Linda Castillo: Pray for Silence

Multiple fatalities.

For an instant I think I’ve misunderstood. Then my brain clicks into place, and I get to my feet. “He get the shooter?”

“I don’t know. Skid sounded pretty shook up.”

Four full-time officers comprise my small police force; Skid is one of my most experienced. He’s not the sensitive type nor is he easily rattled, so I know it’s got to be bad. “Get an ambulance out there, will you?”

“Sure. And I called Doc Coblentz.”

“Good.” Dr. Ludwig Coblentz is a local pediatrician and acting coroner for Holmes County. “Tell him I’ll meet him out there.”

My mind spins through possible scenarios as I cross to the closet and yank my uniform off a hanger. The Planks are Amish. I know many Amish families keep rifles on hand for hunting and livestock slaughter. They are a peaceable, pacifistic society; violent crime is rare. I can’t get my mind around the fact that there are multiple victims. Maybe because that tells me the shooting was no accident.

Painters Mill is a small town located in the heart of Ohio’s farm country. About a third of the 5,300 residents are Amish. I myself was born Amish in this very town just over thirty years ago. Though 80 percent of Amish children join the church at the age of eighteen, I was one of the few who chose not to be baptized. But roots run deep, especially if you’re Amish, and it was those roots that brought me back.

I’ve been the chief of police for nearly three years now. It’s a good job. Painters Mill is a good place to live. A wholesome town in which to raise a family. I want to believe major crime doesn’t happen here, but experience has taught me even small, idyllic towns are not immune to violence.

I’m acquainted with most of the local families, both Amish and English. I’m fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch, the Amish dialect. Though I no longer live my life according to Gelassenheit —the foundation of Amish values—I have great respect for the culture. It’s a respect borne of genuine understanding, not only of the people, but the Plain life in general, and the religion so integral to both.

As I drive toward the Plank farm, it strikes me that I don’t know much about Bonnie or Amos Plank. I search my memory and recall that they’re new to the area, having relocated from Lancaster County about a year ago. They have several children and run a small dairy operation. As I start down the gravel lane, I wonder what problems might have followed them here from Pennsylvania.

I arrive to find Skid’s cruiser parked behind a buggy. The emergency strobes cast red and blue light onto the house and outbuildings, giving the farm the appearance of some weird rock video. Grabbing my Maglite, I get out, draw my .38 revolver and start toward the back door. I’m midway there when my beam illuminates a bloody handprint on the jamb. A quiver of unease goes through me when I spot the shiny black droplets on the concrete porch and sidewalk. Shoving open the door, I step into a large kitchen.

Moonlight slants through the window above the sink, but it’s not enough to cut through the shadows. “Skid!” I call out.

“In here!”

The stench of blood fills my nostrils as I traverse the kitchen. I go through the doorway into the next room. The first thing I see is the yellow-white slash of Skid’s flashlight beam. We’re standing in a large room backlit by two tall, narrow windows. I make a 360-degree sweep with my flashlight. “What happened?”

Even as I ask the question, my beam lands on the first body. A middle-aged Amish male lies facedown in the center of the room.

“We got two more over there.” Skid’s voice seems to come from a great distance.

My hand threatens to shake as I run my beam along the floor, but I hold it steady as the light reveals two more bodies. My vision tunnels when I realize the victims are children. The first is a teenaged boy. Gangly arms and legs. Bad haircut. Lying prone, he wears a faded work shirt, suspenders and trousers that are slightly too short from a recent growth spurt. His hands are bound behind his back. I see the black shimmer of blood at the back of his head.

A few feet away, a younger boy lies on his side in an ocean of blood, some of which has soaked into a homemade rug. I guess him to be nine or ten years old. He’s wearing a nightshirt. Like the other boy, his hands are bound. The soles of his feet are dirty, and I know that just scant hours before he’d run barefoot and carefree through this house. From the pale oval of his face, cloudy eyes seem to stare right at me. I see blood on his cheek and realize the bullet exited through his mouth, tearing through his lips, blowing out several teeth.

It’s a surreal scene and for the span of several heartbeats, I can’t get my mind around it. Shock is like a battering ram, assaulting my brain. Dead kids, I think, and a hot bloom of outrage burgeons in my chest. The urge to go to them, perform CPR, try to save them, is powerful. But I know they’re gone. The last thing I want to do is contaminate the scene.

I shift my beam back to the adult. A hole the size of my fist mars the back of his head. I see bone fragments, flecks of brain matter and blood in his hair. Exit wound, I think, and realize he was shot from the front.

“Did you check for survivors?” I hear myself ask.

Skid’s silhouette looms against the window. Even in the near darkness, I see him shake his head. “I checked pulses. They’re DOA.”

I look around, and it strikes me that the son of a bitch who did this could still be in the house. “You clear the place?”

“Not yet.”

I hit my radio. “This is 235. Mona, I’m 10-23.”

“What’s going on out there, Chief?”

“I need you to call Glock and Pickles at home. Get them out here 10-18.”

“Roger that,” Mona says.

“Use your cell, in case some insomniac has his scanner on. Tell Glock we need a generator and some work lights, will you?”

“Got it, Chief.”

I look at Skid. “Let’s clear the rest of the house.”

I start toward the hall. I hear Skid behind me, and I know he’s got my back. Our feet are silent on the oak floor as we move toward the bedrooms. In the back of my mind, I wonder if there are more victims. If anyone survived. I wonder what kind of a monster could kill innocent children. . . .

I reach the bathroom and shove the door open with my foot. My .38 leading the way, I enter, drop low and sweep the room. I see an old-fashioned claw-foot tub. A single window, closed and locked. A porcelain sink. I check the tub. “Clear.”

I turn to see Skid start down the hall. I bring up the rear this time, watching his back. He sidles into the first bedroom. I follow close behind, my every sense honed on our surroundings. I see two twin-size beds. Two windows, closed. A chest of drawers. A pair of ice skates tossed in the corner. Skid shifts his weapon, yanks open the closet door. I move in, but the small space is empty. I go to the bed, drop to my knees and look beneath it.

“No one here,” Skid says.

“Let’s check the upstairs.”

“There a cellar?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Probably.”

It takes us ten minutes to clear the rest of the house, which includes the basement, the second-level bedrooms and the small attic. I’m comfortable working with Skid; I trust his instincts as a cop, and we work well as a team. In the end, our efforts are in vain. The house is vacant.

We end up in the living room. For a moment, neither of us speaks. We don’t look at the bodies, and I get the sense that we’re both struggling to comprehend the cold brutality of the crime.

“What do you think happened?” Skid asks after a moment.

“Hard to say.” I glance down at the dead boy at my feet. So young and innocent. I look at the father and for the first time it strikes me that his hands aren’t bound. As a cop, I know things aren’t always as they appear at first glance. Preconceived notions are a dangerous thing when you walk into a crime scene, so I strive to avoid making snap judgments. But as I stare down at the dead man, all I can think is, Why aren’t your hands bound, too?