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Jenna’s fingers hovered over the vintage ham radio before settling on a worn dial. She turned it, her touch careful—after all she was handling an artifact from a bygone era.

“Does this thing have power?” she asked, her gaze fixed on the intricate array of vacuum tubes and wires.

“Yes,” Morgan replied. “It’s connected.”

Spotting what looked like a power switch, with a decisive click, she flipped it on.

The room was instantly filled with the nostalgic hiss of static, like whispers from ghosts of the past. The vacuum tubes flickered to life, casting an amber glow that that was eerily similar to the images from her dream - so vivid, so precise that it sent a shiver down her spine.

“Listen to that,” she said softly. “It’s like stepping back in time.”

She glanced at Jake, who stood slightly behind Morgan and Spelling, his eyes communicating a silent understanding that the others couldn’t share.

How could she possibly explain to Morgan and Spelling that this radio—this specific piece of outdated technology—was significant without revealing the source of her certainty?

The metal casing felt cool beneath her fingertips as she adjusted the frequency dial, watching the needle slide across numbered increments. She realized the others were waiting for her to say something, to justify her sudden fascination with this relic.

Chief Morgan shifted his weight, clearly impatient. “What exactly are you looking for, Sheriff?”

“I think we need to find out more about this setup,” she said. “It might tell us something about Derrick.”

Colonel Spelling folded his arms across his chest, his uniform creasing with the movement. “You think his choice of radio equipment is relevant to his murder?”

She met his gaze directly. “I do.”

What she couldn’t say was that she had seen these tubes, this exact configuration, in her lucid dream. The dead had often shown her fragmented clues that only made sense later. But she knew that explanation wouldn’t fly with the Highway Patrol Superintendent or Pinecrest’s Chief of Police.

Although Spelling looked doubtful, he didn’t argue with her. Jenna realized he was remembering that she had surprised him before with her solutions to cases

Jake cleared his throat. “Old tech is harder to track,” he offered. “No digital footprint.”

Jenna gave him a grateful glance. He’d become adept at providing plausible explanations for her intuitive leaps.

“Exactly,” she said, building on his suggestion. “If Derrick was as eccentric as his home setup suggests, his choice to use outdated equipment matters.”

Morgan’s skepticism was evident in the tightening of his mouth, but he nodded.

“What I’d really like,” Jenna continued, “is to talk to the ham operator who reported the incident. The one who was on the line with Derrick when it happened.”

Colonel Spelling’s posture straightened, his attention sharpening. “That would be Todd Lakin, out of Omaha. He’s the one who contacted the Highway Patrol.”

“Do you have his contact information?” Jenna asked, seizing the opportunity.

Spelling nodded. “Got his number right here.” He pulled out his phone, scrolling through contacts. “You think he might have more details than what he told the responding officers?”

“People remember different things when you ask different questions,” Jenna said. “And I have some very specific questions about this radio.”

The colonel found the number and held up his phone. “Want me to put him on speaker?”

“Please,” Jenna said, stepping closer as Spelling placed the call.

The phone rang three times before a male voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Is this Todd Lakin?” Spelling said.

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Lakin, this is Colonel Chadwick Spelling with the Missouri State Highway Patrol. We spoke before about the incident you reported”

“Yes, Colonel. Have you found out anything more?” Lakin’s voice sounded tired but alert.

“I’m sorry to say that we’ve learned that the operator you called us about was murdered,” Chadwick said.

“His name was Marcus Derrick. I’m here at his home with Sheriff Jenna Graves of Genesius County, Deputy Jake Hawkins, and Chief Rudy Morgan of the Pinecrest Police Department.

We’re investigating his death, and Sheriff Graves would like to ask you a few questions. ”

“Of course,” Lakin replied. “Anything I can do to help.”

Jenna stepped closer to the phone. “Mr. Lakin, thank you for taking our call. I understand you were speaking with the victim at the time of the incident that apparently cut off your conversation. Could you walk us through what happened?”

A heavy sigh came through the speaker. “Well, I didn’t know his actual name at the time. We ham operators often use call signs. His was Charlie Tango 4 Caesar Alpha.”

“Did you communicate with him regularly?” Jenna asked.

“Pretty regularly, yeah. We’d talk a few times a week, usually late evenings. He was... interesting to talk to. Knew a lot about radio technology, though he had some, uh, unconventional views.”

Jenna exchanged glances with Jake. “Can you tell us about your conversation on the night of the incident?”

“We’d just started talking. Then there was a knock at his door—I could hear it clearly through the connection.”

The room fell silent as everyone listened intently to Lakin’s account.

“He excused himself. I heard him walk away from the mic. Then I heard him yell something like ‘I’ll shoot’ or ‘I’m armed.’ After a minute or so, he came back and said there was nobody there.”

Jenna leaned forward. “Did he sound frightened?”

“Not frightened exactly. More... agitated. Like this had happened before.”

“Then what happened?” Jenna prompted when Lakin paused.

“We tried to get back to our conversation, but a couple of minutes later, there was another knock. He sounded really annoyed this time, muttered something about ‘them’ not leaving him alone.”

Lakin’s voice became more somber. “He went to answer it, and this time... he didn’t come back to the radio.”

The tension in the room thickened. Jake had taken out a small notebook and was jotting down notes.

“What did you hear?” Jenna asked.

“Him yelling again. There was a gunshot. Clear as day. Then nothing. I kept calling his call sign, but there was no response. That’s when I contacted the Highway Patrol.”

Jenna remembered the image of the handgun Morgan had just shown them. Her guess was that Derrick had fired a warning shot before he was ambushed by his killer.

Colonel Spelling nodded. “You did the right thing, Mr. Lakin.”

