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+The storm came on fast. Trees were already bending like dancers in the wind. She pulled into the parking lot and shut off the engine. The middle of September was too late for a hurricane. It should have been the start of Autumn, a day when the air suddenly turns cool and crisp. The end of summer was the only season that offered that singularity, that one day when everything was suddenly different. The humidity gone; the air lighter, cleaner. The rest of the seasons merely flowed into a one another like a giant river of time running right through you. But when summer ended it did it all at once, in one day, and everyone all over Washington DC knew it, together, all at once. Provided they paid attention.
+
+Chase Kevale paid attention. Except that Autumn was late this year. *Nowhere to be found* the man on the radio had said earlier as she stood in line at Dunkin' Donuts. It was her turn. She never ate the donuts or drank the coffee, but that reasoning had fallen on deaf ears. Fair is fair her boss said when she complained. Fair is fair. Fair is nowhere. 
+
+*Nowhere to be found*. Instead the city could look forward to Emily, which, if she did not deviate from her current course and speed  would hit the city tomorrow night as a category 4. So far it was only wind, only gusts really, but more than enough to upset a tray of coffee or launch a flimsy box of donuts into the sky. She was already not the most popular employee at the office and losing the Friday donuts to the wind wasn't going to do her any favors. She was the new girl. The new girl everyone disliked because they were no longer new, were years away from new, so far in fact that new felt threatening she supposed. Or perhaps it was simply that they had forgotten how to interact with people that were not as thoroughly jaded as themselves. And despite the cynical atmosphere, the jadedness that practically permeated the air at the office, she had not given in yet. Chase knew she worked too hard, knew she asked too many questions, read too much into the files and was not in any tangible way a part of office life, the life that had certain rules and routines, an order that was, to her fellow employees, as unquestionable and immutable as the laws of gravity or motion. Not that they had much of either Chase thought, no gravity, no motion, no thought of motion even. They were simply government employees punching the clock, gossiping about their pay grade, their years to retirement. The enormity of the job did not occur to them, or perhaps they just didn't care, Chase hadn't yet sorted that one out, she was, after all, just the new girl. Getting coffee and donuts. 
+
+She fumbled for her keys balancing the two trays of small coffee cups and the donuts precariously in one hand as she turned the key and threw her shoulder into the heavy metal of the door, but she made it coffee and donuts fully intact. Everyone was already assembled in the break room, waiting. 
+
+"Sorry, I'm late you guys." She set the coffee and donuts down in the middle of the table and moved back, dropping her bag in an empty chair as the rest tore into the stack of coffee. "There was an unbelievable line at Dunkin Donuts."
+
+Steven smiled and bit into a bearclaw. "DC loves its donuts."
+
+While most of her coworkers filled her with a kind of dread she had previously only felt when she stood in line at the DMV, she had come to like Steven. He wasn't cynical, didn't seem to care about punching clocks and in certain lights he was not unpleasant to look at. He had longish hair that made him seem perhaps younger than he was and though she still thought men with hair down to their shoulders generally looked ridiculous, Steven managed to pull it off somehow. She watched him now as a strand of the hair escaped from behind his ear and fell in front of his face becoming entangled with a bit of glaze from his bearclaw. He kept eating, seemingly unaware that the hair was now in danger of disappearing into his mouth. It wasn't in fact until an inch or two was in his mouth that he realized what had happened and leaned forward to deftly sweep the hair away as he swallowed the rest of the donut. She watched him, fascinated by the complexities of donut eating that she had not previously considered.
+
+"Any luck with Sgt. McCann?" Steven used a napkin to pull a few bits of donut glaze out of his hair and tucked it back behind his ear.
+
+Chase turned around and pulled out a small basket of blueberries she kept in the break fridge. "I'm still waiting on the records from Annapolis to make sure it is in fact that my Sgt. McCann."
+
+"Why don't you just hop a jet out to Annapolis?" sneered Dennis Burch as he slid past her, out of the break room and back, she assumed, to the small, hellish hole in which Chase was sure he lived out his days. Chase glared at his back and watched Steven stifle a smile out of the corner of her eye. "Anyway, if the field tests in Hawaii match then I'm all set because the paperwork puts him there at the time."
+
+"Wow, so you're going to have the oldest closed case this year then." Steven raised his eyebrows at her. "Setting the bar kind of high for yourself aren't you? I mean, what are you going to do next year? Tackle Whitmore again?" Steven giggled and walked out of the break room. 
