Page 13 of Rage

I shake my head. “I’ve met his parents a couple of times over the years,” I say. “But only to say hello. They own a cheese shop a few miles out of town.”

“What do you know about Yutzy?”

“Not much.” I take a breath, fall back into cop mode. “I’ve seen him around town. He’s young. Unmarried. No children. He seemed like a decent kid. Owned the tree nursery. I’ve got Lois digging up everything she can find on him.”

“Odd that a straitlaced Amish kid would end up in pieces and buried in a shallow grave.”

“Not to mention the killer leaving a register full of cash.” I sigh. “What are you thinking?”

“Dismembering a body is extreme to say the least.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “This has something of a big-city feel.”

“The same thought crossed my mind,” I say. “Whoever buried him wasn’t anticipating coyotes.”

“Seems like a local would have considered scavengers.”

“I think so, too,” I say. “Doesn’t feel local.”

Tomasetti’s expression turns grim. “You going to talk to the parents?”

“Right now,” I tell him. “The discovery of human remains is going to be big news. The Amish may not use phones, but that doesn’t slow down the grapevine.” I sigh. “I don’t want them to hear it from someone else.”

“You want some company?”

Seeing the concern in his expression, and appreciating it, I reach out and touch his hand. “Thank you,” I say. “But with their being Amish, I think I should go alone.”

“You sure?”

“If they have something to tell me about their son, I think they’ll be more likely to open up if it’s just me.”

Orlah and Leona Yutzy live on a well-kept dairy farm six miles west of Painters Mill. A sign welcomes me to YUTZY FARM CHEESE SHOP as I make the turn in to the gravel lane. The house is a hundred-year-old frame farmhouse with dual brick chimneys and a wraparound front porch. The couple has transformed the front of their home into a shop and showroom for the cheeses they make on-site. I’ve bought my fair share over the years. Cheddar and bleu and goat. It’s authentic, delicious, and popular with locals as well as tourists.

I park in the circular driveway and take the sidewalk to the porch where a second sign reads: WILKOMEN! KUMMA INSEID. Welcome! Come inside.

The front door stands open and I go through. “Hello?” I call out. “Mr. and Mrs. Yutzy?”

The first things I notice are the display cases and counter, and the not-quite-pleasant smell of curdled milk. There’s an olive-green sofa against the wall. A dormant cast-iron stove in the corner. A coffee table piled high with Amish country tourist pamphlets.

Heavy footsteps sound, and then a large woman wearing a light blue dress, a kitchen towel slung over her shoulder, comes through an interior door and smiles at me. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite ex-Amish chief of police! You must be here for some more of that bleu cheese you and that husband of yours like.”

“Hi, Leona.” I don’t smile back as I show her my badge. “I’m afraid this is an official visit.”

“Well, what in the world?”

I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that she knows I’ve come bearing bad news. I look past her, expecting her husband to come through the swinging door of the kitchen. “Is Orlah here with you?” I ask. “I need to speak to both of you.”

“He’s in the kitchen.” She steps back as if suddenly realizing it may not be safe to get too close. “What’s this all about? Is everything all right?”

Her husband pushes open the door and comes through, a sandwich in hand. He’s a large man. Six feet tall and three hundred pounds. He’s wearing dark trousers with suspenders and a blue work shirt.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, his eyes going from his wife to me.

“Mr. and Mrs. Yutzy, I’m afraid I have some terrible news. Your son, Samuel, has been killed. I’m sorry.”

Leona cocks her head, looking at me the way the condemned might look at their executioner. “Well, that can’t hardly be true,” she huffs. “Samuel’s too young. Just twenty-one years old.” She looks at her husband and forces a sound that doesn’t quite sound like a laugh. “You got him mixed up with someone else is all.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, hating those words because at a time like this they feel like the most unhelpful words in the English language.

The sandwich drops to the floor. Orlah stands there, unmoving, looking down at it as if he doesn’t know how it got on the floor and has no idea what to do about it. He tries to speak, but his lips quiver and the only sound that comes out is a squeak of his son’s name. “Samuel? Dead?”