Page 26 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

D EC’s regional headquarters smelled like a mix of damp carpet, reheated coffee, and copier toner.

Noah signed in at the front desk without a word and followed McKenzie through the maze of beige hallways.

He could already feel the ache coming on behind his eyes, the kind that liked to bloom around bureaucracy.

A clerk led them through a side hallway that smelled like dry wood and vinegar cleaner.

Past the staff offices, down two half-lit corridors, then through a door that buzzed like a dying fly when swiped.

The archival records room sat in a separate wing, colder and dimmer than the rest of the building.

Boxes stacked shoulder-high lined the shelves in uneven rows, the air filled with the papery stillness of things meant to be forgotten.

McKenzie snorted. “Charming.”

Shelves lined the walls in sagging rows, filled with binders, manila folders, and curling printouts. Noah moved with purpose, scanning labels: Enforcement Logs, Permit History, Field Incident Reports. He grabbed three and dropped them flat. Dust scattered.

McKenzie plopped into the rolling chair opposite him and spun in a lazy half-circle. “Remind me why we’re looking through citations for permit violations again?”

“We know the kids were cited a year ago over at Voss’ campground,” Noah said. “But there’s nothing in the main file. That suggests either it wasn’t properly logged, or someone scrubbed it.”

“Or it never happened and Voss lied.”

“No, there was a police report. I just want to see if there are any others over the last few years.”

They worked in silence for the next twenty minutes.

Noah kept a pen between his teeth, chewing the cap absently as he flipped through carbon copy citations and field notes.

Most of the offenses in the region were small: unauthorized fires, trash left behind, expired tags.

McKenzie read a few aloud in mock horror, including one about someone attempting to roast a raccoon over an open flame.

But Noah wasn’t listening.

He had started cross-referencing campsite assignments, permits issued, and field inspection logs.

It was slow, meticulous work, the kind he had once loved.

There was something about building a case from scraps.

This was the kind of day-to-day police work TV shows didn’t show.

No, they wanted car chases, fights, shootouts, anything to keep the dopamine addicted glued to their sets.

Midway through the second binder, something shifted in his posture. He sat straighter.

“This,” he said, tapping a citation sheet stamped August 12 of last year. “Unauthorized camping. Location listed as ‘above alpine boundary. The Wallface Mountain perimeter.’”

McKenzie leaned in. “That’s just outside the legal elevation for overnight stays. Rangers flag that every season.”

Noah held up a finger. “But look, ‘Group of six in the area. An environmental disturbance.’”

McKenzie squinted. “Kind of an odd phrase to use for a permit infraction.”

“Right.”

But it was the line beneath it that stopped Noah. A thick black rectangle of redaction, as if someone had used a Sharpie instead of a digital sanitization tool.

Noah tapped the blackout mark with his knuckle. “Somebody didn’t want this one getting around.”

He sat back and stared at the page. It wasn’t just the phrasing. It was the date, the lack of follow-up, the fact that no names were attached, not the campers, not the ranger. In most field notes, there was always someone to pin things on, someone accountable.

McKenzie gave a low whistle. “Think it’s connected?”

Noah didn’t answer. Not yet. He slid the sheet into a folder of his own, added a few other pages: some citations from earlier that summer, some follow-ups from the same zone.

He wasn’t ready to say what he was seeing.

But something about the language, the omissions, the bureaucratic fingerprints told him this wasn’t just a forgotten infraction.

It had been buried.

And he was starting to wonder why.

They’d keep digging. But now, he had a place — Wallface Mountain.

And a story someone wanted forgotten.

They needed to dig deeper.

"You ever wonder how deep Luther Ashford's reach really goes?"

"What do you mean?"

"If he's got his fingers in multiple businesses, paying people to look the other way—what happens when we finally take him down? Does the whole network collapse, or does it just keep running without him?"

Noah said nothing. He was already scanning handwritten labels on the shelves: INCIDENT FILES – 2008–2011, REGION 5 / SOUTHERN, WALLFACE, RANGER NOTES (VARIOUS). Most boxes had been recycled from printer paper or were outdated shipping cartons, scrawled over with marker or masking tape.

He moved slowly at first, his fingers dragging over brittle tabs. Half the folders were warped or misnumbered. McKenzie trailed behind, flipping one lid, then another. “You know the Sheriff’s Office doesn’t have anywhere near as much as this in the archives?”

“Most was put in storage or destroyed,” Noah said.

Noah reached the shelf marked INCIDENT LOGS – 2012–2025 (FIELD SUBMISSIONS – NOT OFFICIALLY PROCESSED). He scanned the box tops until his eyes caught one labeled: #407-F / WALLFACE ZONE / REPORT / 8.14. The handwriting was tighter, angrier than the rest.

“This one.”

McKenzie helped him lift it down. They carried it to a metal table beneath a buzzing fluorescent bulb. Noah opened it carefully, the cardboard giving a soft crack.

Inside was a beige folder marked Wallface Incident #407-F. No tags. No DEC header. Just a manila cover, stamped “Internal Review Only.”

He opened it.

The narrative report was thin, three pages long, and half blacked out with redaction tape.

