“Hoch,” I begin, “if you have a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about what happened to you and your family back in 1979.”

His eyes widen. “Did you find them?” he asks. “The men responsible?”

“No.” I let my eyes slide to his wife. “Is there a place where we can talk?”

“Let’s go inside,” he tells me. “Hannah will make us some hot cider.”

A few minutes later, Hoch and I are seated at opposite sides of a large kitchen table. Behind us, his wife is at the stove, heating cider in a kettle. I detect a hint of kerosene in the air from a space heater, and cinnamon from something recently baked. To my right, a fire blazes in the hearth, chasing the chill from the room. The place smells very much like my childhood home, and fingertips of nostalgia press into me.

“How much do you remember about what happened that night?” I begin.

He blinks rapidly an instant before looking away, telling me that even after all these years, the horror of it haunts him.

“I remember too much. For too many years.” He shakes his head. “It was a terrible thing.”

“I’m sorry to put you through this again, but I need to know what happened.”

His gaze meets mine. “Why now? After all this time?”

“I think it might be related to another case I’m working on.”

“You mean the man who was murdered?”

“I can’t get into the details with you yet, but yes.”

Hannah crosses to the table and sets a wicker tray with three mugs of cider and a plate heaped with oatmeal cookies on the table between us. “Cookies will go nicely with that cider,” she says. “They’re not too sweet.”

Hoch helps himself to a cookie. “She’s determined to make me fat.”

“The only thing making you fat is your lack of willpower,” she replies in a teasing voice.

“Danki.” I pick up one of the mugs and sip. The cider is steaming hot and spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg and dances happily on my tongue.

“Hoch,” I say, “I know it’s difficult, but I need you to take me through what happened.”

Hannah starts to leave, but he stops her. “Stay.”

She takes the chair next to him and looks down at the dish towel in her hands. Then her eyes find mine. “Chief Burkholder, it’s taken him a long time to come to terms.”

He sends her a grateful half smile. “You helped.”

I sip the cider, giving them a moment, then turn my attention back to Hoch. “You were fourteen years old?”

Taking a deep breath, he nods, and begins to speak. His words are practiced, telling me he’s relived this story many times over the years. His voice is monotone, as if eradicating the emotion will somehow protect him from the impact of the words and the pain they conjure. He paints a brutal picture. An Amish boy wakened by a younger sibling in the middle of the night. Downstairs, he finds his parents held hostage in the kitchen by armed gunmen. In the ensuing scuffle, his father is shot and killed. Hoch and his siblings are locked in the basement. Hoch escapes, but the children never make it out of the house.…