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feeling to break that kind of news and not be able to do anything as the bottom drops out of that person’s world. In my nine years of law-enforcement experience, I’ve seen grief in all its insidious forms. Though I’m merely the messenger, I’ve been cursed, screamed at, threatened, spit on, and struck. Cops aspire to believe they’re not affected by such things. But it takes a toll. That’s one of many reasons I’ve never put the burden of notification on my officers. Still, I don’t ever go alone. This morning, I’ve got Glock with me.
    Adam Slabaugh lives on a well-kept farm on a quiet township road between Millersburg and Painters Mill. The old house is white, with a green tin roof, green shutters, and a wraparound porch that’s sheltered by a hulking spruce. The place sits on a hill, overlooking acres and acres of plowed fields. I park the Explorer in the gravel area between the barn and the house and shut down the engine.
    For the span of several heartbeats, Glock and I sit there, watching snow gather on the windshield.
    “Hell of a way to start someone’s day,” he says.
    “Hell of a way to start our day.”
    “Is this guy going to take the kids?”
    I tell him about my conversation with Bishop Troyer. “Might be some problems there.”
    “Tough situation for the kids,” he says.
    “And everyone else involved.”
    Neither of us wants to walk up to that house and knock on the door. Of course, we don’t have a choice. I reach for the door handle first. We’re midway to the house when the back door opens. A Border collie and a fat yellow Labrador bound out, tails wagging, tongues lolling. Behind them, a man shrugs into an insulated coat and closes the door behind him. He’s a tall, thin man who doesn’t look Amish. No beard. No hat or suspenders. But he possesses the kind eye I’ve come to associate with the culture.
    “Good morning.” He’s still buttoning his coat when he reaches us. “Is something wrong?”
    Glock and I start toward him. “Adam Slabaugh?” I ask.
    He has light blue eyes, which remind me of a summer sky, and a face that has seen a lot of years of Ohio’s sometimes extreme elements. He takes in our uniform parkas, and his eyes go wary. I see his shoulders stiffen in a brace, and I know at some point he’s done this before. “Yes?”
    I show him my badge and identify myself. “There’s been an accident. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”
    “Accident?” His gaze flicks to Glock and then back to me. “What happened? Did someone get hurt?”
    “I’m afraid so.” I motion toward the house. “Would you like to go inside and sit down, so we can talk?”
    “Must be bad if you want me to sit down.” He looks down at his boots, blows out a breath, as if preparing himself for the blow. “Who is it?”
    “Are Solomon and Abel Slabaugh your brothers?”
    “Yes.” He blinks rapidly. “What happened to them?”
    “Your brothers and sister-in-law were killed this morning at their farm.”
    “Aw, God.” He takes a step back. “Killed? All three of them? Are you sure?” He looks at Glock, as if expecting him to contradict me.
    “We’re sure,” I say. “I’m very sorry.”
    He makes a choking sound, takes another step back, as if to distance himself from us and the news we bear. “How in God’s name did it happen?”
    “We believe it was methane gas asphyxiation from the manure pit.”
    “My God.” Tugging off a glove, he bows his head, scrapes a trembling hand over his face. “I told Solly to keep that old barn ventilated. He never listened to—” He stops speaking mid-sentence and raises his gaze to mine. “The children?”
    “They’re fine,” I say. “Unhurt. Physically anyway.”
    He closes his eyes briefly, as if thanking God for sparing them, and I know that even though he’s no longer Amish, he’s still a religious man. “How did it happen?” he asks.
    I tell him what I learned from the kids’ statements. “Apparently, Rachael was