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“Yeah. What’s going on?” he asks.
I tell him about my research at the library and Maude’s story. His eyes widen when he hears her declaration that the first Camp Hollow killer, the man I’ve been told by several people now is still roaming around and is the only person who knows where the body of Mary Ellen is, not only confessed to the crimes but died shortly after being incarcerated forthem.
“I need to get to Cherry Hill and look into it. Detective Garrison never mentioned that it was solved or that her body was found. I want to knowwhy.”
“You’re not going to leave before you eat though, are you?” hefrowns.
I open my mouth to usher him out of there, but I’m interrupted by a loud rumble in my stomach. Suddenly, the salad bar looks very invitingindeed.
“I guess I can take a fewminutes.”
The library is already closed when we get back into Cherry Hill, but I head directly for the police station. Garrison said he was going to be spending the afternoon making the death notification and performing more interviews, so I don’t know if he’s here or not. I’m hoping even if he isn’t, he has at least left the records for me.
The records aren’t waiting when I get to the homicide department, but when I ask, one of the other investigators knows what I’m talking about and brings me to Garrison’s office where the files are waiting on his desk. I thank him and take them to the conference room we’ve declared the War Room for the case. Large pads of paper have been set up on easels to the sides of the room and markers wait to make notes about the investigation as details come up. I go to one of them and pick up the marker.
“Reginald Merriweather,” Sam reads as I write the name across the top of thepaper.
“It’s the name Maude gave me. I want to read through all of these files and see if that name is mentionedanywhere.”
We sit down at the table and I hand Sam part of the stack while I take the others. Xavier walks out of the room, but I don’t worry about following him. He has no reason to go outside and his movement throughout the building is fairly limited. Worst case scenario he’ll forget what floor he’s on and just go up and down the steps for a while.
We comb through all the files and notes from the original case for what feels like hours and hours, but when I glance up at the clock, barely twenty minutes have passed. I’m no stranger to working long, difficult investigations, but something as major as the confession and arrest of the murderer should really be easier to find thanthis.
“I don’t see it anywhere,” Sam grumbles.
“I haven’t either. Wait—here. It’s right here. Reginald Merriweather, interviewed two days after the incident. Owns property to the back of the campground. Consented to home search and interview, cleared. That’sit.”
“Here‘s another mention of him,“ Sam says, reading through another file. “Police came in contact with Reginald Merriweather during a routine sweep of the campgrounds to deter vandals and other trespassers. He said he frequently took walks around his property and sometimes crossed over into the camp without realizing it. There are no clear property boundaries, so this was not considered suspicious. Released without further issue and told to avoid the area.”
He paws around for a bit and finds anotherpaper.
“Here’s another one. This time he was the one who contacted the police first. He was fishing in the lake, which he is permitted to do since part of it is on his property, and saw what he described as a woman alone in a canoe on the camp side of the lake. She didn’t seem to have any paddles or anything with her and was just floating around. He’d been warned to stay off camp property so he didn’t go over to check on her, but was concerned she might be stranded and needhelp.”
“Did the police go look?” Iask.
“They did,” he confirms. “But there was no sign of anyone in or around the lake, and no canoes were missing from the boathouse. All the boats were dry, so they hadn’t been used recently. They searched the camp anyway just to be thorough and didn’t seeanyone.”
We continue going through the files but don’t find any other mentions of the name. I pick up the marker again and jot notes about each of the encounters with the police under his name on the pad. As I’m finishing, Xavier comes back into the room. He’s carrying anotherfile.
“What’s that?” Iask.
“Reginald Merriweather’s record,” he says, setting it down on the table. “I thought it might bebeneficial.”
“You just asked for his records and they gave them to you?” Iask.
“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly. “I told them I was deputized by Sheriff Johnson ofSherwood.”
“You did do that,” I mutter to Sam.
“Years ago,” he saysback.
“You never de-deputized me,” Xavier points out. “I was also given status as a special consultant and undercover operative by theFBI.”
“You did that,” Sam says, swinging his head towardme.
“Yes, I did,” I admit without looking athim.
“Did they question it?” Samasks.
