “The Amish kid from the pig farm?”

“The Amish kid with a speech impediment and mental problems.”

Glock chews on that a moment. “What was he doing at the Plank farm that time of night?”

“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.”

A few minutes later, I turn into the gravel lane of the Zook farm. A cloud of white dust chases me all the way to the house. I park next to a black buggy and swing open my door. Behind me, Glock mutters beneath his breath about the stench of pig shit. I’m so intent on my goal of speaking to Billy, I barely notice.

I knock hard on the front door and wait. The door opens halfway and Alma Zook appears. She’s wearing a blue dress and black apron. I see food stains on the apron, bubbles of sweat on her forehead and upper lip. The smell of cooking tomatoes tells me she’s canning.

Because I want her cooperation, I greet her in Pennsylvania Dutch. Her eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. She knows I’m not here for chitchat and doesn’t invite us in. The wariness in her gaze makes me wonder if she knows why I’m here.

“I need to talk to you about your son,” I begin.

William Zook appears beside his wife. He’s wearing muck boots, tracking shit on the floor, and I realize he must have rushed into the house through the back door when he saw us pull up. All I can think is: They know why we’re here.

“We have already told you everything,” William says.

“Then why didn’t you tell me Billy was at the Plank farm the night of the murders?”

Alma gasps, sets her hand against her breast.

William opens his mouth, closes it without speaking. When he finally does, his lips tremble. “Why do you say these things about Billy?”

The Amish are generally honest to the extreme. But as with any group of individuals, they are not immune to human frailties. That is particularly true if they are protecting someone they love, especially a child.