Free Sand City Murders by MK Alexander

didn’t care to fathom a guess.
    “I’d try the County Records building. Might be there.”
    They weren’t. Someone from county records told us to try the Courthouse. They in turn directed us to the Court Annex, the basement records room. It was a fairly long walk. That’s when I first noticed Inspector Fynn’s peculiar gait. It was almost as if he wanted to be doubly sure where his foot might land before he stepped. I also began to appreciate his persistence and unflappable patience.
    We met with Wilma Peterson, a clerk too long at her job. She wore her hair tied back in a bun, mostly all of it, except for a few strands that refused to comply and fell across her face. And she was a bit overweight, unnecessarily packed into an officer’s uniform. Ms Peterson stared at us dubiously through the rim of her glasses which rested precariously on her nose, though they were firmly attached to her neck with a rhinestone chain. I slipped our note through the oneway feeder. Her demeanor changed a little after she read the paperwork Durbin had prepared.
    “Well, that’s going back a few years,” she commented. The heavy security door buzzed loudly. “C’mon through,” she said graciously enough. “Only one real rule here: nothing leaves the library. You can copy anything you’d like, any way you like— pen and paper, photographs, whatever. And there’s a copy machine I’ll let you use.” She glanced to the corner of the office and then led us down a narrow corridor. “Let’s see, missing persons, nineteen seventies. Hmm, those files could be anywhere, maybe in a box, or maybe on micro-fish.” She gave us a pained smile.
    I was pretty sure she meant microfiche.
    “The computer records don’t really start till the mid-eighties.” She paused to laugh. “Of course though, why else would you be down here?”
    Wilma led us into a dark, rather dank room filled with shelves, and on them stacks of boxes, all exactly the same.
    “There’s the viewer, if you need it… and if you find what you’re looking for, call me back and I can make a copy.”
    “Mademoiselle Peterson, you have been a great help already and I extend my deepest gratitude,” the chief inspector said rather grandly, but effectively it seemed. Wilma broke into a huge smile and pushed away her errant strands of hair without thinking.
    “We would need the files of missing persons both locally, in your parish, and perhaps throughout the entire state.”
    “Well, Inspector Fynn, that shouldn’t be a problem at all.” Wilma walked over to a set of shelves then slowed, pausing to read the dates. “We don’t have national records of course— not sure anyone does from such a long time ago. But these are the county records. The records for the whole state are probably on micro-fish.”
    “Thank you again, we will begin our search here.” Chief Inspector Fynn glanced at me as if to say help the poor woman with the box. I did just that, jumped on the stepladder and hauled down a heavy container.
    “What year was the car which Detective Durbin mentions?”
    “Nineteen seventy-four.”
    “We will begin there, I think. And we will begin with photographs. If we find a similarity, we can check for fingerprints.”
    “Fingerprints?”
    The inspector looked at me and smiled. “A very strange state of affairs, Mr Jardel.”
    “Why exactly are we looking at these old files?” I asked.
    “The geological clue I spoke of.”
    “No offense, but that’s utter bull crap.”
    Fynn looked at me but didn’t seem at all upset. “I think there maybe a family connection. Like you mentioned, a generational killer.”
    “Oh.” I had little else to say but that seemed more plausible somehow.
    After about an hour of searching he came upon two files: Clara Hobbs and Debra Helling, both twenty-two years of age, both from Sand City, both disappeared in 1975 and 1976 respectively. Never found. I looked at the cold case photos and compared them to Durbin’s