Chapter 6 - Room 214
There were six people in Evelyn Shaw's office when we discussed Room 214.
Me.
Sarah.
Marcus.
Evelyn.
Agent Monroe.
And an assistant federal prosecutor named Daniel Reeves.
Reeves looked too young to be tired of his job.
Then he began asking questions, and I realized he was simply good at hiding it.
"Mr. Irwin," he said, "have you ever entered that room?"
"Only to clean."
"What was stored there?"
"Old files, boxed equipment, and furniture."
"Who had access?"
"Records staff, facilities management, and county security."
"Did you ever see anything unusual?"
I thought about it.
"One night, Deputy Price and Victor Hale came through the hallway with a wheeled case."
"When?"
"Monday, three nights before the shooting."
Reeves wrote that down.
"Anything else?"
"The room smelled different afterward."
"Different how?"
"Not like paper."
"Like what?"
I closed my eyes.
"Hot electronics."
Marcus looked at me.
"Computers?"
"Possibly."
Reeves exchanged a glance with Monroe.
"Mr. Irwin, we may seek a warrant."
I nodded.
"We'll need to establish the basis for it," he continued.
"And if there is evidence inside, we'll need to preserve it."
I looked at him.
"Then do it right."
For the first time, Reeves smiled.
"That's the plan."
By Friday morning, an independent investigative team had obtained judicial authorization to search the room and specified related records.
I stayed away.
That was the hardest part.
I'd spent a large part of my former life walking toward danger.
Now I sat in a hospital waiting room while strangers entered a building I'd cleaned for twelve years.
At 11:42 a.m., Marcus called.
"They found something."
"What?"
"Equipment."
"What kind?"
"Storage drives, networking hardware, and records the county didn't list in its inventory."
I stood.
"Anything about Tyler?"
"Too early."
"Arthur Benson?"
"Too early."
"Marcus."
He sighed.
"I know."
At 3:17 p.m., Evelyn received confirmation that investigators had seized several computers, storage devices, and paper files.
One storage device appeared to contain backups from the Mercer Street warehouse security system.
It wasn't proof of what had happened to Tyler.
Not yet.
But it was a place to begin.
That evening, Sarah and I sat beside Tyler's bed.
He'd been moved out of intensive postoperative monitoring.
His pain was better controlled, though moving either leg still made his whole body tense.
He was staring at photographs on his tablet.
Basketball pictures.
His teammates.
His first varsity game.
The night he'd scored thirty-one points.
"Want me to put those away?" I asked.
"No."
I sat beside him.
He scrolled to a picture of himself jumping for a rebound.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think somebody can be two different people?"
I looked at him.
"Sure."
"Like good at one thing and worthless at everything else?"
I leaned forward.
"Who told you that?"
"Nobody."
"Tyler."
He swallowed.
"I was the basketball kid."
I waited.
"Every teacher knew me."
He pointed at the screen.
"Coach said I might get a scholarship."
He laughed once.
A terrible little sound.
"Now what am I?"
I reached over and turned the tablet facedown.
"You're my son."
"That's not a career."
"No."
He stared at me.
"And it's not the only thing you are."
He looked away.
I knew a speech wouldn't fix him.
I also knew silence could make things worse.
"When I left the military," I said, "I didn't know who I was."
He glanced at me.
"You were a soldier."
"Exactly."
I folded my hands.
"Then one day I wasn't."
"Why'd you leave?"
I'd never told him much.
Not because I was ashamed.
Because I wanted him to know me as his father before he knew me as anything else.
"I got tired of losing people."
He studied my face.
"Did you ever kill anyone?"
I breathed slowly.
"Yes."
He went still.
"Did you like it?"
"No."
"Did you feel powerful?"
I shook my head.
"I felt responsible."
He looked down at his bandaged legs.
"Then why did the sheriff smile?"
I didn't have an answer.
I put my hand over his.
For several minutes, we sat quietly.
Then his tablet lit up.
A message from Caleb.
Coach is holding our spot on the team bench.
Tyler read it twice.
Then he began crying.
I held him.
The next morning, investigators made a discovery.
Room 214 had been used to store digital copies of county administrative records.
Among them was a folder labeled with Tyler's name.
Inside were photographs of my son leaving school, attending practice, and walking with Caleb.
Some were dated more than a month before the shooting.
There were also photographs of our house.
Sarah's car.
And me pushing a mop through the courthouse lobby.
But the final image was different.
It was a photograph of Arthur Benson.
He was seated in what looked like a windowless room.
His wrists were secured in front of him.
A newspaper lay across his lap.
The date was two days after he'd supposedly left town voluntarily.
May you like
And written across the bottom of the photograph were four words.
ASK THE JANITOR AGAIN.
