Page 45
“You did your fucking homework,” I whisper, my eyes tracing a line of string that leads directly to a photo of the old tube launch.
He reaches for the desk, then there’s the scrape of cardboard backing dragging across the wood. He extends a legal pad toward me, a capped pen already tucked into the wire spiral. It’s a silent offering—a blank slate for the shit storm he knows is currently screaming for an exit from the Compliance Department.
He knows because we’re the same in this way, I think.
This is the first time I’ve looked at another person and seen my own internal wiring reflected back.
I shake the thought loose and mentally dissect each quadrant of the board. I have no idea how much time passes before my focus narrows, landing back on the dispatch log and the thin stack of papers paper-clipped to its corner.
“Where did you get this?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. I reach out and riffle the corners of the papers, letting the edges snap past my thumb just to gauge the volume. I’ve spent the better part of my adult life digging through the digital archives of the Stillwater PD, and I know for a fact this file doesn’t exist there.
“The current Lieutenant has a very expensive taste in vintage motorcycles,” Baryn steps up beside me. “And I have a very flexible, uhm, research budget. He let me into the basement of the station for three hours with a high-speed scanner. No questions asked. I wanted to be certain there wasn't a single scrap in the physical boxes that had been accidentally left out of the digital files. Turns out it was a good hunch.”
I pull the page closer.
It’s a 9-1-1 transcript.
Date: August 14, 2009. Time: 11:42 PM.
For several seconds, I only stare at the date.
Then I start reading.
DISPATCH: 9-1-1. What is the address of your emergency?
CALLER: I don’t know. I’m—shit.
DISPATCH: That’s okay. Can you tell me your name?
CALLER: Casey.
My eyes remain fixed on the page while some distant, rational part of me points out that Casey is not an uncommon name. That this could be anyone. That correlation without corroborating evidence is how people convince themselves they’ve found answers where none exist.
Then I read the next line.
DISPATCH: Okay, Casey. Can you tell me your last name?
CALLER: Whitmore.
My fingers tighten around the paper.
“Holy shit.”
Baryn shifts beside me. “Yeah.”
His hand moves to my shoulder. It’s an innocent, comforting gesture that I actually find, well, comforting.
I keep reading.
DISPATCH: Casey, are you hurt?
CALLER: No. I don’t think so. I just need someone to come get me.
DISPATCH: Are you in immediate danger?
CALLER: I don’t know.
A notation follows in brackets.
