Second Sun

In any case, get more detail on this "living off the grid" thing. According to who?

You unleash a barrage of questions on Mason. "What do you mean by living off the grid? According to who?"

"According to my best guess based on the information available. Records stopped in 1983, listed as MIA... but here he is, with a wife and kids, a whole life, looks like. To me, that says he wasn't missing in action... maybe a deserter, maybe something else. All I can tell is that he apparently stopped existing 14 years ago, and stayed off of anybody's radar until tonight."

>Check for signs of a struggle. Any bruising on the arms or wrists?
>Ask if any traces of communication between the suspect and the victims has been found.
>Signs of forced entry?
>Has the murder weapon been located?
>Motive?

Some understanding of the couple's relationship would be good. How much did she know of her husband's past?

>Ask for any previous criminal records of Rodney Keating. Perhaps we can identify a pattern.

"Any signs of forced entry? A struggle? Bruises on the wrists or ankles?"

"No, none of that."

"Motive?"

"We're working on it, but Keating doesn't seem to have left much of himself here. There's nothing particular that indicates his wife knew of his activities - no Navy documents lying around, anything like that. It's difficult to reconstruct the man with so much redacted from his records, though. He's got no criminal record, nothing like that we can pull. Aside from his time in the Navy, he's a ghost. Can we find out anything more definitive about him?"

"I'll be working with my director, but CFNIS is a civilian agency," you say. "I have top-secret clearance, like you, but information about Distant Shores is on a need-to-know basis. Pretty compartmentalized. We can only work with what the Navy tells us."

Mason purses his lips, disappointed.

>Check for any surveillance device that might have captured the suspect or the act.

"Any chance of any surveillance getting any of this?"

"Not in this neighbourhood, that's for sure."

You sigh. "Okay, let's just focus on what we know."

Mason spits his licorice gum into its wrapper and flicks it into the wastebasket. "Alright. The actor woke his victims, gathered them together in the family room before attacking them."

>What is the weapon murder?

"With what?" you ask.

"An ax," says Mason.

You imagine the woman and boy kneeling - the wet thwack, pulling the ax free and swinging again. The demolition of the family as simple as splitting wood.

"Do we have the ax?" you ask.

"No, but we're looking."

are there any other suspects or persons of interest, at all? what about persons NOT of interest, like what if this is just the first strike of some unrelated serial killer?

"Any reason to doubt Rodney Keating did this?" you ask.

"None," says Mason. "But he might have had someone with him. The neighbour that called 911 mentioned a guy who drives a red pickup truck, a friend of Keating's. We're focusing on the truck, trying to find this individual. The neighbour described him as a nuisance, blocking her driveway all the time. The truck's covered in bumper stickers."

>Triple homicide. Seen bodies 1&2, check upstairs for body #3.

"Okay. Can we take a look upstairs?"

Mason gets up, slowly. "Follow me."

You follow him out of the den. He ducks a line of police tape, leads you upstairs, a climb you made countless times trailing Nancy, whose room was the first on the right. The metal railing seems to spin against your palm, a familiar feeling. You're self-conscious climbing stairs now though, the movement of your prostethis sort of stop-motion, motorized. Mason pauses at the top, watching you climb - like he's spotting you, almost ready to try and catch you if you were to fall. You've gotten tired of these moments of awkwardness, when people first realize they're working with an amputee, trying to figure out how they should treat you.

"What happened up here?" you ask.

"His seven-year-old daughter, Jennifer, escaped the initial attack," says Mason. "Ran in here."

Nancy's room. Mason puts his hand on the doorknob. "I have two daughters," he says. "Two beautiful girls..."

He opens the door, lets you through - returning to this room feels like curling back into a cocoon. You remember coating these walls in bubblegum pink in sixth grade, slopping the roller from the tray, Nancy yelping whenever paint from the ceiling fell into her black curls. You remember puffing cigarette smoke through the screen window in the summer, AC/DC on the turntable, Powerage until the record was scratched and couldn't get through the first few seconds. The room is lavender now, with a white dresser and bunk bed - the Keating girls must have shared this room. Van Halen and Zeppelin are replaced by DiCaprio, but the room feels the same. Jennifer Keating's body is in the corner, near where Nancy's bed had been. Her nightshirt is shredded, her back gouged with a deep cut between her shoulder blades.

Poor girl. Poor girl...

"Are you alright?" asks Mason.

"Where are their nails?" you ask, your focus murky but noticing that the girl's fingernails and toenails have been removed like the others.

"We're not sure," he says. "You've gone pale. Do you need to sit down?"

"I'm alright-" You waver, and Mason steadies you. "Thank you," you say, though still unmoored. A heat of embarassment flashes through you. Pull it together, you think. "I'm... I don't know what's wrong," you say. "I'm sorry."

Mason takes you from the bedroom into the hall. "Listen," he says, shutting the bedroom door, "scenes like these are hard for anyone to take, let alone if you're not used to it. It's okay if you're a little weak in the knees."

"This is..." you start. "I'm having some trouble tonight, this is uncanny. I know this house."

"Go on."

"I grew up around here," you say. "I practically lived in this house when I was a kid. My best friend lived here. Her name was Nancy. Nancy Wright. This was her room. I spent a lot of time here. Her bed was right there."

"No shit," says Mason.

"I'm unnerved by this, but I'm okay," you say. "When Whicker called and said the crime scene was on Colyer Road..."

You steady yourself on the wall - touching the wall, you feel like you could tear the present away and see your friend again, be with her like no time has passed, as if you could step back into the old bedroom. Slap bracelets, jelly shoes, colored braces.

"We used to hang out in the woods behind these houses," you say. "Shared cigarettes back there." You zone out for a moment, remembering sunbathing on lawn chairs, Nancy scoring pot and staying up late with you watching TV, going to school with bloodshot eyes the next morning, before you snap back. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have told you that."

"Let's get some fresh air," says Mason. "Can you make it down the stairs?"

"I'll be fine. Let's go." You follow Mason outside. The lawns of Colyer Road are sprinkled with frost, crystals dancing on the windshields of parked cars. An upstairs light in a neighbouring house has flipped on.

Mason has his walkie ready. "I'm thinking we should put out an Amber alert for the missing girl, if you're okay with that. You can probably head back and get some sleep while my team handles things here, unless there's something else? Either way, there'll be a progress meeting at 9 AM with everyone involved, and then we'll do the press conference."