The older man nods in solemn agreement. “It’s almost worse when it’s an accident. No one to blame.”
“No one to shoot.” Glock offers a grim smile. “Makes it even more senseless.”
Nodding in agreement, Pickles looks at me. “Seems pretty cut-and-dried, don’t it, Chief?”
I nod. “Kids’ statements are consistent with an accident.” I watch Doc Coblentz move from body to body. Using the stethoscope, he checks for vitals. Because the cause of death is evidently accidental, he forgoes the kind of thorough preliminary field exam a murder would warrant, such as ascertaining body temperature to help pinpoint the time of death. I know he’ll take a core liver temp for his final report once he gets the bodies to the hospital morgue. Because the deaths were unattended, he’s required by law to perform autopsies, which will tell us the cause and manner of death. In this case, the cause is either asphyxiation or drowning; the manner is accidental.
I force my gaze to the nearest victim. Rachael Slabaugh was in her mid-thirties. An Amish mother of four. She’d once been pretty, but in death her face has a blue-white cast that lends her a ghostly countenance. Her left eyelid has come open halfway, and the cloudy white of her eyeball is stained with a coffee-colored film. Her mouth hangs open. Glancing inside, I see the dark mass of a tongue and teeth colored brown from muck. She wears a green dress, an organdy kapp, and an apron that had once been white. The dress is twisted at an uncomfortable-looking angle, and I have to resist the urge to go to her to straighten it.
Her husband lies next to her. I estimate Solomon Slabaugh to be about forty years old. He wears dark trousers with a blue work shirt and suspenders. His full beard is clotted with solids from the pit. At some point during the retrieval of his body, the insulated jacket came off one of his shoulders. No one bothered to right it, so his left arm is twisted and slightly beneath him.
I guess Abel Slabaugh to be the younger of the two brothers. His lack of a beard tells me he is unmarried. He wears brown trousers with suspenders, a blue work shirt, and insulated coveralls. I’m sure he’d been wearing work boots as well, but they are nowhere to be seen. I imagine them sliding off his feet as he was pulled from the pit.
The three bodies are a horrific sight to behold as they shimmer wetly beneath the glare of the emergency work lights set up by the fire department volunteers. A lot of stomachs couldn’t handle it, but you get used to things in my line of work. My thoughts drift to the four orphans, and I wonder if they have relatives to take them in. If they don’t, I know there are dozens of Amish families in the church district that would be more than happy to open their homes and hearts. I’m obligated to contact Children Services, but I know this is one of many instances where the Amish will go above and beyond the call of duty.
“Chief Burkholder.”
Doc Coblentz’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. I start toward him as he stands and snaps off a pair of latex gloves. “It’s a damn shame.”
I stop a few feet away from him. Neither of us looks at the bodies. “You’ll autopsy all three victims?”
He nods, grimaces. “My schedule’s pretty clear, so I should be able to start this afternoon.”
I want to say, “Good,” but this is so far from good, I can’t manage the word. For a moment, the only sound comes from the rumble of the generator, the buzz of work lights, and the occasional grunt from the hogs in a nearby pen.
“Do they have next of kin?” the doctor asks.
“I’ll check with Bishop Troyer. Notify them as soon as possible.”
“I don’t envy you that part of your job.”
Notifying next of kin is undoubtedly one of the most difficult aspects of being chief. But I’ve always thought cutting into a dead body would be worse. This morning, I’m not so sure. “Will you fax your reports over when they’re finished?”
He gives me a nod, then motions for the two paramedics standing by to bag the bodies for transport.
*