+
+Assholes. All of them. Chase picked through the moldy blueberries to find the dozen or so ripe ones which she picked out and piled on a napkin. The rest of her fellow employees began to file out, heading off to start whatever it was they did all day. Chase dumped the moldy blueberries in the trash and threw the rest on her mouth. She leaned against the table and stared out over the low ceiling, florescent lighted basement room where she spent her days.
+
+The Defense Prisoner of War Missing Personnel Office was ostensibly charged with identifying and recovering the remains of United States personnel lost in foreign wars and other actions abroad. It was the sort of agency that brought a misty tear to many a Senators' eye and many a snapped salute from Presidents, but very little in the way of funding. So little in fact that its predecessor had been disbanded entirely from 1951 to 1976, during which time missing soldiers effectively became persona non grata in the eyes of the government. Even now the diggers, as one of Chase's exes had called the agency, a name that, at least in Chase's mind, had stuck, consisted of fewer than sixty people. And that included the maids and janitors who cleaned the buildings at night. When Chase had arrived nearly a year ago the DPMO was backlogged with some 230,000 MIA cases, some dating from as far back as World War II, some newer, Vietnam, Korea, Iraq, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Kurdistan, Bosnia, Mogadishu, Darfur. Just about any hell hole the United States had ever sent its soldiers into, a few had failed to come home. By the time the files reached the basement the MIA solider was dead. The same was likely true of most POWs. In the twenty years her boss had been working here, he told her, he had never once heard of anyone being found alive. Not even MIA/POW reports from more recent wars. If soldiers were alive their comrades rescued them. If there was no rescue then the paper work became part of a Kafkaian labyrinth that eventually led here, to a filing cabinet, somewhere in the long wall of metal filing cabinets that lined the entire bottom floor of the building -- case records, field reports, eyewitness testimonies and countless other pieces of paper that formed the story, from enlistment to disappearance, all packed into the cold metal cabinets surrounded all of them as they worked every day. Around the turn of the century the overlords at the DoD had seen fit to launch a plan to index the files into a database, something searchable, something they might be able to share with outside agencies. The effort had gotten as far the some 74,000 soldiers still missing from World War II. Thanks to budget shortfalls under the Bush administration there were currently only two temps entering data and only one programmer, Steven, trying the wrangle it all into something organized.
+Despite a promising career as an academic historian, Chase had shunned the cushy university posts offered to her by well wishing professors and administrations, opting instead to, as she blithely told Dr. Rosenbaum the morning she accepted the position at the DoD, "do some research that actually affects peoples lives." Rosenbaum had just shrugged, rubbed the white stubble of his sagging chin and hrumphed quietly, as was his nature. She knew that he, and rest of her professors thought she was crazy, that they all, like her mother, thought she was throwing something away, but she didn't care. She didn't want to spend her life just talking about the past, she wanted to touch it. She wanted to see it in front of her, to feel it between her fingers, to dig in the soil, to make it part of the present, the way it had always been to her, as far back as she could remember.
+
+So she shoved her PhD in a box, filled up the back of her old Volvo station wagon and drove from Massachusetts down to Washington DC where she had accepted a job as junior research fellow at the Defense Prisoner of War Missing Personnel Office. With Dr. Rosenbaum's half-hearted help she managed to get herself assigned to what everyone referred to as the skull and bones department, which specialized in field work and connecting, as the joke went, the skull with the bones. But despite a reputation for fieldwork, Chase had only, thus far, been out of the office once and that had been her own doing, not the DoD.
+
+As the new girl Chase had been handed the worst job in skull and bones, trying to find Whitmore and Hume. It was a ritual, hazing for history nerds. The case had been handed, amid chuckles and snickers from old timers, to every new Skull and Bones employee for the last twenty years, none of whom had ever managed to find the skull, bones or even vague whereabouts of Lt. Whitmore or his gunner, Sgt. Hume. The two had simply disappeared into a cloud. Like most newcomers Chase had accepted the file as her first challenge, her opportunity to prove herself. She heard the snickers. She heard the chuckles. She knew the case was a dog even before Steven took pity on her and pulled her aside one day at lunch to say, "You know you can't solve Whitmore and Hume, right?" He lowered his voice to a whisper, "We've all had to dog it for a while. I had it three years ago when I started, before they found out I could write code. Fuckers think it's funny." He grimaced. "Just thought you should know."
+
+Thank you Steven," Chase was twirling a pen through her fingers wondering if perhaps the case were solvable despite years of failure. She knew of half a dozen mathematical proofs that for years had been considered unsolvable and then one day, damn it all, someone solves it. And she wasn't even a mathematician, probably there were far more examples. Still, history was trickier, Amelia Earhart was still unsolved, Jesse James' gold was still missing, DB Cooper was never heard from again.
