Jefferson Beauregard Trestlehorn was a man who thrived on excitement.

Sidearm drawn, he descended the steps as quickly as he was able with the roar of a mountain lion: “Police! Reach for the sky!”

And then— “Sweet merciful marmalade, what in the hail is that?”

Hanging from the walls was a family of five deer, raw as an open wound. Dripping blood on the basement floor.

Standing in front of the mess was a man in plain trousers and a plain work shirt, with a plain haircut and an Abraham Lincoln beard—holding a meat cleaver. Cowering behind him, a woman in a gray dress and bonnet. They wore matching aprons spattered scarlet. Amish butchers, apparently.

At the sight of Jefferson, the man dropped his knife with a tremendous clamor and raised his hands. The woman did the same.

Jefferson flushed.

“Beg your pardon… uh… Mr. Yoder? Mrs. Yoder?” They nodded. “I’m Jefferson Trestlehorn, police chief here in Lake Derry, and I came to… uh, ask y’all a few questions.”

After a moment he decided to reholster the gun.