The graabhof is located on the township road west of Painters Mill. The last time I was here was for the Plank funerals. It was raining and crowded with mourners. I cited the tourist for illegal parking and met Aaron Plank for the first time. It seems like a lifetime ago.

Today, the graveyard is deserted and unbearably lonely. I park in the gravel driveway and shut down the engine. An arthritic-looking bois d’arc tree stands next to the gate like some ancient, battered sentry. Pain thuds dully in my arm as I open the door and get out. I know better than to mix Vicodin and vodka, but I lift the flask from my coat pocket anyway, and take a long pull of Absolut.

Drizzle floats down from a Teflon sky as I push open the gate and pass through. There have been several vandalism incidents here at the old cemetery, but the gate is never locked. I wonder if the Amish will ever learn.

A dozen rows of small headstones run in neat lines, parallel with the fence. The headstones are uniform in size. Some are older than others, faded by time and eroded by the elements; in an Amish cemetery, all the dead are equal. Most have a simple cross etched into their façades. Lower is the name of the deceased, their birth date and the date of their death. Some Amish bury their dead according to the order of death with little or no regard to family connections. In this cemetery, however, the dead are buried with their family members. In the case of the Planks, it wouldn’t have mattered since they were all killed on the same night.

The graves are easy to find. Mounded and shiny from the rain, the freshly turned earth hasn’t yet settled. The headstones are stark and white. Nothing gaudy for the Amish. They die as they have lived. Plainly.

I walk among the graves, reading each of the seven names. I never met any of the Plank family members, but I feel as if I know them. Envisioning them the way they might have been in life comes easily. Little Amos in the throes of his terrible twos, all giggles and temper tantrums. Ten-year-old David was a prankster, a sixty-two-pound package of mischief. Mark, fourteen years old and already taking on the responsibilities of a man. Annie, sixteen and full of dreams for a future with a husband and children. Lastly, I think of Mary. The lost one. The troubled one. The one most like me. The one I’ve identified with throughout this case. The one whose death touched me so deeply.