+
+Whitmore and Hume had disappeared over present day Slovenia on April 19, 1917.
+
+Officially the DPMO did not investigate missing persons from WWI. At first Chase had found that disconcerting, surely the United States did not just give up on people? But the deeper she dug into the case, the more she understood why everyone had given up. She wasn't about to.
+
+At first her fellow employees would smile behind her back as she walked by carting yet another load of files back from the archives up on the fifth floor. After a while she started smiling back at them, or rather smiling preemptively as Chase thought of it. Broad, fake smiles that said *I am having so much faun at this job, you have no fucking idea*. It was childish she knew, but eventually the smiles were no longer fake because she could see how much it really was messing with their heads, and that really did make her smile. She was careful to make sure she never gave up the game, never let them know she knew she had been had. Instead Chase threw herself deeper into the case.
+
+She spent more time upstairs in the archives than anyone else ever had. She did something no one at Skull and Bones had ever really bothered to do; she got to know the archivists. They were a different bunch, the sort of nerds that had actually understood the statistics class she had barely managed to pass as an undergrad, but, despite a love of organization and raw data that she couldn't relate to, she got along well with Jim Dimperryll, the head of the archive department and he helped her piece together the trail of Whitmore and Hume in far more detail than anyone else has ever done. Chase packed so much data into both Whitmore and Hume's file that she convinced herself no one was ever going to be tricked into this case again. She started spending her lunches with Dimperryll in the upstairs cafeteria, which required a different keycard pass, one the Dimperryll had, but Chase and the rest of her Skull and Bones workers did not. Not only did it get her out of lunch with her co-workers, it got her a much better selection of fresh fruit, which Chase had something of a fetish for. It was around then that the people in her own department began to drop their snickers, stop smiling at all, even behind her back and give her a wider berth in the halls. Some even looking down when they passed, avoiding even eye contact.
+
+"They think you're trying to make them look bad," Steven informed her one day. He had developed a habit of stopping by her desk in the mornings, before she left to go to the archives. He liked, she could tell, to feel as though her were passing on his wisdom to someone else, which, she figured was really just a cover for the fact that he was ecstatically excited to no longer be the new guy. And she realized much later, he was also thankful to finally have someone closer to his own age to talk to. She didn't mind it either. Steven came to serve as kind of anchor for the tether she was developing, one that would take her further and further away from the frustration and that her boss had expected her to find in the Whitmore and Hume file.
+
+Whitmore started in Georgia. He was then shipped out west to California for flight training and then back east again before shipping out to France in April of 1917. Chase had spent the better part of two weeks down at the Army Archives tracing the movements of the airman's unit. Hume did not come into the picture until much later. Whitmore's unit suffered heavy loses above the battlefields of eastern france, but somehow Lt. Charles Whitmore had survived. The unit was then moved north, to Belgium to drop mustard gas canisters on enemy lines. Whitmore had been shot down over Belgium and was picked up by the Germans. He apparently spent time in a POW camp before being swapped out for some Germans captured during a rare allied push into Axis territory. In his absence Whitmore's unit had been wiped out. Unlike today, when the time as a POW alone would likely have earned him a trip home, Lt. Whitmore was given a new plane, assigned a new rear gunner, one Steven Hume formerly of the 212 Squadron, and the two were sent merrily on their way to join a new unit in sunny, warm Italy. Except that for Whitmore and his fellow airmen, Italy was not warm. Or it was, but they were still cold, flying high into the Dolomites and Slovenian Alps to support the war happening on the mountain slopes.  One day Whitmore and Hume, along with three other planes were sent to bomb an area near Bled, in present day Slovenia. The squadron flew in bad weather, but made it to the target, dropped their bombs and turned around to fly home. Somewhere along the way, Whitmore and Hume flew into a cloud and were simply never seen again. Whitmore and Hume had not returned. That was all the paperwork said, missing in action. Full stop.
+
+Everyone from their unit was long since deceased. Even if she could have tracked down their families, any stories would be second, perhaps third hand at this point. Sometime in the late 1940s, when an agency similar to the DPMO had existed, someone had interviewed the Colonel in charge of the unit, but the written report that Chase found stapled to the back of the folder in the Army archives offered no real insight. One minute they were there, the next they were not the Colonel said. 
