I spend the next twenty minutes digging up everything I can find on Aaron Plank. Arrest record. Conviction record. Background check. But other than the juvenile record, the DUI and the assault, the information is unimpressive. He’s a graphic artist, living in an established Philly neighborhood of renovated old homes where a high percentage of his neighbors are young gay professionals. Not exactly the profile of a mass murderer. But I know how difficult excommunication can be for a young Amish person. At the age of seventeen, Aaron basically had to reinvent himself and start over. Hatred can be a strong motivator. Did he hate his parents enough to murder his entire family?

It’s hardly a viable theory. For one thing, I can’t see him torturing his sisters or cutting the fetus from Mary Plank’s body. In the short span of time I spent with Aaron, one thing I noticed is that he’s got plenty of emotions, including guilt; he’s not a sociopath. That’s not to mention the other loose ends: Mary Plank’s mysterious relationship, her pregnancy, and the sperm found inside her body. Of course, Aaron could have hired a paid killer. The torture could have been added for the sole purpose of misleading the police. But it’s far from a perfect fit.

I also run checks on Aaron’s partner, Rob Lane, but he comes back clean. I Google his name to find he’s got two books to his credit. Zipping to Amazon, I enter his name and click on the title Amish Country: A Place of Peace. It’s a lovely coffee table book chock-full of artsy black-and-white photographs, folk art, and literary musings. His tastes run to the avant-garde, but his talent is evident.

Locating the phone number Aaron gave me, I call Rob at his office. He’s a well-spoken young man who just landed an editorial job with a well-known magazine. Despite my resistance, he charms me and then substantiates everything Aaron told me. He didn’t sound scripted, but as I hang up, I wonder if the two men coordinated stories. It wouldn’t be the first time someone covered for a lover.

Next, I call the Lancaster County sheriff’s office and get transferred to a corporal by the name of Mel Rossi. I quickly identify myself and tell him about the case.

“I heard about the murders,” he says. “Hell of a thing. You guys know who did it?”

“We’re still working it.” I pause. “I was wondering if you could have one of your deputies run out to Bishop Fisher’s place so I could speak to him via cell phone.”

“I can probably get someone out there today.” Corporal Rossi has a strong New York accent. “Give me your contact info and I’ll have someone call you.”