Pray for Silence Read Online Free PDF Page A

Bonnie and the other children all right?”
    I shake my head. “They’re gone, too.”
    “Mein Gott.”
Bowing his head, he sets his fingertips against his forehead and rubs so hard the skin turns white. “Who would commit this terrible sin?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “I do not understand God’s will,” Reuben says.
    I don’t think murder is what God had in mind for the Plank family, but since my views aren’t popular among my former brethren, I remain silent. “I’m going to have one of my officers drive you to the station so we can take your fingerprints. Can you do that for me?”
    “But what about the cows?” he asks. “They must be milked.”
    Dealing with cattle is the least of my worries this morning. But having grown up on a farm much like this one, I know the animals must be dealt with. “I’ll have Bishop Troyer send some men over as soon as possible. They’ll take care of the milking.”
    He nods. “It is the right thing to do.”
    It’s no small sacrifice for Zimmerman to ride in an English police car; it’sagainst the
Ordnung,
the rules set forth by the local church district, but he nods. “I will help any way I can.”
    I close the car door and cross to my Explorer. Opening the rear hatch, I pull out my crime scene kit. It’s not very high tech. Just a box of latex gloves, disposable shoe covers, a sketch pad and notebook, a stack of miniature fluorescent orange cones used for marking evidence, a roll of crime scene tape, a couple of inexpensive field test kits, and the new digital camera I recently had approved for purchase by the town council.
    I find Glock on the back porch, marking the bloody handprint for the CSU, a work light in his hand. “Zimmerman any help?” he asks over the drone of the generator.
    I shake my head. “He didn’t see anything.”
    “You believe him?”
    “For now.”
    We enter the kitchen. After being outside in the fresh air, the reek of death is suffocating. Setting the kit on the table, I remove a small tube of Vicks and dab it beneath my nose.
    I offer it to Glock, but he refuses with his usual, “Can’t stand the smell.”
    It’s an ongoing joke that usually garners a laugh. We don’t laugh this time around.
    Quickly, we don latex gloves and shoe covers. This kind of crime scene is every cop’s nightmare. It’s spread over a large area, some of which is outdoors, which makes the collection and preservation of evidence extremely difficult. Even though I’m not yet sure exactly what we’re dealing with—a mass murder or murder-suicide—I opt to err on the side of caution and preserve as much of the scene as possible.
    I hand the camera to Glock. “Photograph everything before you touch it. You know the drill.”
    Nodding, he takes the camera. Neither of us speaks as we cross through the kitchen to the living room. Stopping in the doorway, I shine my Maglite on Amos Plank.
    “Bad fuckin’ scene,” Glock says.
    “It’s worse in the barn.”
    He casts a questioning look at me.
    I tell him about the teenaged girls.
    “Damn.” I see his cop’s eyes taking in Plank’s unbound hands. The proximity of the handgun to the body. The exit wound at the back of his head. Like any good cop, he’s making judgments based on what he sees. “You think he did this?”
    “I don’t know.” It’s the most honest answer I can give. By all appearances, Plank went berserk, murdered his family, then put the gun in his mouth and blew his brains out. But the part of me that is Amish, that will always be Amish no matter how far I stray, can’t fathom an Amish man—an Amish
father
—inflicting these horrors upon his family. Granted, I didn’t know Amos Plank. But I do know the Amish culture. I know violence is not part of it.
    While Glock snaps photos, I walk the living room, trying to envision what might have happened. I study the position of the bodies. The wounds. The proximity of the Beretta to Amos Plank.
    “What did you do?” I whisper.
    It’s a