+
+She knew that was when she was supposed to give up. She knew she was supposed to learn the lesson, to humbly accept that she wouldn't solve everything. She was supposed to given in. Chase had never given in. Instead she filed a travel form, called an old boyfriend who had landed at the State Department and managed to get on a diplomatic flight to Germany. She landed in Berlin one cold and raining December morning and realized that she didn't speak a word of German. She spent two days tracking down a translator and then several more tracking down the records she wanted. Finally she found herself, translator in tow, in a dusty, forgotten room in the basement of building that housed what passed for Germany's WWI records. The place wasn't much, but the records were, in typical German style, fastidiously neat and thorough. With the help of her interpreter and a very put out looking woman the German archive she managed to tracing the movements of German and Prussian forces that might have been in the general vicinity of Whitmore and Hume's flight path. She was looking for reports of shooting down an airplane or coming across Allied bodies, parachutes anything. There was nothing. So she had ponied up for a train to Ljubljana. Again she spent several days looking for a translator and then, with the help of Tomaz, a sympathetic old man who had listened to her frustration over a cup of coffee and eventually agreed to help her, she dug through local news archives, papers and radio transcripts from the war, looking for any report of American pilots. There were in fact several, but most were well after Whitmore and Hume disappeared. One could possibly had been them, but neither solider in question claimed to be a pilot and both were, according to the postwar reporting in the local paper, sent back to the Allied forces before the end of the war. One day, after she had finally decided it was time to give up for real, She agreed to let Tomaz drive her up to Bled, into the mountains that had claimed Whitmore and Hume and countless others. "Hemingway fought in these mountains," Tomaz told her as they drove up through thickets of pine and fir trees and hillsides strew with bluebells and heather. They stopped at the top of a pass, far above Bled, and got out to admire the views further up into the mountains. It was hard to imagine anyone fighting a war here, thought Chase, it was simply too peaceful, too quiet. Tomaz brought a thermos and poured them cups of coffee. Chase stood in the snow, her hands wrapped around the cup, staring up at the white alpine world beyond the pass. Tomaz seemed amused when Chase told him that she was supposed to fail, not supposed to ever know what became of Whitmore, that she even knew all that and still didn't care, still didn't want to give up. Tomaz chuckled and asked if she thought she had learned more of a lesson by continuing on or less. I'm not sure she had said, watching the clouds pour down from the peaks and cover the pass in fog. The bright green tips of fir trees dripped water on the gravel edges of the parking lot. Tomaz climbed back in the car. The next day Chase flew home.
+
+Sometimes the past is truly gone, swallowed up by time. Other times it just looks that way.
+
+
+                                -----
+
+
+Chase had just finished typing up the last of her report on Sgt. McCann when Steven wandered into her office and sat down on the edge of her desk, one leg on the floor, one draped over a stack of files Chase need to send back to the Archives.
+
+"Steven," she said without glancing up from her laptop screen. "Something on your mind?"
+
+"Mmmm. Just wondering who you're going to do next?"
+
+Chase smiled, but kept her head down. "A lady never tells Steven." She could see him blush out of the corner of her eye. 
+
+"Sorry, that didn't come out right did it?" He picked up the cheap nameplate from her desk and toyed with the edge where the fake gold laminate was already peeling after barely a year. At least they weren't wasting money on frivolous stuff he thought to himself. "It's just that, well... there are rumors see, rumors you're going to go back to the Whitmore case or something crazy like that."
+
+She said nothing while she finished entering the last of the McCann report and then clicked save and closed the laptop. "Steven, you know as well as I do that Whitmore is unsolvable."
+
+"Actually, I would've thought that you knew that even better than I do." Steven had set down the nameplate and pulled out a small package of nutter butters which he proceeded to eat, distractedly. "Chase, listen, you know how everyone here thinks that you're trying to make them look bad?"
+
+"That is what you tell me."
+
+"Well, see, the thing is, I'm starting to think that maybe they're right. You've been here just over a year, so this is technically your second year, but I'm going to keep calling it your first year, since it's your first full year, your first year in which anyone can really judge your case work and quite frankly it's really good. You didn't solve Whitmore. So far that's you're only smudge, if it can be called that. So that means you cleared what? fifteen cases?
+
+"McCann makes eighteen actually." Chase leaned back in her chair. "What's your point Steven, just spit it out."
