"It’s shades of In Cold Blood when a family of seven is brutally murdered at their home in Painters Mill, Ohio. But the Plank family was Amish—and their teenage daughter was flirting outside the fold. Another chilling thriller by the author of 2009’s
Sworn to Silence.”—People magazine
“Violent and earthy, and completely impossible to put down.”—BookPage
"Though the violence level is high, the brutality is offset by Kate’s and her team’s very capable police procedure and investigation. Another solid effort that will appeal to fans of Karin Slaughter and Tami Hoag.”—Library Journal
“The second installment in Castillo’s strong series finds Police Chief Kate Burkholder once again face-to-face with pure evil. . . . A unique setting and a very human heroine make this a good recommendation for readers seeking an alternative to the urban whodunit.”—Booklist
“Castillo excels at detailing gory crime scenes.”—Publishers Weekly
“The second book in Castillo’s series . . . is as well crafted, interesting and unique as the first. The combination of Amish life and the brutal work of a police chief create plenty of tension and excitement.”—Romantic Times (4 ½ stars, top pick)
“Castillo pushed boundaries with her first in this series, but Pray for Silence blows all of those out of the water: her handling of the subject matter is impressive and the book is very well plotted. Again, not for the easily shocked and one that will utterly consume you as you follow Burkholder and her team. This series seriously needs a warning label.”—Bookbitch.com
"With a serial killer and now a mass murder in tiny Painters Mill, Castillo will need to be inventive to maintain the plausibility in this addictive series. Fortunately, she seems up to the task.”—Akron Beacon Journal
"Pray for Silence is an absorbing small-town police procedural that reveals a little-seen world.”—I Love a Mystery
“[Castillo’s] description of Amish country and Amish life is entertaining and educational; her prose is always seamless and occasionally startling… Bloody and brutal, tense and touching, Pray for Silence displays Castillo's powers in a reading experience that's richly rewarding as a thriller, as a portrait of two cultures and as a novel with a big heart.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Another knock-out job. I love this series.”—Alex Kava
“Castillo keeps the pace quick, the story compelling, and her manner towards the Amish reverent.”—Katherine Osborne, Indiebound
Read an Excerpt of PRAY FOR SILENCE
“Three may keep a secret,
if two of them are dead.”
Officer Chuck “Skid” Skidmore wished he hadn’t indulged in that last
cup of coffee. If it wasn’t for the new waitress at the diner, he would
have stopped at just one. But damn she was cute. So he’d sat at the
counter the entirety of his dinner break and sucked down caffeine like a
ten-year old gorging on Kool-aid. Brandy obliged by keeping his mug
full, and entertaining him with her twenty-something chit chat and a
full two inches of jiggling cleavage.
He’d been eating at
LaDonna’s Diner every night for two months now, since the chief assigned
him the graveyard shift. He hated working nights. He respected the
chief, but he was going to have to have a talk with her about getting
back on days.
Skid turned his cruiser onto Hogpath Road, a
desolate stretch of asphalt bounded by Miller’s Woods to the north and a
cornfield on the south side. The cruiser’s tires crunched over gravel as
he pulled onto the shoulder. He was reaching for the pack of Marlboro
Lights in the glove box when his radio crackled.
“Three two four.
Are you 10-8?”
Mona was the third shift dispatcher and his sole
source of entertainment—after the diner closed, anyway. She’d kept him
from dying of boredom many a night. “Roger that, Dispatch.”
did you talk to her?”
“You ask her out?”
Throwing open his door to keep the smell of smoke out of the
cruiser, Skid lit the Marlboro. “I don’t see how that’s any of your
“You’re the one who’s been talking about her for the
last two months.”
“She’s too young for me.”
does that make a difference?”
“You’re tying up the radio.”
Mona laughed. “You’re chicken.”
Wishing he’d never told her
about his crush on Brandy, he drew on the cigarette. “Whatever.”
“Are you smoking?”
He mouthed the word shit.
“You said you
were going to quit.”
“I said I was going to either quit drinking
or smoking. I sure as hell ain’t going to do both in the same week.” He
sucked in a mouthful of smoke. “Especially when I’m stuck working
“Maybe the chief’s still pissed about that old lady you
“I didn’t rough her up. That old goat was drunk out
of her mind.”
“She was sixty-two years old—”
“And naked as
Mona giggled. “You get all the good calls.”
“Don’t remind me. The sight of her wrinkled ass has damaged me for
life.” He sighed, his bladder reminding him why he’d stopped in the
first place. “I gotta take a piss.”
“Like I need to know that.”
Grinning, Skid got out of the cruiser. The
crickets went silent as he walked around to the bar ditch. Dry
cornstalks crackled in a light breeze. Beyond, a harvest moon cast
yellow light onto the tall grain silo and barn roof of an Amish farm. It
was so quiet, he could hear the cacophony of frogs from Wildcat Creek a
quarter mile to the south. Skid relieved himself and tried not to think
about the long night ahead. Yeah, he was going to have a talk with the
chief. Get back on days. He’d had enough of this vampire-hours shit.
