When Sheriff Rome approached the door to the sheriff’s station, he checked behind himself and overhead to ensure no low-flying birds followed him inside. Seeing clear skies, he proceeded through the doorway.
Deputy Loggins, a short man about the same age as his boss, stretched and yawned from behind his desk. “Good morning, Sheriff.”
“Did I wake you?”
The deputy laughed. “It’s just been a quiet night. Nothing to report.”
“Glad to hear. Go on home.”
“Thanks Sheriff.” He jumped from his chair and headed for the door. “Oh, there’s fresh coffee brewing.”
Once the deputy had left, Sheriff Rome settled into his office. He stared at the phone for a minute before picking it up and calling his son.
Emory was alone, packing his suitcase, when his cell phone rang. He saw the name pop up on the screen and answered, “Hi Dad.”
“Emory, how are you?”
“Uh, good. Just finishing up a case.”
“What kind of case?”
Emory closed the suitcase. “Murder.”
“Did you find the killer?”
The PI smiled. “We did.”
“Good job!” The sheriff paused for a few seconds, perhaps waiting for Emory to respond. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you, Dad.” Emory sat on the bed. “I really appreciate that.”
“I mean… Even if you hadn’t found him.” Sheriff Rome fell silent again. “You understand?”
Emory pinched his lips. “I understand.”
“Well, that’s all I called to say. I’ll let you go now.”
“Bye, Dad.”
Wayne Buckwald arrived at the evidence crypt ten minutes before seven in the morning. He had placed a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich at his desk beforehand so his boss would see he was already there when she passed by on the way to her office.
The crypt, on the lower level of the TBI’s Knoxville Consolidated Facility, was a large warehouse of evidence collected over the years. Wayne didn’t know how old evidence had to be before it was destroyed or even if it ever were, but he hoped evidence from eight years ago would still be there.
Although there was an emergency exit at the back of the room, the only way into the crypt was through a single metal door guarded by the cage – a small room behind thick, bullet-proof glass. A thin older man with black hair appeared behind the glass and sat down with a mug of coffee in his hand.
Wayne tapped on the glass. “Excuse me. Could you help me?”
The man pointed at the clock. “Ten minutes.”
“I know, but I’m in a hurry.”
“Ten minutes.”
“Really? Thanks crypt keeper.” Wayne crossed his arms. “While we wait, answer me something. What’s the expiration date on evidence?”
“Expiration date? There’s no expiration date.”
“You never toss anything?”
“Not in the eighteen years I’ve been here.”
“Good to know. Listen, since you’re already basically working, could you just let me in?”
The crypt keeper looked at the clock. “Nine minutes.”
Wayne sighed and began to pace. He asked again at the five- and two-minute marks but continued to be denied.
At 7 a.m. sharp, the crypt keeper walked over to the computer by the window and typed. “Thank you for your patience.”
“Like I had a choice.”
The man picked up a handheld scanner and aimed it at Wayne’s badge until it beeped. He returned his attention to the computer. “Catalog number, and how long do you expect to have the items?”
Wayne read him the number he had jotted down in his notebook. “I’m not going to check the evidence out. I just need to see if something’s in there.”
“Everything’s listed online in the evidence log—”
“The description was too general. I need to physically see it.”
“Okay.” The crypt keeper gave him the shelf number and directions, and he buzzed him through the door.
Once inside the warehouse, Wayne wandered past shelf after shelf cluttered with boxes. “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” he muttered. He made his way to the appropriate shelf and found twenty-three boxes with the catalog number he sought. “That’s a lot of boxes to go through.” He debated whether to even try. After a few seconds he reached for the nearest one. “Maybe I’ll get lucky.”
“It’s light.” He tipped open the lid. “It’s empty.” He tried the box beside it and found it empty too. He continued until he confirmed every box with the catalog number from the eight-year-old case was indeed empty. “What’s going on here?”
He pulled out his cell phone and called Sheriff Rome.
From his office, the sheriff answered. “Hello?”
“Sheriff, this is Wayne Buckwald.”
“Hi there. Good to hear from you.”
“Listen, I’ve been looking into the case, and I found a photo listed in the evidence log.”
“Is it the picture from the postcard?”
“That’s just it. There wasn’t a detailed description in the log, so I came down to the evidence room to see it, but all the evidence boxes—”
Wayne was interrupted by a violent strike to the back of the head.