+
+He stared at his shoes. "I don't know. It's just that, if the rumors are true they're going to start giving you even more old cases, cases they think the rest of us can't do. I mean, here's the thing, you know how I told you I ended up getting moved over to the tech department because I knew Python? Yeah, well, that's true, but it's also true that my last case was for a missing snipers in Afghanistan that turn out to be on loan to the CIA for things that are way the hell over my pay grade and quite frankly terrify me. In other words, I got fucked, a snafu that turned out to embarrass half a dozen very high ranking military officers, not to mention my own bosses who have to admit they assigned it to me.... But you, you just keep solving things. I used to be you, but ever since that stupid case I've been writing code, which is fine, but then you came along and it reminds me of how I fucked up, or how I got fucked."
+
+Chase laughed. "Steven, I would have thought you'd be glad to not be the new kid anymore." 
+
+He stood up, nodded and shrugged. "I'll let you get back to work."
+
+"Wait." She dropped her feet to the ground and stood up, pulling her coat off the chair. "Technically I just closed one case and haven't be assigned anything new yet. So... let's play a little hooky and get a real breakfast."
+
+Steven lit up. "Really? Okay. Wait. What's my excuse?"
+
+"Oh who cares, come on, let's go."
+
+They ducked out of Chases office and headed toward the back wall where a row of file cabinets would shield them from the view of those already straggling into the meeting room for the weekly status meeting. Outside the wind was getting stronger, but the city did not seem to care, as if weather were simply not a significant enough event to interrupt a city like DC. Chase was surprised to find that not only were they not the only ones on the street, but there were lines outside the first two diners they passed, people huddled against the walls of the building ducked out of the wind. It made Chase laugh. Whole town is full of diners dear her grandfather had told her when she moved down to DC. It's a town of dirty deeds over breakfast, you won't like it. He had winked at her and smiled. He was right she knew, it was a town of breakfast, a town of deals and negotiations in diners, a town of crowded lunch counters. But he was wrong that she hated it. She had never felt so at home before in her life. Eventually they found a diner, a Greek diner, one that was no longer serving breakfast, which explained why there were a couple empty seats at the counter. Chase and Steven were hardly in the door when Chase's phone began to ring. Steven turned around with a panicked look on his face.
+
+"Relax," Chase look down at the screen, "it's just my mom. Give me five." She headed back outside. "Hi mom, what's up."
+
+"What's up? How is that any way to greet your mother?"
+
+"Sorry Mom, but I'm sorta busy. Morning meeting, work."
+
+"Then you aren't leaving for the storm?"
+
+"Wasn't planning on it, why? Should I?"
+
+"Oh who knows dear. The news is all panic all the time, probably it's nothing, but I was wondering if you would mind going out to the house, you now, just give it a look over, back sure Duncan got the boards on the windows, that sort of thing."
+
+Chase knew Duncan was her mother's neighbor, but last time she had checked he was bit old to put up starboards. "Duncan put up your windows? Jeez mom, he's like 80."
+
+"What choice did I have? I'm all the way out here in Vegas, the storm grounded all the flights. And I know you're not going to do it."  Her mother paused a half beat, but Chase did not rise to the bait. "Anyway, that's why I'm calling you now dear. You'll have a look won't you? Unless it's too dangerous I mean. Use your judgment Chase."
+
+Chase nodded. "Sure mom, I'll have a look. But listen, I really half to go right now. I'll call you later okay?" Chase hung up before her mother could respond. Something was happening down the street, at the corner where tk and tk formed a rather massive intersection. Chase glanced inside, but Steven looked well occupied with his menu so she walked down toward the corner to see what the commotion was. People on the corner were transfixed by a woman darting through the intersection, skipping crosswalks and running diagonally through eight lanes of honking cars and screaming cabbies. She was wearing what might have been skirt, had someone added another inch or two of fabric, which, as Chase slowly realized, would need to be vinyl or perhaps rubber, it was hard to tell given that there was so little of it. Similarly her top might have been a shirt if the wind, or scissors or something had not made off with everything but the bare essentials necessary to keep the police from becoming too actively involved in her attire. She was teetering on the biggest pair of platform heels Chase had ever seen, also red and wildly inappropriate for walking, let along the crooked zig-zagging run they were currently engaged in. 
