seemed a bit light and that was a concern. Starting from scratch with a new investigation was one thing, but this one was supposedly ongoing and as she understood it, had been for several years.

With an involuntary frown tweaking her features, she withdrew a sheaf of papers, most of which appeared to be reports filed by other agents over the span of the case. Protruding slightly from the top edge of the thin stack of official documents was a laminated sheet. Constance thumbed through the papers and extracted the rigid page.

Sandwiched inside was an aged photocopy of a section of newspaper clipping. A hyper contrasted picture took up the majority of the page, but it was really nothing more than black and white shapes with very little detail. The most you could tell was that it looked like there might be one or two people, and maybe a house pictured-then again maybe not, the quality was literally that poor.

There was no caption, nor was there any story beneath the photo. Constance rummaged through the papers once again searching for any other laminated pages, but she found none. She then slowly flipped through them a third time, keeping her eyes open for un-laminated copies just in case. Still nothing.

“Here you go, hon,” the waitress’ voice hit her ears again.

Out of habit, Constance turned over the short stack of documents, placing them face down on the seat next to her.

“Thanks,” she said, forcing a smile as she looked up at the server.

The woman in pink shook her head. “You work too hard, young lady. You’re going to give yourself indigestion.”

“It comes with the job,” Constance replied.

“Well at least try to relax a little and enjoy your breakfast.”

“I will.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I think I’m good. Thanks.”

“Okay, hon. I’ll check back with you in a bit.”

Constance waited until the woman was back at the counter and busy filling a coffee mug for another patron who had just arrived. Only then did she slip the laminated sheet out from beneath the other papers and flip it face up.

She held the landscape copied page by the short edge and stared at it again. She checked the opposite side, but found nothing, so she flipped it back over and continued staring, purposely cocking an eyebrow and pursing her lips into a thoughtful frown. Other than the blown-out, useless picture, the only thing that remained on the page was a headline and the dateline of the story. At least those words were still legible, even though they were less than crisp around the edges; a fault of the copier technology of the day, from the looks of them.

The dateline below the photo read Hulis, MO – December 26, 1975.

The sensational, six-column, two-inch block headline overhead proclaimed, MERRIE AXEMAS.

CHAPTER 8

11:03 A.M. – December 22, 2010

Sheriff’s Department

Hulis Township – Northern Missouri

“Hrrmmph…”

The curious grunt that issued from the sheriff was accompanied by the popping creak of springs as he shifted in the wheeled desk chair he currently occupied. After staring silently at his visitor for an extended measure of heartbeats, he pursed his lips thoughtfully, then rocked back in a slow arc before finally allowing himself to slump the last few inches and fall heavily against the backrest.

FBI Special Agent Constance Mandalay stood on the opposite side of his desk, her credentials held forth, displayed in a well-practiced manner. The portly, uniformed man opposite her didn’t seem particularly interested in the badge and ID, but she wasn’t going to put them away just yet, even though she had identified herself verbally upon entering. She simply held his gaze, intent on establishing her authority as a federal officer.

Audibly matted against the tense quiet of the room, the chair popped and let out a dull twang as it settled under the sheriff’s now cantilevered weight. Constance wondered to herself if one of the springs had finally surrendered for all eternity. It wasn’t that the sheriff was morbidly obese or anything of that sort, but he definitely looked like he had done hard time at the dinner table. However, the real reason for the thought was that the piece of furniture looked like a broken relic from the post World War II 1940’s. Of course, when you got right down to outward appearances, so did the man sitting in it.

Sheriff Addison Carmichael let out a second harrumph, then raised an eyebrow and drew in a deep breath as he twiddled a pencil between his fingers. After a moment, he absently drummed it on the duct-taped arm of the heavy-framed chair while using his free hand to groom the gray-white thicket that lined his upper lip. Finally, forcing a long sigh out through his nose, he tossed the freshly sharpened #2 onto the stack of papers filling his blotter and then gave the petite FBI agent a shallow nod.

“Go on and put your badge away, honey,” he drawled. “I already know damn well what they look like.”

Constance quickly slid her index finger to the side and flipped the worn leather case shut, then slipped it into the inner pocket of her blazer.

“Sheriff Carmichael, I’m sure you know…” she started.

He interrupted. “Skip.”

“Excuse me?”

“Skip,” he repeated. “Everybody around here just calls me Skip. Always have. If you’re gonna work with me, you might as well too.”

“I see,” Constance replied with a nod. “Well, Skip, as I was…”

“Where’s Agent Drew?” Sheriff Carmichael asked, speaking over the top of her once again.

“Agent Drew was reassigned,” she answered after an annoyed pause. “In fact, he’s no longer with the bureau’s Saint Louis office.”

“Yeah, guess I’m not surprised. They send me a different Fed every year.”

“Actually, you were supposed to be meeting with Agent Johnson, but he came down with the flu.”

“Well, he would’ve been a new one too.” He shook his head. “So you pulled the short straw this time, eh?”

“I was assigned to this case if that’s what you mean. Is that a problem?”

“Dunno,” he grunted. “Is it?”

“It shouldn’t be.”

He huffed. “I actually kinda liked Drew. He had a sense of humor.”

“As I said, Agent Drew has been reassigned. Besides, my SAC thought a fresh set of eyes might be in order.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “They always do. That’s exactly what Drew said when he showed up the first time. And Agent Keene before him… I could go on. You make number five, ya’know that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So now, as usual, I’ve gotta waste my time bringing you up to speed.”

“Not necessarily. I’ve read the file.”

“And so did the four in front of you, sugar. Let me ask you this: Did you learn anything with all that reading?”

Constance bristled slightly at the condescending sobriquet but allowed it to slide for the time being. “I’ll admit, the file is a little sparse on hard information.”

“That’s because we don’t have any. Besides, readin’ and knowin’ are two different things, young lady.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a quick study. Like I said, it really shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Woulda, coulda, shoulda… You Feds are all a bunch of damn parrots with the same vocabulary, you know that?” he grunted, then gestured toward a wooden chair. “Well, since you’re here, go on then… Sit down.”

Constance sighed. It appeared this man still wasn’t taking her seriously, so she dug in. “I think I’ll stand,

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