I burn half the day waiting for the sketch artist to arrive from Columbus. I get through two more of the disks we found at Long’s residence. The content disturbs me so deeply, I can’t continue; in the end they reveal nothing new anyway. By the time the sketch artist, Deborah Kim, walks into my office just after four P.M., I’m feeling snarlish and impatient.

“Thanks for coming.” I try to muster a smile as I shake her hand. “I know it was short notice.”

“Most police work is.” She’s fiftyish with a smooth, silver bob, a competent air and a sleek black pantsuit that makes me feel dowdy. “Tomasetti said it was important.”

“I’ll fill you in on the way.”

On the drive to the Zook farm, I brief Deborah on the case and tell her about Billy. “He’s got some degree of mental retardation.”

She nods in a way that tells me she’s done this before. “The key to a successful sketch in cases like this is to make the process as nonthreatening as possible. Encourage him to talk. Will his parents be there?”

I nod.

“Excellent. If we get stuck on something, they should be able to help.”

By the time we get out at the Zook farm, it’s nearly five o’clock. The Amish generally eat dinner early, between four and five P.M., and I’m relieved we’re not interrupting.

Alma invites us inside and ushers Deborah, myself, Billy and William to the kitchen table where we sit. Deborah removes a sketchpad, graphite and charcoal pencils, paper stumps, a chamois, and several erasers from her briefcase and sets them on the table in front of her. Next comes the FBI Facial Identification Catalog. I’m vaguely familiar with the book from my days in homicide. It contains pages of mug shots as well as every conceivable facial feature.

Alma pours coffee for the adults and a tall glass of milk for Billy, who proceeds to squirm in his chair like a worm on hot pavement. Deborah spends several minutes making small talk with him, asking about his parents, his school work, baseball and finally landing on a subject that appeals to him: his favorite pig.

“Her name is Sarah.” Billy stops fidgeting. “She almost died when she was a piglet, so I bottle fed her.” Grinning from ear to ear, he spreads his hands about six inches apart. “She was only this big.”

“I’ll bet she was cute,” Deborah comments.

“Datt says she is the best pig we ever had.”

Deborah gives him a warm smile. “What color is she?”

“Red with brown spots all over.”

“You’re very good at describing things.”

He blushes, glances at his Datt. William Zook smiles at him as if to say, Even though she’s an outsider, it’s all right to speak with her.

“Do you like to draw pictures, Billy?”