When I reached the Dispatch building, I went into the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor. The newspaper archives were housed in an area dense with file cabinets, the drawers packed with news clippings dating back to the 1800s. The librarian was a woman named Marjorie Hixon, who was in her eighties. Tall and refined, gray-green eyes, high cheekbones, gray hair streaked with white. I’d dealt with her on many occasions and I’d always found her cooperative and down-to-earth.

“How’re you doing, Marjorie? It’s been a while,” I said.

“This place is a madhouse and has been for months. Last July, we moved from paper to a newfangled electronic system: words, pictures, and graphics, including maps. Don’t ask me how it’s done. I have no idea. I’m still partial to an old-fashioned card catalog, but that’s beside the point. We used to have drones typing headlines on envelopes as they stuffed stories into them. The files were even cross-indexed, which I thought was fancy enough. Now an extraordinarily patient soul named John Pope ensures new stuff is transcribed from paper into an electronic format. All way over my head.”

“Hey, mine too. I don’t even own a computer.”

“I have an old Mac my son-in-law passed along when he bought his new one, but I can’t make heads or tails of it. He says it’s user-friendly, but I’ve got news for him. Time was, I could have mastered the darn thing in a day or two, but now there’s no way. Might be time to retire. I’ll be eighty-eight August nineteenth, and my best years may well be behind me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. You know more than anyone else around here.”

“Well, I thank you for the vote of confidence, but I’m not too sure. This is a young man’s game. Reporters and editors these days are all kids in their fifties. Too much ambition and energy for my taste. They cuss, they wear jeans to work, and most can’t spell without help, but they dearly love their jobs, which is more than I can say.”

“But what would you do if you retired? You’d go nuts.”

“That’s a worry, now you mention it. I’m not one for needlework, and you can only read so many books before your eyesight fails. Someone suggested volunteer work, but that’s out of the question. I’m accustomed to being paid, and the idea of giving away my time and my skills is an affront. Braver women than I fought decades for equal compensation in the workplace, so why would I undo their accomplishments? Anyway, I doubt you came here to hear me complain. What can I do for you?”

I wrote the name Christian Satterfield on a slip of paper and pushed it across the counter. “I’d like to see the file on this guy. I have two clippings, but I’m hoping there’s more.”

She read the name. “Let me see what I can find.”

Within minutes I was seated at a desk along the side wall with the envelope in front of me. There wasn’t much in it beyond the articles Hallie had passed on to me. The only other item of note was a brief mention of an academic scholarship he’d been awarded on graduating from Santa Teresa High School in 1975. He’d been accepted at UCLA, where he hoped to major in economics. The guy was smart and, if his photograph was representative, good-looking as well. How had he ended up in prison? I’d had classmates—dull-witted, dope-smoking losers—who’d ended up better off than he had.