All that remains of the house is the brick chimney and the eight-foot-deep crater where the basement had once been. The walls have eroded and crumbled over the years. Saplings and weeds grow up from the basement floor, which is now filled with what looks like several feet of water. At some point, someone used plywood and sawhorses to cover the pit—probably for liability reasons—but the wood has long since collapsed. The only thing left is the remnants of a single caution flag, as faded and shredded as the memory of the people who once lived here.

I think of Hoch Yoder, and I wonder if he ever comes back here. I wonder if he’s stood where I’m standing now and grieved for the family he lost. I wonder if he’s been able to embrace the age-old Amish tenet of forgiveness.

I jump when a sudden gust of wind sends droplets of rain from the branches of a pine into the water below. The sound seems inordinately loud in the silence, and I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck. Turning slowly, I fan my light in a 360-degree circle, but there’s no one there. No vehicle. No lights.

Thrusting my flashlight out ahead of me, I start toward the silo and barn. My pants are damp from the hip down from walking the McCullough property earlier and, now, from wading through weeds. I reach the rusty silo first. Once upon a time, it had been painted silver, but rust has eaten through the paint. The hatch stands open. I hear it squeaking as the breeze rocks it back and forth. Bending, I shine my light inside. There’s a hole in the roof where the wind has peeled away the shingles. I see yellow cornstalks rotting on the ground and a rat the size of a groundhog looking at me from the ledge of the concrete footer.

“Shit,” I mutter, and continue to the barn. It’s a German-style building, most of which were constructed in the early 1900s and used for dairy operations. Today, the odd-looking structures are akin to covered bridges and much loved by tourists and aficionados of unusual architecture. There are several in the area, but none are used in the manner in which they were intended.

Upon reaching the barn, I walk the exterior perimeter, keeping beneath the overhanging roof until I reach the front door. Trespassers have broken most of the windows. Pushing open the door, I shine the beam inside. The elements have destroyed much of the floor; the wood planks are buckled and rotting in places. Some have splintered and collapsed, and I can see into the crawl space beneath.

I’m not exactly sure what I expected to find here tonight. Nothing, really. But as a cop, there’s something intangibly useful about visiting a crime scene, even if the scene is ages old and any evidence has long since faded.