THERE were no children to greet Charles Roberts the last time he collected milk from the Fisher family farm near the Pennsylvania town of Paradise. It was in the early hours of last Monday and the excited young Amish girls who often ran out to greet his arrival were inside asleep.

As a tanker driver for a Lancaster County dairy, Roberts was well known to farmers as one of the few “Englishers” — the Amish term for outsiders — who were allowed to pay regular visits to the community’s old-fashioned farms.

On his daytime rounds he was routinely besieged by inquisitive children who clamoured for lollipops and stories about an outside world that was rarely mentioned by their stern and protective parents.

Roberts finished his night shift at 3am on Monday and returned in darkness to his home in nearby Bart Township. The next time he saw the Fisher children that day, he lined them up against the wall of their classroom and shot them in the back of the head.

The disclosure that Roberts may have known some of the children he murdered in a still-unexplained explosion of violence at the West Nickel Mines Amish school last Monday has added a startling twist to a uniquely American tragedy.

The killings at the heart of the Amish community’s Pennsylvania homeland shattered the zealously guarded serenity of a quaintly archaic religious order that has somehow flourished despite turning its back on modern distractions such as electricity, telephones and cars.

Police initially thought Roberts chose his victims at random, but evidence is mounting that the 32-year-old deliberately targeted the Amish schoolgirls. “I’m sure he knew the girls,” said Stephen Sipos, who lives across the road from the Roberts family. “The milk drivers were always joking around with the kids.”

Among the 10 girls Roberts seized in a planned assault a few hours after he finished work was Marian Fisher, 13, and her 11-year-old sister Barbie, both of whom bravely offered to die in exchange for the lives of the others. A third Fisher sister escaped; neighbours confirmed the Fisher farm was a regular stop on Roberts’s milk route.

As the Amish sought seclusion after the agonies of a public ordeal, there were no easy answers to awkward questions about what provoked Monday’s mayhem, and whether something happened on Roberts’s rounds to propel him to murder the girls.

There were also fears among criminal experts that respect for Amish traditions and the reluctance of Pennsylvania police to intrude may hamper a promised investigation into the motives of a mild-mannered milkman who turned out to be seething with maniacal rage.

After a few hours’ sleep last Monday, Roberts was up at 7.30am helping his wife Marie get their children Abigail, seven, and Bryson, five, ready for school. The couple also had an 18-month-old baby, Carson.

At 8.45am the couple walked the children to their yellow school bus. Paula Derby, a neighbour, said it was unusual to see Roberts on a Monday because he often worked an early shift collecting the weekend milk.

She smiled when Roberts hugged and kissed his children and told them: “Remember, Daddy loves you.” It was a touching gesture from a man whose friends would later describe as a devoted father and husband.

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