Page 6 of Logan’s Way

So he would be calm. Methodical. Just a law enforcement officer with some questions about filing procedures and registrar protocols. Nothing threatening. Nothing that would make anyone nervous.

The GPS announced his exit in half a mile.

Angus took the turnoff and followed county roads into Thornfield proper—if you could call it that. The town was barely more than a main street with a few businesses clustered around a single traffic light that seemed optional. Population maybe two thousand on a good day. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone and strangers got noticed.

The county clerk’s office sat in a squat brick building that also housed the tax assessor and planning department. Budget cuts made visible through consolidation. A single parking lot, half empty, sat next to the structure. It was clearly one of those municipal buildings that existed because the state required it, not because anyone expected it to be busy.

Angus parked at the far end of the lot and sat for a moment, engine ticking as it cooled. Through the windshield he could see the entrance—double doors, worn steps, a directory board that needed updating. Nothing sinister. Nothing ominous. Just a small-town office on a Wednesday morning in January.

He’d done this a thousand times—walked into unfamiliar buildings, asked uncomfortable questions, gathered information people didn’t necessarily want to share. The only difference was that this time, he wasn’t wearing a badge. This time, he didn’t have jurisdiction or authority or any official reason to be asking.

This time, it was personal.

Angus got out of the truck and walked across the parking lot. The cold bit through his jacket, wind coming off the fields with nothing to slow it down. His boots crunched on ice. His breath fogged in the air. Everything about this place felt marginal, forgotten, the kind of county that survived on state funding and hoped nobody looked too closely at how it was spent.

The lobby was warmer but not by much. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Linoleum floors showed decades of wear. A reception desk sat unmanned, a handwritten sign directing visitors to various departments via arrows and room numbers. The whole place smelled like old paper and radiator heat and bureaucracy.

Angus followed the arrow to County Clerk — Room 104.

The office was small, cramped with filing cabinets and computer equipment that belonged in a museum. A woman in her fifties sat behind the counter, reading glasses perched on her nose, attention focused on some document that apparently required intense concentration. She looked up when Angus entered, her professional smile automatic.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” Angus kept his voice easy, unthreatening. “I’m Sheriff Reid from Weyport County. I’m off duty right now, but I had some questions about death certificate procedures.”

The woman’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her posture. Not alarm. Not quite wariness. Just…attention.

“What kind of questions?”

“General ones, mostly. I’m trying to understand how the filing process works. Specifically, who witnesses and processes death certificates in Thornfield County.”

“That would be our registrar.” The woman set her document aside, giving Angus her full attention. “Is this about a specific case?”

“Not officially. I’m just trying to verify some information on an old file.” Angus pulled out a photocopy of Logan’s death certificate—the one without his name visible, just the formatting and signatures. “I’m curious about the witness line here. The signature and initials. How does your office typically handle that?”

The woman took the paper, studied it through her reading glasses. Her lips pressed together slightly. “This is from…when?”

“Several years ago. I’m not sure of the exact date.” Angus watched her face, looking for any sign of recognition, concern, or discomfort. “I’m trying to understand if that’s standard procedure—just initials and a title, no full name.”

“It shouldn’t be.” The woman handed the paper back. “Our current protocol requires full name, title, and seal number. But protocols change. This could be from before the update.”

“Do you keep records of who was working as registrar in previous years?”

Another shift in posture. Subtle but there. “We do, but those records are in archives. It would take some time to pull them.”

“I understand. I’m not in a rush.” Angus kept his tone mild, just making conversation. “How many registrars has Thornfield County had over, say, the past decade?”

The woman’s pause lasted a beat too long. “I’d have to check. Employee records aren’t something I have access to from this desk.”

That was interesting. A county clerk who didn’t have access to information about county employees. Angus let it pass without comment.

“Fair enough. What about filing logs? Do you maintain records of when death certificates are processed and by whom?”

“Yes, but again, that information is archived after a certain period. Anything older than three years gets transferred.”

“Transferred where?”

“State records. It’s all digitized now, but the physical files go to the state archive facility.”