+
+It wasn't everyday, even in D.C., that you saw a hooker in a red vinyl skirt try to cross an intersection full of traffic on the diagonal. Half a dozen people had stopped what they were doing to watch the spectacle, some with their mouths hanging open, gawking as the woman made it to middle, where there was no traffic. She started yelling, *wait up now sugar*, and waving her arms toward the corner where Chase and the other's stood. People near her seemed to tense up at the realization that the ongoing spectacle might involve them in some way, might ruin the fun by turning them into more than spectators. The couple next to her held each other tight, shifting their arms to get a better grip and Chase realized she had been holding her breath. The woman took off her spiked, long heels and made a second dash, this time headed for the curb just down the way from Chase. Chase decided she could not watch, didn't want to see the woman's body splattered all over tk so she turned around. But then she found it impossible not to know what was happening so she turned around again just in time to see the woman scamper to the curb just ahead of a honking bus, which she didn't seem to even notice. The woman said nothing, she bent down and put back on her shoes. There was a collective exhale and the spectators turned away, continuing on to wherever they had been headed. Chase walked back to the diner, still shaking her head to herself, wondering if the woman was certifiable. She heard someone behind her and held the door open, but no one took it from her. She glanced behind her and was surprised to see the woman from the intersection standing there. Chase raised her eyebrows at her. 
+
+"Hey sugar." She smiled, but made no effort to take the open door from Chase.
+
+She's definitely crazy thought Chase, "can I help you?"
+
+"I know this is weird for you, talking to black people I mean," The woman smiled, but Chase felt herself blush. "Thing is honey, your name is Chase right?"
+
+Chase considered saying no, but she was curious. She glanced back inside. Steven's head was buried in the newspaper. Chase stepped back out to the street and let the door close behind here. "How do you know my name?"
+
+"Well, there you go. I thought that boy might be crazy." She laughed nervously. "He asked me to give you something." She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and grinned at Chase who was too shocked to respond. The woman reached into her purse and retrieved a small slip of pink paper folded in half. She thrust it out to Chase who took it from her fingers and without looking at it said, "Okay. Thank you," as if it were perfectly normal for a stranger to be handing her a slip of paper on behalf of another stranger.
+
+The woman seemed to accept that it was in fact normal. She nodded. "Well, anyway. Have a good day." And she turned and walked back toward the corner. 
+
+Chase stood there, watching the woman walk away, wondering if she was going to cross the intersection the same way again, but at the last minute she made a right disappeared around the corner.
+
+Chase went back inside the diner and let the door close behind her. She pulled out the slip of paper. Written in pencil, just along the bottom edge, were small block letters that spelled out a name: Reese Lawrence. She looked up and saw Steven looking quizzically over at her. She glanced down again at the sheet of paper and this time noticed that part of the pencil had been smeared, she brought it closer to her face and felt a chill run down her spin, it read *Lt.* Reese Lawrence.
diff --git a/missing-persons/CH-2.txt b/missing-persons/CH-2.txt
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+Chase killed the headlights in the driveway and sat in the car for a minute, watching the rain lash against the windshield in pelting gusts. The sky in the rearview mirror was nearly black, though the sun would not set for at least another hour. Nera the horizon to the west, where the storm did not reach there was still a faint glow that cast an eerie orange glow on windshield making the beads of rain look like orange soda. She watched the house turning orange and noticed that the paint was peeling along the front, chips of it flaking from the window trim and the stubby pillars still holding up the porch. She watched as rain broke off bits of it and, craning forward she could see the watch pooling on the steps, a miniature see of white paint chips collecting. She made a mental note to call her mother about it. Though she had no immediate plans to do so Chase had always assumed she would end up out here, just like everyone else in her family had. She didn't like the peeling paint, it didn't bode well for her future or her past, both which were likely tied up in this house.
+
+She sat in the car waiting for a lull in the rain, but none came. At least this time there were no donuts to worry about. She grabbed her bags off the passenger seat, slung them over her shoulder and leap out of the car. She cross the drive in two quick strides and darted up to the side of the house where she could keep the house between her and the nearly horizontal rain. From there it was a easy stroll to the side door with hardly another drop of water hitting her.
+
+The house smelled stagnant and stale. She set her things on the kitchen counter and  made her rounds, checking the windows upstairs and down. Back downstairs on the coffee table Chase found a bill, along with a note from Duncan explaining that he had hired two kids down the way and that Chase's mother could pay them when she returned. Chase laugh loud enough that she startled herself in the silence of the house.
+
+She considered pulling down the boards on the front windows to let a little air in, perhaps watch the storm, but she didn't. She went to the back door and propped it ajar with a broom handle. She sat down on the floor, marveling at the utterly wildness outside. The dark swirling center of the storm still lurked off on the horizon, but already waves from the bay were beginning to break over the old wooden dock that stretched out across the marsh and reeds behind the house. She could see the cattails the wind had strewn across the small plot of grass just past the back deck. She stuck her head out and looked around the side to see the rusting swing set still crumbled behind the flat cement slab where the shed had once stood, it too a victim of a storm. The air smelled of the sea, clean, not like the air that hung around the marsh on quite evenings. The sea smelled of something far away, something unknown. 
