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Which shouldn’t have necessarily been a problem. Like Garrison said, if there was something he needed out of his office, he could have just gotten in touch with the detective and asked to be brought in so he could get it. At the very worst, Garrison might have said he couldn’t go in himself, but he could have given him a list of what he needed and why, and it could have been properly documented. Going through that process can be a bit of a hassle, but it seems to me someone would rather do that than trespass through a police line to go on to a crime scene. I would think most people’s first thought would be to call the investigators and explain thesituation.
Unless what they wanted was something they didn’t want anyone else to know about.
I have a feeling that’s what’s happening with Mike. He seems uneasy and nervous at the prospect of going inside with us. He had been so adamant about getting into his office to get whatever it is he wants that he was willing to attempt to sneak past the police. But now all of a sudden it doesn’t matter and he doesn’t even feel like going. That sayssomething.
And as unsure as I am about how much I can trust Lisa’s insistence that Mike is who she saw on the porch of the art cabin, and who she ran past, I can’t outright discount it, either. I wasn’t there, which is why I have to rely on the information I can get from everybody who was. I need to keep in mind what she told me as I deal with Mike.
Mike knows he’s in a situation he can’t get out of. He doesn’t have a choice. He’s the one who decided to come onto the grounds insisting there’s something he needs from his office. If he refuses to come in with us now, he knows how suspicious it will look. A man who just spent the better part of an hour in handcuffs baking in the summer heat in a police car knows better than to make himself look suspicious.
“Alright,” he finally relents.
“Great.” I look at Garrison. “Detective, lead theway.”
Mike reluctantly climbs out of the car and takes another sip of the water before tossing the bottle into a metal trash can at the edge of the parking lot. We all head for the administrative building and I let Detective Garrison and Mike go ahead of me. I want to be able to watch both of them.
The fans have been turned off since that night, so the inside of the building is stuffy and hot. Garrison turns on a light and we look around. There are signs that the forensic team came through the front room. Black powder where they’d dusted the doorway and the desk for fingerprints despite knowing there was very little chance they’d be able to find anything useful because of the constant traffic through the building. A couple of small markers were placed to indicate something of interest, but I can’t tell what they might have been.
Garrison mentioned they didn’t do an extensive sweep, so it’s likely there were just clear fingerprints, possible hairs or fibers, or staining that was probably coffee, but they would want to test for blood just for good measure.
We move through the front room and into the smaller back office. It’s strange to think of Mike sitting behind the large desk, filling out forms and typing up invoices and orders, making phone calls, dealing with unruly campers. Even with the brand-new Macintosh sitting proudly in the middle of the desk, an impressive investment for a shortened-run summer camp, and bright new decorations, this space feels like it’s still in 1964. It’s the domain of an older man, someone who looks less like he should be out on the kickball field refereeing a game alongside the other counselors.
“Everything looks in order in here,” Garrison states. “I don’t see any signs of a disruption or a struggle. That’s a good thing. So, are you sure that it was just your glasses that you needed? There’s nothing else you wanted to grab while you’re in here?”
Mike’s eyes involuntarily flicker toward the desk.
“No. I’mfine.”
“Well, it’d make me feel better if we did a quick search through just to be sure we’re not missing anything,” Garrison says. He glances over at me and I offer a tiny bob of my head to show I’m on the same page he is.
Garrison walks around the office looking at all the surfaces, seeming at first to just be giving a cursory check. Mike visibly stiffens when he approaches the desk and opens the top drawer.
“Just office supplies,” Mike says.
Garrison uses his fingers to sift through the assortment of paperclips, packages of staples, pens, and bottles of type correction fluid. He closes it and goes for the lower drawer. Manila file folders hang suspended from a frame inside.
“The camper records?” Garrison asks. “All from thissession?”
“Yes,” Mike nods. “That’s what I do in this office. I make sure camp is running smoothly and that all the campers are getting the experience they want. I have to know about their allergies, their chronic illnesses, who they should write home to. Everything is in thosefiles.”
Garrison looks up at him with a hint of a smile tugging up the corner of his mouth. “You’re director for a one-weeksession.”
Red rises on Mike’s cheekbones, but he doesn’t say anything. Garrison moves to the next drawer and moves around some receipt books. He’s about to close it when I notice something sticking out of one of the books.
“Wait,” I say. “What’sthat?”
He opens the drawer the rest of the way and I pull out the book.
“It’s just a receipt I made a mistake on,” Mike rushes to explain. “I wanted to keep it to put in the financial records, but voided, so that there wasn’t any question if they saw the duplicate on the carbonpaper.”
Letting the book fall open in my hand, I see it’s not a receipt. It’s a folded piece of paper with a newspaper clipping folded inside.
“This doesn’t look like a receipt,” I note. “What isit?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen that,” hesays.
I set the book down and unfold the paper. Holding the newspaper clipping in one hand, I smooth the note with the other so I can read it. The handwriting is sharp and pointed, clearly fabricated to conceal the identity of the writer, but the message is straightforward.
“I know who you really are,”I readaloud.
