“You think it’s their daughter?” he asks.

“I think so.” I pull out my phone and hit the speed dial for Doc Coblentz. I get voice mail at his office, so I dial his home number. His wife picks up on the first ring. I wait impatiently for him to come on the line.

“I think we’re about to identify the second vic,” I say. “I need to know if you recall a brown mole on her left ankle.”

The doc sighs. “I recall a large mole on the inside of her left ankle and made a notation of it.”

I close my eyes briefly and tell him about the Augspurgers.

“God help them,” he says.

“They’re going to want to see her, take her home. Have you finished the autopsy?”

“I’m typing my report now.”

“Can you meet me?”

“Sure. Give me half an hour.”

I hit End and stand there for a moment looking down at my phone. I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want to go back in that classroom and break the news to the Ezra and Bonnie Augspurger.

“It’s her,” I say to Glock.

“Damn.” He looks around, then back at me. “You want me to go back in with you?”

I shake my head. “Head out to the Augspurger place. See what you can find. Pickles and Skid should already be there.”

“What about the suit?”

I almost smile when I realize he’s referring to Tomasetti. “I’ll take him with me.”

“Keep an eye on him. That fucker’s got shifty eyes.”

“I will.” Taking a deep breath, I start toward the classroom.

CHAPTER 18

I enter the classroom to find the Augspurgers huddled at the back window, staring at me as if I hold the secret of the universe in the palm of my hand. Tomasetti stands a few feet away, looking expectantly at me.

Ezra’s eyes beseech mine as I cross to them. As if forgetting her place, Bonnie pushes past him. Within the pale depths of her gaze, I see a tangle of desperation and hope laced with the kind of fear a mother should never have to feel.

“The body of a young woman was discovered this morning.” I pass the faxed photo to Ezra. “She has a mole on her left ankle.”

His hand shakes as he reaches for it. Bonnie puts her hand over her mouth, but it doesn’t smother the sound of anguish. Ezra stares at the photo, the paper rattling violently.

Murder is rare in the Amish community. Most often, death is from natural causes. It’s viewed as a final surrender to God and is received gracefully. Grief is a quiet and private event. The sound that erupts from Ezra Augspurger’s mouth reminds me that not all Amish are stoic. They are human beings, and the loss of a child begets unbearable pain. His cry of outrage and grief goes through me like cold steel. Bowing his head, he presses the photo to his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” I touch Ezra’s shoulder, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.