They’d interviewed the sheriff first. He said he’d listened to the old man's story, and his body cam played the footage back for them. On the screen was the long lanky neighbor and his disembodied voice floated to them from speakers hidden behind large stacks of mostly ignored files.
The Manor House
Here I sit, alone with you; in the attic. My uncle’s belongings scattered about, collected through time and waylaid in a bid to preserve memories. Sat within a hold to decaying realities and claims on fading photographs of days long, long gone. I will find it, I just have to keep looking.
Always a Good Time to Dig
The room was dim, and the dust motes danced through the lone beam of light filtering through the window, filling itself with the blue smokey haze that emanated from around the old man’s head. The chair he sat in, was beaten and worn from the many hours, many years which it had spent supporting and cradling his frame.
A Cold Day In Hell
Nelson sat in the lunchroom recounting his former days in the office; “Ok; so it went down like this. The interrogation room was cramped and less than inviting, as they tend to be. I was working murders, Lorell was on cold cases, and this woman who just walks in with her boyfriend was across the table from us. The three of us were huddled together having a conversation regarding some property of a questionable nature, and she was the one doing the talking.”