The farm was one of those going concerns that dot the rolling Michigan landscape: silos and many barns, and a yard filled with big green and yellow equipment. The man’s potato fields stretched over one hill and up another as far as I could see. Rolling slowly through his endless fields were huge watering machines, tracking back and forth among the rows.

“He won’t be in the house,” Dolly said when we pulled up a circular drive beneath dying Lombardy poplars and parked in front of a red barn with wide double doors. “Unless he’s having lunch …”

One of the barn doors slid open and a tall, thin man in blue overalls, plaid short-sleeved shirt, and straw hat came out, waving us over to him. He had that farmer look: lined face; narrow eyes lost in folds of wrinkles; shoulders, in stained overalls, drawn halfway up to his ears. He could have been in his late thirties or his early sixties. Or no age. Farmers—after a few years—took on the eternal sense of the soil. They plant food crops and harvest food crops. They talk food crops and weather. Endless dialogue of an ancient brotherhood.

“Deputy.” He nodded to Dolly then turned to me, dark eyebrows shooting up.

I introduced myself and told him I was with the newspaper, covering the story.

“Joshua Sutter,” he said, dipping his head and fixing me with a pair of very sharp blue eyes. We shook hands.

“Terrible thing you got goin’ on there.” He turned back to Dolly. “Like to help, if I can. Might as well go over to where my workers live. One of ’em been with me years now. He knows all the yearly pickers up here. If anybody can help you, I’d say Miguel’s the one. He’s probably back at the house where he lives, having his dinner. Get in the truck.” He motioned toward a red extended-cab pickup. “No sense taking two vehicles.”

In the truck, I rolled down my window; the air inside thick with the smell of oil. The man revved the motor, ground the truck into gear, and we were off—out behind the barn, around a couple more huge gray outbuildings, and on to a barely visible track leading through the fields back to a far tree line. We bumped along through the fields, a rough ride made endurable by the fresh air blowing through the cab.

Mr. Sutter made no small talk, only kept his eyes focused on the road, swearing under his breath when he swerved to avoid a covey of partridge he stirred up.

A row of identical, small white houses, more rustic cabins than houses, stood in a line beneath a stand of tall oaks. Wet clothes hung on sagging lines from the houses to poles in the grassless yards.

“Talked to him earlier,” Joshua said as he pulled in, parked, and turned off the motor. “Miguel Hernandez, one of my best workers—comes every year. Said he doesn’t think he knows this dead woman of yours. Said he hasn’t heard about any trouble among the migrant workers, like maybe a husband and wife fighting. Not that many of ’em come yet—not ’til harvest time. But, like Miguel, who helps me with the equipment and just about everything else, there are some who get here early, ahead of their families. If Miguel can’t help he can sure give you names of other men to talk to.”

He got out of the pickup, as Dolly and I slid out on our side. Dolly hit the ground kind of hard and stumbled, catching herself. She didn’t straighten right away, only put an arm across her middle, and took a couple of deep breaths.

“Dolly,” I put my arm across her bent back and leaned down. Her face was red. She bit at her bottom lip. “What’s going on?”

“Nothin’,” she growled and straightened, settling her shoulders. “Tripped. Thought I was going to fall.”

“Look …” I started to say but was interrupted by a short, dark man who came from one of the houses, letting the screened door snap shut behind him. Two tiny children stood on the inside of the screen, watching the man make his way over to shake Joshua’s hand and be introduced to me and Dolly.

We took seats on logs ringing a dead fire pit.

“Rain tomorrow,” Joshua said after a while.

Miguel nodded. “I got plenty to do on that engine in the barn.”

Joshua agreed, then, after a minute, asked, “You know why these women are here?”

Miguel turned to first Dolly and then toward me. “Somebody found dead. That’s what Mr. Sutter told me.”

Dolly cleared her throat and moved to get comfortable on her log. “Found a woman with a gunshot to the back of her head. Over near Leetsville.”

Miguel nodded, glanced over his shoulder at the house, called out to someone in Spanish, and the children were pulled away from the screen. The door closed.

“What did this woman look like?” he asked.

Dolly gave him a brief description, ending with the gold cross. Each part of the description brought a deeper frown, until Miguel was rubbing his hands between his knees, biting at his lip, then glancing back at the house, to us, then to Mr. Sutter.

“I don’t think I know her.” Miguel made a face as he shook his head.

“There’s something else, Miguel,” Joshua said. “They found a dog killed with her—well, nearby. Shot, the way the woman was shot.”

A look passed between the two men. Miguel drew in a deep breath. He blinked again and again, looking from me to Dolly. If I’ve ever seen a man with pain trapped behind his eyes, this was that man.

Joshua saw it too. His voice went lower, softer.

“We had that incident … remember …” he said. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot but …”

Miguel looked away and shook his head. “I don’t know … anything …”

He got up. “Mr. Sutter, I got work to do …”

“Not right now, Miguel.” Joshua cleared his throat then stood, stretching his shoulders back. “It’s about that dog someone dumped here. That dog was shot in the head. Are we looking at some kind of war going on? I really need to know if there’s something …”

Miguel’s eyes burned. “There’s nothing for you to worry about. If I knew even one thing, I would tell these two women. You’ve been good to me and my family for almost ten years now. You know I wouldn’t let anything come close to hurting you.”

Joshua Sutter shrugged and wiped his hands down the sides of his coveralls. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Miguel shook his head. “I don’t know anything. I would give my life before …”

Dolly stood, hands resting at her gun belt. “Miguel, I’m sorry but I’m going to be puttin’ pressure on you. You’re not tellin’ everything you know, are you? Somethin’s going on. That’s plain. You should be tellin’ us right now, before this gets worse. If there’s some kind of vendetta, or somebody’s threatenin’ people …”

Miguel shook his head and backed away, tripping over a tree root. He turned and hurried into the house. He closed the door carefully, and quietly, behind him. A white sheet was immediately draped across the front window.

“Hope I didn’t just lose my best worker,” Joshua Sutter said, digging the toe of one heavy shoe into the dirt beside the fire pit. “Never seen Miguel like that before. He’s a good man. I’d say a brave man, but he’s scared. I can’t figure out what’s doin’ it to him.”