The door opens. Ruth Weaver steps into the interview room. The last time I saw her, she looked like a hundred other Amish women I’d met over the years. Now she dons blue scrubs that are at least two sizes too large and flip-flops, the kind you might pick up at the local dollar store. Her hair is down and still damp from the rain. I see the blond roots peeking out at her scalp. Her hands are cuffed in front of her, for comfort during the interview.

Interestingly, she doesn’t look shaken; she hasn’t been crying. I don’t think she’s looking for anyone to feel sorry for her or help her. She was ready for this, she knows she’s on her own, and she’s completely at ease with both those things.

A trim female corrections officer has a firm grip on her biceps and motions toward the only vacant chair, opposite the table from me. “Sit down.”

When Weaver is settled into the chair, the corrections officer steps back and takes her place at the door. The sheriff and Detective Price scoot their chairs away from the table slightly, keeping their notebooks handy, and give me the floor. I lean forward, press the On button of the recorder, and recite the date and names and titles of everyone present.

I focus my attention on Weaver and recite the Miranda rights from memory. “Do you understand those rights?”

The detective tugs a laminated card from an inside pocket of his jacket and slides it across the table to her.

She nods without taking the card. “Perfectly.”

When I was a rookie patrol officer in Columbus, I was lucky enough to partner up with one of the best interrogators in the department. His name was Cooper aka “Coop” and he was a natural, charismatic and personable. Within minutes, he could have even the most hardened criminal believing they were destined to become best friends. But Coop was also the kind of cop who, once he had gained the trust of a suspect, could rip out his throat and never lose his smile in the process. During the short period of time we worked together, Coop gave me the best advice I’d ever received on interviewing: A suspect will never tell you anything they don’t want to. The key, he said, is to make them want to. I never forgot that gem of advice. And while I’ll never be the interrogator Coop was, because of him, I became a better cop.

“I don’t know whether to call you Hannah or Ruth,” I begin.

“You can call me Ruth.”