+
+Hurricanes were really more her grandfather's kind of weather. He'd loved them back when they rarely, if ever, came up the Chesapeake. Her grandfather had never followed evacuation orders. If her mother was with them he would pack her and Chase in the car and send them back off to  hotel room in Annapolis. But when he was alone and later when it was just he and Chase they would board the upstairs windows, buy a few days worth of food and supplies and ride out the storms in the basement. Her grandfather seems to light up at those times, become considerably younger all of the sudden. They would sit in the sun room at the back of the house, she drinking ice cold tea, he sipping a perspiring bottle of beer. They would watch as the storm rolled up the Atlantic shore toward the mouth the bay, and the barometer that hung by the door of the porch began to fall dramatically. He would tell her about movements of air, the way the clouds circled around a singular point as the storm spun over the ocean. He could spend hours talking about clouds, about the massive movements of air that, for all the technology of the age, remained more than a little mysterious to both of them. Her grandfather had never come right out with it, but she came to understand after years of listening to him that he accorded the storms some kind of consciousness. There's something in them he said, something old, something we have forgotten. Later they would go inside and eat dinner by the light of a hurricane lamp, that's what it's for, he'd say with a grin. Afterward he would pour another beer and they would, if the storm were bad enough, head down to the basement where there were two cots, a couple of chairs and an old folding table where they could sit and play cards or a board game and listen to the rain lashing against the house. Few of the storms ever came up the bay back then, at most they would drop two days the wind and rain, clouds spun out from the arms of the hurricane, and then continue north, bouncing merrily up the coast, not making landfall until well past New York. The warming ocean had changed that.
+
+Chase had watched it change, spending her summers at the little house on the bay ever since she was a little girl. Back then she sometimes wondered if her mother was trying to get rid of her. It was only later, after her grandfather died and her mother moved out to the house that she realized what a lonely place the bay could be. She realized then that her mother wasn't getting rid of her, her mother was trying to keep her grandfather company.
+
+Not that Chase had minded of course. For her the marshes and beaches of the bay were a never-ending playground far greater than any amusement park she had ever heard her friends back in Massachusetts describe. But then she didn't have many friends back in Massachusetts. She was an only child and for the most part kept to herself even from a very young age. She had never particularly liked school and was known to throw tantrums every September when her mother flew down and collected her up for the beginning of the new school year. She tolerated school, but ultimately saw it as something that kept her from being at her Grandfather's house. Even later in high school she never missed a summer on the bay. Boyfriends and college prep class all had to wait, sidelined and insignificant next to Chase's world on the Chesapeake.
+
+Most of the old houses on the bay like her mother's, though Chase still thought of it as her grandfather's, had long since been torn down and replaced with massive mansions that no one called home, save perhaps whatever support staff were always on hand to keep it spic and span for the absentee owners who might, at most, show up once or twice a season to host some gala affair. "The rich on terrible holidays," her grandfather would say, shaking his head and smiling. Chase was perhaps ten. She had been unable to sleep, the noise from parties across the channel would bounce off the water and into her second story window. Her grandfather brought her outside to look at the stars. To listen to the party. He knelt beside her and pointed out across the bay to a light warbling on the choppy water. "That's where Daisy lives Chase." 
+
+"Who's Daisy?" 
+
+"That's the question isn't it?" He gestured out again and Chase followed his finger up to the wooden light post at the end of the dock, the source of the warbling light. "See that, see how beautiful that warbling light is Chase? It's like it's dancing for us." 
+
+She nodded and look up at her grandfather's face but he was lost somewhere out there, somewhere in the water. "it doesn't take anything really," he mumbled, "just a bit of water and the ordinary looks extraordinary... of course it always is. It always is."  
+
+Chase remembered sitting up with her grandfather on many nights, listening to the distant laughter and music. If they spoke it was to decided whether it were family party or a butter-up party as her grandfather called the other type of party on the bay. The latter tended to be louder, less inviting and went much later, often into the dawn. Sometimes, once she was older and the rich high school boys started to spread rumors about the cute, but possibly crazy, girl down at the end of the road, from time to time an invitation would arrive. Several times Chase went, every now and then showing up with her grandfather in tow, her date for the night. Then he became to sick to go to the parties. Then he was too sick to leave the house. Then he had waited, holding out against the cancer until the the first hurricane drifted up the coast. The first night it was visible from the bay, still far out over the Atlantic, he somehow pulled himself outside, revolver in hand, and shot himself in the chest. The storm had rolled by without dropping so much as a shower. Duncan had found her grandfather on the dock by the marsh the next morning.