Jenna pressed on. “Was there anything unusual about your conversation that night, before the interruptions? Anything different from your usual talks?”

Lakin paused, considering. “Now that you mention it, yes. The signal wasn’t coming through as clearly as usual. When I commented on it, he told me he’d recently gotten rid of his previous radio setup. Said he’d trashed it completely and bought an old vacuum tube model instead.”

Chief Morgan’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked at the radio on the table with renewed interest.

“Did he explain why he made that change?” Jenna asked, her pulse quickening.

“Oh, he explained, all right.” There was a hint of discomfort in Lakin’s voice. “He went on a rant about integrated circuits and transistors. Said they were all compromised. That ‘they’ were using microchips to monitor and influence people.”

“They?” Colonel Spelling interjected.

“He never specified who ‘they’ were. Government, corporations, aliens, I guess—take your pick. He kept telling me I should trash my own radio and go back to vacuum tubes. Said it was the only safe technology.”

Jenna caught Jake’s eye, seeing her own thoughts reflected there. This aligned perfectly with what she’d seen in her dream.

“How did you respond to that?” she asked.

“I told him he sounded crazy, to be honest.” Lakin’s voice carried a note of regret. “That’s when he got defensive, accused me of being a puppet of the ‘powers-that-be.’ His words, not mine.”

“Mr. Lakin,” Jenna said, “did he ever tell you where he lived or give you any identifying information?”

“No. He was extremely secretive. Wouldn’t even tell me his name or exact location. I only knew he was in Missouri from his call sign. That’s why I called the Missouri Highway Patrol when I heard the gunshot.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lakin. You’ve been extremely helpful,” Jenna said, mentally filing away every detail.

“Is there anything else you can think of? Anything at all that might help us understand what happened?” Jake added.

“Just that he seemed genuinely frightened of something. I’d written it off as paranoia, but now...” Lakin’s voice trailed off.

After a few more questions yielded no new information, Jenna thanked Lakin again, and Colonel Spelling ended the call.

The room fell silent for a moment as they all processed what they’d heard.

“Well,” Chief Morgan said finally, “sounds like our victim was as … odd … as his radio rig suggested.”

Colonel Spelling nodded. “Conspiracy theorists aren’t uncommon in isolated areas. They tend to feed their own delusions.”

Jenna stared at the silent radio. The vacuum tubes that had featured so prominently in her dream now seemed to mock her with their significance.

“I need to find out where he got this radio,” she said, more firmly this time.

Morgan frowned. “I don’t see how that’s relevant to finding his killer.”

“Trust me,” Jenna insisted. “It matters.”

She met Morgan’s skeptical gaze without flinching. Years of police work had taught her how to project confidence even when her reasons were unexplainable.

“Actually,” Morgan said after a moment, his frown easing somewhat, “I might have an idea about that.”

Jenna waited, trying not to appear too eager.

“Howard Mitchell,” Morgan continued. “Died about three weeks ago of a heart attack. Owned a chain of electronics stores across the Midwest—Mitch’s Den. Ever heard of it?”

Jenna nodded. The stores were well-known throughout Missouri.

“Mitchell lived here in Pinecrest,” Morgan said.

“Eccentric guy. Had an obsession with vintage audio equipment. His house was practically a museum of the stuff.” Morgan gestured toward the ham radio.

“Vacuum tubes, phonographs, you name it. His daughter Rebecca’s been holding an estate sale, selling off his collection. ”

Colonel Spelling looked interested now. “You think Derrick might have bought this radio at the estate sale?”

“It’s possible,” Morgan acknowledged. “Rebecca’s a lawyer, lives in Connecticut. She’s been here for the past month, trying to clear out the house.”

Jenna didn’t hesitate. “I want to talk to her. Today, if possible.”

She pulled out her phone and snapped several photos of the setup from different angles. Then she switched off the old radio. The vacuum tubes’ amber glow faded, leaving only their ghost image in her mind.

“Do you know where the Mitchell house is?” she asked Morgan.

“On the north side of town. Big Victorian place on Oakwood Drive. Can’t miss it.”

Colonel Spelling checked his watch. “I can accompany you if you’d like, Sheriff.”

“I appreciate that, Colonel.” Jenna nodded, then turned to Morgan. “Chief, would you mind driving us there?”

Morgan shrugged, clearly still uncertain about the relevance of this lead but unwilling to argue. “Sure thing. I’ll call Rebecca Mitchell on the way and her know that we’re coming.”

As they filed out of the mobile home, Jenna felt a familiar strain between her professional instincts and her supernatural knowledge. The vacuum tubes weren’t just a random detail; they were also a message from beyond, a clue left for her to follow.

She and Jake fell into step behind Morgan and Spelling as they walked toward the SUV parked on the dirt drive.

“You think there’s really something to Derrick’s conspiracy theories?” Jake whispered, close enough that only she could hear.

Jenna waited until Morgan and Spelling were out of earshot before responding.

“The dream showed me those vacuum tubes for a reason,” she whispered back. “And it’s too much of a coincidence that Derrick was ranting about the same technology that appeared in my vision.”

Jake’s expression remained neutral, but she could see the concern in his eyes. “You think he might have been right? That someone was after him because of what he knew?”

Jenna glanced ahead to ensure Morgan and Spelling couldn’t hear them. “I think,” she said quietly, “that just maybe he was.”

If Derrick’s paranoia had been justified, if some mysterious “them” had come after him, then his murder wasn’t random and other lives could also be at risk.

Suddenly, the old vacuum tube radio seemed less like an eccentric’s toy and more like a key to this case—to finding out why Marcus Derrick had to die.