The farmhouse is plain with badly weathered siding. The barn is octagonal with dirty white paint and tin shingles that have been peeled up by the wind. A tall silo with a rusty dome juts into a low, cloudy sky. A hundred years ago the farm had probably been a showplace. This morning, everything looks as old and tired as I feel.

In the side yard a dozen or more work shirts and trousers hang from a clothesline, flapping like flags in the morning breeze. To my right, pampas grass with spires that shoot ten feet into the air sways to and fro. Beyond, cornstalks rattle in a well-tended garden, and I know the woman of the house fills her days with pulling weeds and canning vegetables.

We exit the Explorer and start toward the front door. The smell of manure is overpowering. Most Amish farms are neat and well managed. The muck is scooped up several times a week and dumped into a manure pit, where it composts and is later used for fertilizer. Evidently, Zook doesn’t exercise good manure management.

Next to me, Glock sighs. “I’ll take you up on the mentholated jelly offer, now.”

“Left it at the scene.”

“Figures.”

Having just left the Plank farmhouse, I can think of more disturbing smells than pig shit, but I don’t comment.

We pass a small ramshackle barn surrounded by a rail fence and an ocean of oozing muck. Dozens of pink pig snouts poke out from between the rails, and I know they’re watching us, hoping for a snack.

At the back door, I knock and concentrate on the trace of mentholated jelly that remains beneath my nose. The door opens to reveal a plump Amish woman wearing a brown dress, a white apron and traditional kapp. We stare at each other for several seconds before I recognize her. Twenty years ago, Alma Gerig and I went to school together. She’s several years older than me, but our Amish school was so small, the older and younger children shared the same room.

She’s gained thirty pounds since I last saw her. Her hair is more gray than red. It makes me wonder what my own life might have been like had I remained Amish. Though I see mistrust in her eyes, she offers a genuine smile. “Katie. Guder mariye.” Good morning.

“Hello, Alma.” Giving her a passable smile, I flash my badge.

Her smile falters. “Was der schinner is letz?” What’s wrong?

“I need to ask you and your husband some questions about something that occurred last night.”