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I turn the note around so everyone can see it, then turn it over to Garrison.
“‘I know who you really are?’ What does that mean?” heasks.
“I don’t know,” Mike insists. “Like I said, I’ve never seenthat.”
“But it was in your receipt book. The one in your drawer and the one you just described using to keep your records about camp,” Garrison says.
“I don’t know what itis.”
Opening the newspaper clipping reveals it is from a very old issue, dating back eighteen years. The whole article isn’t there. It’s been torn from the rest of the paper and I can only see the first words of the first few lines. But the headline is intact.
“Cornelia Home for Unwed Mothers Offers Hope to Victims of TrainAccident”
I look up at Mike after I read out the headline. His jaw is tight and stiff, and his shoulders are tense. His eyes are unmoving from where they focus on a spot on the desk. But I can see the slight tremble of his hands. There’s something about this piece of newspaper that deeply disturbshim.
“Mike, what is this?” I ask.
“I don’tknow.”
“Did someone send this to you? Do you know who itis?”
“I said I don’t know,” Mike repeats.
Despite his appearance, he sounds calm. Like he’s aggravated to be standing there.But it does nothing to alleviate the tension in theroom.
“How could it have ended up in your desk if you don’t know what it is?” Garrison asksskeptically.
“You said it yourself. I don’t know who might have come in here after the last time I left. Anybody could have put that there. That’s not my handwriting. And I don’t know any unwed mothers,” he says.
Garrison stares at him for a few intense seconds.
“Alright,” he finally says. “Then I guess we’re done here. But I’m taking this with me. If you can think of anything about it, call. And don’t try to come back here until the place has beencleared.”
“Yes, sir,” Mikesays.
We walk out of the building and he immediately storms away toward the roading leadingout.
“Go after him,” Garrison says to the uniformed officer. “Give him a ride to wherever he left his vehicle.” The officer heads for his car, but the detective stops him. “And Mason? Let him ride in the front seat. We don’t need to drag any more shit into this whole situation until we know it’s there to bedragged.”
Mason gives a sarcastic salute and gets behind the wheel, peeling out of the parking lot and shooting out afterMike.
“You have a charming team in your department,” I tell him.
“They’re not that bad. You just happen to have met some of the examples that aren’t sogreat.”
He suddenly looks distracted and I notice him check the time, twist his watch around, then check the time again. It’s a nervous twitch, something he likely doesn’t even recognize he’sdoing.
“Are you alright?” Sam asks.
The detective looks up sharply like hearing Sam’s voice has broken him out of something.
“Hmmm? Oh. Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Just didn’t get a lot of sleep. This case is a lot,” he says, giving a forced chuckle. When we don’t join him, he nods toward the note and news clipping still in my hand. “What do you make ofthat?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, looking over it again. “The handwriting is obviously faked. Someone was clearly trying to disguise their handwriting so he didn’t recognize it. That means it’s someone familiar enough to him that he would know who they were based on their handwriting. Now, it’s possible it’s a prank. We already heard from the surviving counselors that they’d been pulling practical jokes all through camp. Anthony was telling that story about the 1964 massacre and Grant jumped out in the skull mask, remember? And there had been deflated kickball balls, missing canoe paddles, just campstuff.”
“I’ve never heard of a camp prank involving an obscure note and an old newspaper clipping,” Sam points out.
“It does seem to be leaning more sophisticated than most camp pranks,” Xavier offers. “Maybe it’s long-form storytelling and they just haven’t gotten to the big revealyet.”
