Free The Bullet by Mary Louise Kelly

had expected the newspaper librarian to look more . . . well, more like a librarian. Sensible shoes, reading glasses hanging from a neck chain, maybe a prairie skirt. But Jessica Yeo might have just stepped out of a boho coffee shop in Berkeley. She was young and wore a floaty, flowered hippie dress utterly ill-suited to the autumn weather outside. This was accessorized by blue nail polish, nose and eyebrow piercings, and a wild cloud of frizzy, dark hair.
    From the way she eyed me, I guessed I didn’t fit her image of an academic, either. I was wearing a black, leather dress over leggings and stiletto boots. The black matched my mood, the boots lent me confidence, and again—if there was such a thing as an appropriate wardrobe for thisproject, I was damned if I could figure it out. We sized each other up and shook hands, then she led me across the lobby.
    She was not in fact a librarian but a research assistant for the news department. This meant helping reporters check facts, find sources, and track down phone numbers. She walked fast, her cowboy boots clacking over the tiled floor, explaining over her shoulder that she only had a few minutes. Things would get busy after the 9:30 a.m. editorial meeting. At the end of a hallway she waved her ID badge at a scanner, and a door clicked open. We stepped into an ugly, beige room stacked floor to ceiling with newspapers and mismatched filing cabinets.
    â€œThe archives room. Such as it is,” said Jessica. “So, what dates are we talking?”
    â€œFall of 1979. October or November, I think. The names to search for would be Boone Smith and his wife, Sadie Rawson.”
    â€œMmm. Smith is too common a name. There’ll be a zillion stories. But we might get somewhere with Boone and—what was the other name? Rawson?”
    â€œThat’s right. Sadie Rawson.”
    â€œAnd it’s just one article you’re trying to find?”
    â€œI don’t know, actually. I’m hoping there might be several. They might be spread out over a few weeks.”
    She sighed and turned toward a shelf stuffed with large, navy, clothbound books. Near the far end were two labeled 1979. The spines were held together by Scotch tape.
    â€œOur incredibly high-tech index,” she sniffed, yanking out a swivel chair with caster wheels and plopping down. “Theoretically, everybody mentioned in the newspaper should be in here. Theoretically, mind you.” She began flipping through yellowed pages. They looked as though they’d been produced on a typewriter; the letters had faded to reddish brown.
    Jessica was right. There were a zillion entries for Smith. But toward the bottom of the list, under Smith, Sadie Rawson and Boone , there was a date. Actually, four dates, along with notations of which pages andsections the articles had run in. The first had appeared on November 7, 1979.
    â€œBingo!” crowed Jessica. “All righty then, let’s see what we’ve got.”
    She began riffling through drawers, pulling out boxes of microfilm. Then she dug the scuffed cowboy boots into the carpet and rolled herself, still seated, across the room. She stopped in front of an enormous machine that must have represented cutting-edge technology around the time that story was written in 1979. Jessica kicked one boot absentmindedly against a metal cabinet as she threaded the film and began to fast-forward. Minutes passed. You could practically hear the machine groan with the effort of dredging up names that had lain forgotten for so long.
    At last the correct edition came into focus. The story bore a simple headline: “Buckhead Couple Shot, Killed.” She zoomed in, and we began to read.
    ATLANTA—A Delta Airlines pilot and his wife were shot and killed Tuesday afternoon in their Buckhead home, and authorities said they were searching for clues as to why the couple may have been attacked.
    Boone and Sadie Rawson Smith, both 26, were shot