Page 8 of Two Marlboros

“He left for Europe two weeks ago,” Mr. Cossner replied, “and we have no idea when he will return.”

“Did he go on a long trip with a broken phone?”

Actually, the question was a different one: why had Michael decided to leave for Europe despite being on sick leave? It was already strange that he had gone out on some errand, but the excuse of traveling was not credible. Neither spouse, however, seemed to notice the contradiction.

The wife opened her lips to add something, but hesitated a moment before finding the words.

“That’s just the way he is. He likes to isolate himself during his travels, so it didn’t surprise us that he left without a phone.”

I indulged them again and nodded. “I’d like to take a look at his room, if you don’t mind.”

The wife stood up and pointed me in the direction. “Sure. This way.”

The couple exchanged another complicit glance.

Michael’s room was that of a slightly overgrown teenager: there was a warning sign outside the door (“Do Not Enter This Room!”) and, as I entered, the first thing that jumped out at me was the number of posters above the bed. Every closet door was plastered with photos of concerts, friends, girlfriends, and memorabilia from who knows what adventures.

The chaotic way in which he had hung those mementos suggested to me that he was a messy person, but in the end I did not catch a glimpse of any clothes scattered all over, and on the desk everything was in its place: pens and pencils in the pen holder, notebooks and ring folders neatly stacked on top of each other, and next to it a reading light that left no trace of dust on my finger. The room was cleaned on a regular basis, and it did not seem strange to me, despite the ban hanging on thedoor. Michael was a young adult and had now lost that patina of secrecy typical of any teenager.

I better examined the stack of notebooks on his desk. The first ones contained simple university notes - I remembered that he was studying economics - while the ones just below were more personal. I picked up the ring-bound one and opened it: on the first page was a girl’s name, surrounded by a heart pierced by Cupid’s arrow; on the next few pages I found some dedications from his friends, talking about a trip to the lake and a series of daredevil dives. There were song lyrics and guitar chords, photos of actors and singers; nothing out of the ordinary.

I also went through the second notebook, the third, and the fourth, but found nothing suspicious. Michael was just an ordinary guy, who had gone on a trip to Europe; a perfect picture, were it not for the two-week sick certificate.

I shifted my gaze to the bookshelf, also filled with notebooks with torn ribs. I picked up one that stuck out more than the others and glanced at its pages. I found the usual things, including a ticket to a Madonna concert, while, in the second half, I stumbled upon a page beset with drawings of some kind of horned animal. Along with it was a photo of a stylized version of that animal, which looked as if it were etched on the body of an off-road vehicle. One corner of the page was torn off.

“Does your son follow any sports teams? Football, baseball...?”

It occurred to me that maybe that kind of bull could be the symbol of some team. I was not a fan, although I had a good basic smattering, but that design didn’t ring a bell.

I looked up at Ms. Cossner to stimulate a response from her, but she stood with her hands joined and her gaze tense as if waiting for a response from me.

“Not that I know of. Sports don’t interest him much.”

I continued scrolling through the pages, many of them blank, others filled with thick handwriting.

A question darted through my head. “Does your son have a computer?”

I thought it might benefit the investigation, but I felt I already knew the answer.

“No, he generally uses the one on campus.”

I got to the bottom of the notebook and stopped. There was a note badly folded in two, from which read only one thing: “Michael.”

“Officer Scottfield.”

I startled; I had not realized that Mrs. Cossner had come so close to me. I hadn’t even heard her walk.

“Yes.”

Her eyes were shiny; she was on the verge of tears. Meanwhile, Mr. Cossner had also came in. He stood again with his arms folded, legs firmly planted on the ground, which confirmed my assumption about his military background.

I opened the note and began to read when someone snatched the notebook from my hands. I looked up and found Mr. Cossner’s eyes in front of me, framed by a pair of frowning eyebrows.

“But are you authorized to go through our son’s things like that? Who do you think you are?”

“I am authorized,” I replied dryly. “The robbery also involved your son, although indirectly, and this is standard procedure. I have a duty to question all the people involved.”

The man pounded a fist on the desk. “Michael wasn’t there! He’s on vacation!”

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