He was zipping up when a distant sound snagged his attention. At
first he thought maybe a calf was bawling for its cow. Or maybe a dog
had been hit by a car. But when the sound came again, he realized it
wasn’t either of those things. It was a man’s scream. Looking out across
the cornfield, he felt the hairs at his nape stand straight up.
rested his hand on the .38 strapped to his hip. He scanned the field
beyond where the corn whispered and sighed. Another scream sent a chill
scraping up his spine. “What the hell?”
Yanking open the door of
the cruiser, he leaned in and flicked on the strobes, then pulsed the
siren a couple of times. He hit his lapel mike. “Mona, I’m out here at
the Plank farm. I’ve got a 10-88.” They used the ten-code radio system
at the Painters Mill PD. Ten-eighty-eight was the code for suspicious
“What’s going on?”
“Some crazy shit’s screaming
his head off.”
“Well that’s strange.” She went silent for a
moment. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s coming from
the house. I’m going to check it out.”
in his cruiser, Skid turned into the long gravel lane that would take
him to the house. The Planks were Amish. Generally, the Amish community
was quiet and kept to themselves. Most were up before the sun and in bed
before most folks finished their supper. Skid couldn’t figure one of
them out this time of night, raising hell. Either some teenager on
rumspringa—their “running around” time before joining the church—was
drunk out of his head, or there’d been an accident.
midway down the lane when a figure rushed from the shadows. Skid braked
hard. The cruiser slid sideways, missing a man by inches. “Holy shit!”
The man scrambled around the front of the cruiser, hands on the
hood, eyes as big as baseballs. Skid didn’t recognize him, but the full
beard and flat-brimmed hat told him the guy was Amish. Setting his hand
on his .38, Skid rammed the shifter into Park and got out of the
cruiser. “What the hell are you doing? I almost hit you.”
was breathing hard, shaking harder. In the moonlight, Skid saw sweat
glistening on his cheeks, despite the October chill, and he wondered if
the guy was high on drugs. “Mein Gott!”
Skid didn’t understand
Pennsylvania Dutch, the Amish dialect, but he didn’t need to be fluent
to know the guy was terrified. He didn’t know what he’d walked into. The
one thing he was certain of was that he wasn’t going to let this
cagey-looking sumbitch get any closer. As far as he knew the guy was on
crack and armed with a machete. “Stop right there, partner. Keep your
hands where I can see them.”
The Amish man put his hands up. Even
from ten feet away Skid could see his entire body trembling. His chest
heaved. It was tears—not sweat—that glistened on his cheeks. “What’s
your name?” Skid asked.
“Reuben Zimmerman!” he choked.
Amish man’s eyes met his. Within their depths, Skid saw fear and the
sharp edge of panic. The man’s mouth worked, but no words came.
“You need to calm down, sir. Tell me what happened.”
pointed toward the farmhouse, his hand shaking like a flag in a gale.
“Amos Plank. The children. There is blood. They are dead!”
guy had to be out of his mind. “How many people?”
“I do not know.
I saw . . . Amos and the boys. On the floor. Dead. I ran.”
you see anyone else?”
Skid’s gaze went to the
darkened farmhouse. The place was silent and still. No lantern light in
the windows. No movement. He hit his lapel mike. “Mona, I’ve got a
possible 10-16 out here.” A 1-16 was the code for a domestic problem.
“I’m going to take a look.”
“You still out at the Plank place?”
“You want me to call the sheriff’s office
and get a deputy out there?”
“I’m going to check it out first.
Will you run Reuben Zimmerman through LEADS for me?” LEADS was the
acronym for the Law Enforcement Automated Data System police departments
used to check for outstanding warrants and BOLO, cop speak for Be on the
“Roger that.” Computer keys clicked. “Be careful, will
“You got that right.”
Anxious to get to the scene,
Skid approached the Amish man. “Turn around and put your hands against
the car, partner.”
Zimmerman looked bewildered. “I did not do
“It’s procedure. I’m going to pat your down. The
handcuffs are for your protection and mine. All right?”
realizing he didn’t have a choice, Zimmerman turned and set his hands
against the cruiser. Quickly, Skid ran his hands over the man, checking
pockets, socks, even his crotch. Then he snapped the cuffs into place.
“What are you doing here at this time of night?”
“I help with the
milking. Work begins at 4 A.M.”
“And I thought I had bad hours.”
The Amish man blinked.
“Never mind.” Opening the cruiser
door, Skid ushered him into the back seat. “Let’s go.”
behind the wheel, he put the cruiser in gear and started toward the
house. In the rear view mirror, dust billowed in the red glow of the
taillights. Ahead, a massive barn and silo stood in silhouette against
the pre-dawn sky. The postcard perfect farm was the last place Skid
expected any kind of trouble. He’d lived in Painters Mill for going on
four years now. Aside from a few minor infractions—like that time two
teenaged boys got caught racing their buggies down Main Street—the Amish
were damn near perfect citizens. But Skid had been a cop long enough to
know there was always an exception to the rule.
