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?
“You find a weapon?” I ask.
“Handgun there.”
My eyes follow his beam. Sure enough, protruding from beneath the man’s right hand is the blue barrel of a semiautomatic handgun. “Looks like a Beretta.”
“I didn’t know the Amish kept handguns.”
“They don’t, usually, especially a semiauto,” I reply. “Rifles for hunting.”
“His hands aren’t tied,” Skid comments.
“That wound at the back of his head looks like an exit.”
Skid’s gaze meets mine. “You think he did this?”
I don’t want to acknowledge the ugly suspicions knocking at my brain. That this man snapped, murdered his two sons and then turned the gun on himself. The scenario goes against every conviction most Amish hold dear. I know it’s a generalization. But murder is extremely rare in Amish society. Suicide is almost as uncommon. It is the one sin for which there is no redemption.
“I don’t know.” I look around. “Any sign of the mother?”
“No.”
“I think they have more kids,” I say. “Girls.” I recall the bloody handprint on the back porch, and I’m disheartened by the possibilities crowding my brain. “Let’s check the yard and outbuildings.”
Best-case scenario, we’ll find Mom and the girls hiding and frightened, but alive. The knot in my gut tells me that hope is optimistic.
Without holstering our weapons, we pass through the kitchen and go out through the back door. We glance briefly at the bloody print.
“Could be a woman’s,” Skid says.
“Or a teenager’s.” If my memory serves me, the two girls are in their teens.
His beam illuminates droplets of blood and a single bloody footprint on the concrete. “Looks like someone ran out of the house.”