The language that remained was cold, clinical: “evidence of illegal firepit,” “unauthorized alpine encampment,” “minor disturbance to soil integrity,” “no formal disciplinary action taken at this time.” No names.

Beneath the report sat a GPS overlay map, a satellite image that was grainy and distorted with age. One red dot marked a camp location above the treeline, nestled just east of Wallface Cliff. It was well beyond the legal camping zone.

Next came a DEC field inspection form. Two signatures.

Mark Halpern, Ranger Captain. And just beneath it: D. Thurston.

Noah held the page up to the light. The signature block for “Follow-Up Review” had been crossed out and re-signed by Halpern.

Over Dale’s original notes, written in blue ink, there was a comment scribbled in the corner. Incomplete report. Ranger lacks evidence.

McKenzie leaned in. “So Dale gave his opinion, and his boss didn’t like it?”

Noah’s eyes narrowed. “Or he gave more than just his opinion.”

He flipped to a supplemental sheet, no official stamp, no letterhead. A simple memo paper, clipped to the back with rusting metal. Along the margin, in shaky, tight handwriting, was another note:

“Impact spread to lower elevation. Casualties confirmed by civilian report. No camera evidence. Note, campfire not extinguished per regulations.”

McKenzie stilled. “Wait… casualties?”

Noah didn’t respond at first. He just stared at the line. He read it again. Confirmed by civilian report. Which meant someone knew. Someone reported it. But the persons name never made it into the official narrative.

He reached for his notebook, uncapped a pen, and began drawing a simple line. From the phrase “casualties confirmed” to Dale’s name on the inspection form.

The highway hummed beneath the tires as they pulled out of Ray Brook and headed south toward High Peaks, the late-day sun drawing long shadows across the road. Neither of them spoke for the first few miles.

McKenzie drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the door. His eyes tracked the double yellow lines, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. The silence felt different now, no longer comfortable, but weighted.

Noah sat angled in the passenger seat, his elbows braced on his thighs, a stack of photos and old field notes balanced across his knees.

Most were from the current case: the victims’ campsite, the scene log sheets from Saranac.

He flipped one over, then another. Jesse Linwood, Rachel Ames, Harper Lane, Brandon Kent.

And now Stephen Strudwell, found too late.

He held up a new photo of Rachel. It was the angle that caught him, the rocky backdrop behind her in one of the shots they’d pulled from her phone. It could’ve been anywhere in the High Peaks, but it had a steep, sheer quality to it. It resembled Wallface.

He checked the timestamp: August 19 of last year.

“The camping trip of the teens lines up last year with this year,” he muttered. “Almost exactly a year apart.”

McKenzie didn’t look over. “Anniversary theory?”

Noah nodded slowly, flipping to another image, this one from Brandon’s Instagram archive Rishi had pulled. A bonfire on a ledge. It was tagged August 21.

He unlocked his phone and started typing a text message.

Noah: “Can you pull social media posts, tagged photos, or GPS from last August tied to Jesse, Rachel, Harper, Brandon, Avery or Stephen? Focus on the Wallface area. Look for signs of an illegal hike or party. Check news articles for any injuries or deaths in the past year out there.”

Rishi (typing…)

Rishi: “That might take a bit, they have thousands of photos. Anything specific?”

Noah: “Focus on elevation pics. Cliff shots. Anything with firelight. Look at August.”

He pocketed the phone and stared out at the passing pines. It wasn’t confirmation, not yet, but it was tightening. The thread was pulling.

Behind the wheel, McKenzie finally broke the silence.

“So what are we saying now?” he asked. “Someone covered up a campsite death and then went after the kids a year later as revenge? You think they did something?”

Noah shifted in his seat, exhaling through his nose. “Not sure right now. What we do know is that Ranger Dale Thurston filed a report about some event last August. That report was smothered. And months later, he left the DEC with no commendation, no ceremony, no transfer.”

McKenzie grunted. “Guys like him don’t retire early unless something’s breathing down their neck.” He glanced over briefly. “You think the murders this year are tied to casualties from last year?”

Noah didn’t answer right away. He watched the shadows of the trees flicker across the windshield like bars, one after another.

“I think something happened in the Wallface area,” he said finally.

“I think that group of kids were involved. Perhaps, it’s a case of wrong place, wrong time.

Someone got hurt. Or worse. And it got buried. ”

“But that would have been on the news.”

Noah turned to him. “Be real McKenzie. How often do you or I pay attention to every accident, or search and rescue, that occurs in the wilderness with thousands of tourists coming here every year?”

“Good point.”

Outside, the lake shimmered through the trees, gold catching on its surface. They were close to the cabin now, and the air was starting to shift, cooler, heavier with the weight of evening.

Noah leaned forward, tugged the yellow pad from the glove box, and scribbled something onto a sticky note.

WAS WALLFACE THE FIRST INCIDENT?

WAS THE DEC PROTECTING SOMEONE?

He underlined the last question twice, then stared out the window, his reflection barely visible against the glass. Somewhere, past the pines and ridgelines, a first incident waited like an echo. Unseen. Unheard. But not gone unnoticed.

And someone, whoever they were, hadn’t forgotten.