I wish I could handle this without Tomasetti. A salient distrust exists between the Amish and the English police, particularly the conservative Amish, such as the Augspurgers. But protocol dictates I include him. Whether I like it or not, he’s part of the investigation.

I go back to Bonnie and Ezra and we start toward the classroom. Tomasetti falls in behind us. I flip on the lights to see student desks, a green chalkboard where someone wrote the word shit, and a teacher’s desk covered with papers. I pull out a few plastic chairs and we sit.

“Do you know something about Ellen?” Ezra asks in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Do you have a recent photograph of her?” I ask, but I already know the answer. Most Amish do not believe in having their photographs taken, citing images as evidence of pride. Some believe photos and even paintings depicting faces violate the Biblical commandment, Thou shalt not make unto thyself a graven image. Some of the old order still believe a photo steals the soul.

“We do not have a photo,” Ezra says.

I take out my notebook. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

“The day she disappeared. I caught her smoking cigarettes in the barn. We had an argument . . .” Ezra shrugs. “She said she was going to see her cousin, Ruth.”

“Back when Ellen first disappeared, did you notice any strangers in the area? Maybe a car or buggy?”

Ezra’s thick brows snap together. “I remember seeing footprints in the snow. I did not know who made them.”

“Where?” My heart beats faster. This could be our first clue. Yet this man had taken it upon himself not to contact the police.

“Leading to the road.”

There’s no doubt any footprints are long gone by now. Still, if the killer was there, he may have left something behind. I glance at Tomasetti. “Get Pickles and Skid out there.”

“What’s the address?” he asks.

Bonnie recites a rural address. “Do you think someone took her?” she asks.

Rising, Tomasetti unclips his cell phone and goes to the back of the room to make the call.

I turn my attention back to Ezra. “Can you give me a description of Ellen?”

The man is at a loss, so I look at Bonnie and the words tumble out of her in a rush. “She is twenty-seven years old. Blue eyes. Dark blonde hair.”

“Height? Weight?”

“She’s about five feet three inches. One hundred and twenty-five pounds.”

The description matches that of the second victim. “Any distinguishing marks? Scars?”

“She’s got a birthmark on her left ankle. A brown mole.”

I write everything down, aware that Tomasetti watches my every move. My phone rings. I look down to see Glock’s name on the display and I snatch it up.

“I’m outside the door with the photo,” he says.

Rising, I look at Bonnie and Ezra. “I’ll be right back.”

In the hall, Glock is pacing. I click the door closed and cross to him. He hands me the fax. I stare down at the black and white image. The photo was taken at the morgue. I’m sure that in life Ellen looked nothing like the corpse lying on the gurney. But I think there’s enough of her left so that her parents will recognize her.