He parked behind
a buggy, his headlights reflecting off the slow-moving-vehicle sign
mounted at the rear. To his right, the house stood in shadows; it didn’t
look like anyone was up yet. Turning, he made eye contact with
Zimmerman. “How did you get in?”
“The back door is unlocked,” the
Amish man said.
Grabbing his Mag-Lite, Skid left the cruiser. He
slid his .38 from its sheath as he started down the sidewalk. Stepping
onto the stoop, he banged on the door with the flashlight. “This is the
police,” he called out. “Open up.”
That was when he noticed the dark
smear on the jamb. He shifted the flashlight beam and squinted. It
looked like blood. A handprint. Skid shone the light down on the
concrete porch. More blood. Black droplets glittering in the moonlight.
Bloody footprints led down the steps to the sidewalk that led to the
“Shit.” Skid twisted the knob and opened the door. His
heart rate kicked as he entered the kitchen. He could feel the burn of
adrenaline in his midsection. Nerves running like hot wires beneath his
skin. “This is the police,” he called out. “Mr. and Mrs. Plank?”
The house was as silent and dark as a 1920s film noir. Skid wished for a
light switch and cursed the Amish people’s aversion to modern
conveniences. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. Gray light
from the moon bled in through the window above the sink, revealing plain
wood cabinets, a bench table draped with a blue and white checked
tablecloth. A lantern sat cold and dark in its center.
This is the police. Anyone home?” Midway through the kitchen, he noticed
the unpleasant odor. Not spoiled food or garbage or pet smells. It was
more like the plumbing in the bathroom had backed up.
the living room. The stench grew stronger, pervasive. A chill crept up
his spine when his beam illuminated the body. An Amish man wearing a
blue work shirt, trousers and suspenders lay face down in a pool of
blood the size of a dinner plate.
couldn’t look away. The dead man had a horrific wound at the back of his
head. Blood oozed from his left ear, into his full beard and then
trickled down to pool on the floor. His mouth was open and his bloody
tongue protruded like a fat slug.
He hoped Zimmerman was wrong
about the number of victims. He hoped the other lumps on the floor were
piles of clothing in need of mending or maybe feed bags someone had
brought in from the barn. That hope was dashed when the beam of his
flashlight revealed two more bodies. A teenaged boy wearing dark
trousers with suspenders. A little red-haired boy encircled by more
blood than could possibly fit into his small body. Both boys had gunshot
wounds to the head. Both had their hands bound behind their backs. Skid
knew without checking that they were dead.
He’d been a cop for
going on ten years, first in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and now here in
Painters Mill. He’d seen death before. Traffic accidents. Shootings.
Stabbings. None of those things prepared him for this.
He fumbled for his lapel mike, surprised when his hand shook. “Mona, I’m
10-23 at the Plank place. Call the chief. Tell her I’ve got a major
fuckin’ crime scene out here. Multiple vics. Fatalities.” His voice
“Do you need an ambulance?”
He looked down
at the staring eyes and the ocean of blood, and he knew he’d be seeing
that image for a very long time to come. “Just send the coroner, Mona.
It’s too late to save any of these people.”
I’m caught in that weird twilight between wakefulness and slumber
when the phone on my night table jangles. The last time I looked at the
clock, it was just after three A.M. A glance at those glowing red
numbers tells me it’s now four thirty. I feel lucky to have gotten a
full hour and a half of sleep.
“Burkholder,” I rasp.
“Chief, it’s Mona. Skid says there’s been a shooting out at the Plank
The words jolt me upright. “Anyone hurt?” I envision an
accidental shooting; someone putting a bullet in his foot while cleaning
“He said it was a major crime scene with multiple
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
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.”
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.
* * *
Mill is a small town located in the heart of Ohio’s farm country. About
a third of the 5300 residents are Amish. I myself was born Amish in this
very town just over thirty years ago. Though eighty 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
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
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 countenance of some weird rock video.
Grabbing my Mag-Lite, 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.
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 face down in the center of the room.
“We got two more over there.” Skid’s voice seems to come from a
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 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?”
I hit my radio. “This is 235.
Mona, I’m 10-23.”
“What’s going on out there, Chief?”
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
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
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.”
know the Amish kept handguns.”
“They don’t, usually, especially a
semi-auto,” 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?”
“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.
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.”
“Toward the barn.”
After being inside the house, the moonlight
seems inordinately bright. My shadow keeps pace with me as I move down
the sidewalk. We’ve gone about ten yards when I spot the body. A mature
female wearing a plain dress, an apron and white kapp lies face down in
the grass. But it is the sight of the dead infant in her arms that rocks
“Jesus Christ.” Skid scrapes a hand over his face. “A fuckin’
The gray skin and glazed eyes tell me both mother and
child are deceased. Blood clings to the grass like a spill of motor oil.
I see a hole the size of a dime in the fabric between the woman’s
shoulder blades. “Looks like the bullet went right through her and into
“Shot her in the back.”
“While she was running
“Chief, who the hell would do something like this?”
“A monster.” Hoping the look I give him doesn’t reveal the dark
emotions thrashing inside me, I motion toward the barn. “Let’s hope he
left someone alive to tell us.”