Abe nodded in response. “I just heard back from the Register,” he said.

I squinted. We had calls out with The Washington Post and The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. All in case Harrington had sent in some manifesto. The Mason Falls Register was the smallest paper on the list. Our local paper.

“They have something?”

“He pitched them an exposé on the school board,” Abe said. “How it was selected. Influence in the community. How vendors were chosen when Falls Magnet was built.”

“You have a copy?”

“They didn’t end up publishing anything,” Abe said. “The editor thought the story was leaky.” Abe read from his notes. “‘Wild theories. Big leaps in logic. Unsound journalism.’”

“What was Harrington’s reaction to them passing on it?”

“Nothing, according to the editor. Almost like Harrington was feeling them out for another project. Then Harrington contacted the same editor a week ago. Said he had new information. Something salacious.”

I raised my eyebrows, skeptical. “Salacious about how vendors were selected?”

“The editor never found out,” Abe said. “Harrington said he needed another week.”

I considered this. Was some administrator gonna get exposed? And if so—how the hell did that lead to Harrington with a gun on campus? After all, he was the aggressor.

“This editor give you any background on Harrington?” I asked. It felt like we still didn’t know the man.

Abe smiled. “Oh, you’ll love his answer on that. He said to read the paper tomorrow. They’re putting together an eight-page spread.”

“Sure,” I said. “That’s more important than public safety.”

“But this other guy from the AJC,” Abe said. “He told Merle that Harrington sounded healthier than he had in years. Said he was working on something big. A book, he figured.”

“A book?”

Merle came around the corner and waved us to follow him. He steered us into the second-floor kitchen, where the TV was set on the local Fox channel.

A journalist named Deb Newberry was on-screen, a blonde wearing a black pantsuit and a bright orange blazer.

I knew Deb. She was a hard-ass. A smart investigative journalist with deep inroads into the MFPD.

“Jedidiah Harrington lived alone,” Deb said to the camera. “Unemployed. Unhinged. With potential PTSD symptoms that he would never receive therapy for, since he never officially served with our military.”

The image of the reporter faded, and a picture filled the screen.

It was a shot of Harrington’s backhouse, with those boxes piled everywhere. Then a second picture: a close-up of the gun case.

“What the hell,” I said. We’d been the only ones on Harrington’s property.

“This is just one picture this reporter obtained to paint you a picture of Jedidiah Harrington,” Deb explained.

Abe answered his phone, and I could tell it was the chief.

“Boss,” he said, “I got no idea how that got out.”

Abe looked to me, and I shrugged. “Neither does P.T.,” he added.

Abe walked to the other side of the kitchen. Shook his head in frustration. “And you really need to tell that to the mayor?” he asked.