Page 112 of Silent Bones
"Clear right!" McKenzie responded, moving toward a hallway that led deeper into the structure.
Noah advanced straight ahead, his flashlight beam cutting through the dim interior. The cabin was laid out simply, main living area, kitchen, what appeared to be two small bedrooms and a bathroom. Big enough for a family vacation, isolated enough for something much darker.
Noah holstered his weapon slowly, the immediate tactical threat apparently over. But as his eyes adjusted to the low light filtering through dirty windows, he began to see what Dale had left behind, and the reality was far worse than finding him armed and waiting.
Every wall in the main room had been turned into a shrine of obsession.
Photographs covered nearly every vertical surface. School pictures, candid shots, images that looked like they'd been taken with a telephoto lens from a great distance. Others were blown-up images from social media websites. All six teenagers. Their faces stared out from dozens of different angles, but someonehad gone over each image with a red marker, scratching out their eyes, drawing X marks across their features.
"Geesh," McKenzie breathed, emerging from the back of the cabin to see what Noah was staring at.
But the photographs were just the beginning. Newspaper clippings had been pinned between the pictures, coverage of the Wallface landslide from a year ago, articles about the investigation, obituaries for the family who'd died. Each clipping was annotated in Dale's careful handwriting, corrections and clarifications written in the margins.
"LIES" was scrawled across one headline that called the landslide a natural disaster.
"THEY KNOW THE TRUTH" was written beside a quote from a DEC spokesperson saying the incident was being investigated.
"NO ONE CARES" was inscribed over a follow-up article that mentioned the case had been closed.
Callie had found a light switch and managed to get a few overhead bulbs working, casting harsh shadows across Dale's work. In the improved visibility, the full scope of his obsession became clear. A corkboard had been set up like something from a police investigation, with red string connecting different elements of the story. Photos of the teenagers were linked to maps of the area. Frequent hangout spots. Homes. Schools. Newspaper clippings were tied to what appeared to be official documents, forms and reports that Dale must have copied before his forced retirement.
"Look at this," Callie said, pointing to a section of wall near the fireplace.
A handwritten manifesto had been tacked to the logs, several pages of dense text in Dale's neat script. Noah began reading, his stomach sinking with each line:
"They think they can forget. They think money and influence can bury the truth. But I was there. I saw what they did. I tried to tell the truth and they destroyed my life for it. Took my job, my pension, my family. Made me the villain for trying to seek justice for the innocent."
The writing continued for pages, detailing Dale's version of the cover-up, his growing anger at the system that had failed, his decision to take matters into his own hands. The final paragraph was underlined in red ink: "If the law won't hold them accountable, I will. They will confess to what they did. Each of them will pay the price that should have been paid a year ago. And when it's over, everyone will know the truth."
McKenzie was examining another section of the wall where Dale had created a timeline of events. The landslide. The failed investigation. His forced retirement. The deaths of the teenagers, marked with red X marks and dates. At the end of the timeline, a single entry: "Final Justice - Location TBD."
"He's not done," McKenzie said. "This was never about just killing them. This was about making his case. Forcing a trial that never happened."
Noah nodded grimly. "And Avery's the last one. The final piece of evidence."
That's when they heard it, a soft electronic hiss coming from the corner of the room. He turned and saw an old television set, the screen filled with static, white noise filling the air.
"That wasn’t on when we came in," Callie said.
McKenzie approached the TV cautiously, looking for a remote control or manual switches. He found a small device on top of the set. Not a traditional remote, but something that looked more like a garage door opener.
"Motion activated, maybe?" he said, examining the device. "He rigged it to turn on when someone entered the room."
Noah pressed a single button on the remote. The static disappeared instantly, replaced by a clear color image.
The video openedon Stephen Strudwell's face, but it took Noah a moment to recognize him. His face was swollen and streaked with tears. He was tied to a wooden chair with rope around his chest and arms, his hands bound behind his back.
“Please. Please just let me go.”
"State your name," came Dale's voice from behind the camera, calm and professional, like he was conducting an official interview.
"S-Stephen Strudwell," the young man stammered, his voice thick with fear and what sounded like a split lip.
"And you were present at Wallface cliff on the night of August 19, last year?"
Stephen's eyes darted toward something off-camera, then back to the lens. "Yes."
"Tell me what happened that night. All of it. Start from the beginning."
