Quickly, we don latex gloves and shoe covers. This kind of crime scene is every cop’s nightmare. It’s spread over a large area, some of which is outdoors, which makes the collection and preservation of evidence extremely difficult. Even though I’m not yet sure exactly what we’re dealing with—a mass murder or murder-suicide—I opt to err on the side of caution and preserve as much of the scene as possible.

I hand the camera to Glock. “Photograph everything before you touch it. You know the drill.”

Nodding, he takes the camera. Neither of us speaks as we cross through the kitchen to the living room. Stopping in the doorway, I shine my Maglite on Amos Plank.

“Bad fuckin’ scene,” Glock says.

“It’s worse in the barn.”

He casts a questioning look at me.

I tell him about the teenaged girls.

“Damn.” I see his cop’s eyes taking in Plank’s unbound hands. The proximity of the handgun to the body. The exit wound at the back of his head. Like any good cop, he’s making judgments based on what he sees. “You think he did this?”

“I don’t know.” It’s the most honest answer I can give. By all appearances, Plank went berserk, murdered his family, then put the gun in his mouth and blew his brains out. But the part of me that is Amish, that will always be Amish no matter how far I stray, can’t fathom an Amish man—an Amish father—inflicting these horrors upon his family. Granted, I didn’t know Amos Plank. But I do know the Amish culture. I know violence is not part of it.

While Glock snaps photos, I walk the living room, trying to envision what might have happened. I study the position of the bodies. The wounds. The proximity of the Beretta to Amos Plank.

“What did you do?” I whisper.

It’s a keenly unsettling feeling to share such a small space with so many dead, particularly those who’ve suffered a violent death. In the periphery of my consciousness, I’m aware of Glock moving around, snapping photos. I see the flash of the camera. I hear the click and whir of the shutter, the high-pitched whine of the battery charging between shots.

“Chief.”

I glance at Glock to see him kneeling, looking at something on the floor. I cross to him as he snaps the shot.

“Got a partial print here.” He takes a second shot.

I pull one of the evidence markers from my coat. “Plenty of tread.”

“Looks like a boot. Men’s. Size nine or ten.”

I arch a brow. “You’re good.”

“That’s what my wife says.”