+
+Chase had not entirely inherited her grandfather's love of hurricanes, or if she had it had been tempered over the years by the increasing ferociousness with which they wrecked havoc on the east coast. 
+
+Tonight there was no light across the bay. The old dock had long ago been washed away in a storm and no one had bothered to rebuild it. Chase contented herself with the far less impressive dock at the back of her house, which somehow managed to remain. There was nothing Gatsby-like about it though, just a simple wooden platform that was now so overgrown with reeds and grasses that it had become part of the marsh, which held it in place year after year until it was really more marsh than dock. Eventually her view of the dock and the marsh and the rain faded into darkness. The horizon disappeared and the rain began to change direction, beating against the back of the house.
+
+Chase closed the door and dug around the kitchen until she found a bottle of wine. She poured a glass and turned on her laptop to check the news. The weathermen droned on, projecting several paths for the storm, two of which hit D.C. proper, two which did not. All four of plowed straight through the Chesapeake. She flipped over to a more general news stream and listened to clip about a new longevity drug already on the market in Asia. Then there was a clip of the millionaire senator Bradford, the Democratic front runner of the moment, who, despite already being fantastically wealthy had for some reason decided to run for president. Chase shook her head wondering why anyone would want to do that. He was handsome though, in fact probably too good looking to be president she thought. She tapped a video note from her mother who said she was just checking in, making sure that Chase and house were together, in one piece. She decided not to respond. Instead, she poured a second glass of wine and pulled out the files she had brought along to keep herself company. There were two that intrigued her. One was an airman shot down over Guadalcanal at the beginning of the war, registered in a Japanese POW camp by the Red Cross, but unaccounted for after the Japanese surrender. Most likely it would require a trip to Japan, which she was told still did not much like anyone digging too deep into its recent past. 
+
+But the POW case wasn't what she wanted to pursue. 
+
+She pulled out the slip of paper that the prostitute in the impossibly short skirt had given her and stared at the name, Lt. Reese Lawrence. She smiled thinking about Steven's crack that perhaps it was simply the woman's pimp and he wanted Chase to sign up. Chase had frowned enough to make Steven feel uncomfortable and then said, "for that you get to do the research. Feed that name in your database and tell me what you get."
+
+Steven had managed to find the name in the database, but there was little more than an enlistment number, and a few orders that told of an assignment to flight training in San Diego and then a squadron assignment shortly thereafter. The squadron was shipped out to defend the Panama canal in January of 1942. That was it. Chase pulled a paper file upstairs, that basis for the data in Steven's database and found nothing more, save a hand written note clipped the back of the very thin file that said the airman was listed Missing in Action. That gave Chase her first feeling that something might be wrong with the Lawrence file. The handwritten note implied someone had worked the file, but there was hardly anything in it, more specifically, there was nothing in it that lent any credence to the notion that Lawrence was MIA. Either whoever had taken the case before her not worked very hard, which was possible. She mulled over the apathy of her coworkers as she slipped her wine, but lazy though they may have been it would be unusual not to at least sign the file and even more unusual to leave a hand written note. Chase had a hunch that something about Lawrence's disappearance made someone look bad. Someone with enough pull that the case had been shelved and the paperwork lost. Something like Steven's missing sniper where the bosses realized they were about to get a nice bucket of mud dropped on their faces and hurriedly made the whole thing go away. There had not been a lot of combat in the Canal area. In fact none that Chase was aware of, but of course almost half of the aircrew deaths in World War II were not combat related so the lack of Messerschmitts and Zeros in the area certainly didn't mean Lt. Lawrence hadn't gone down. In fact, with the primitive navigation tools they had used back then an alarming percentage of deaths could be attributed to pilots and navigators getting lost. The plane flew into a cloud bank and was never seen again. Just like Whitmore and Hume. Except that it was worse for pilots over the sea. It was, as the head of the coast guard search and rescue archive liked to tell her, a very big ocean out there and it was all one big hole waiting to swallow you up. Once the wreckage sank into the ocean, once the sharks got done with the survivors, there was nothing and no one left to tell the story.
+
+That was precisely why Chase was intrigued. Our stories are the only record of our passing and Chase hated it when she had the beginning of a story, and even the unfortunate end, but not the meat of it, not the middle where everything happened.
+
+Two things kept Chase awake at night. One was the thought that most stories were simply gone. The staggering number of lives that had been lived and yet left no trace overwhelmed her and left her feeling dizzy. The second was the thought that there were people out there that did not know the story of their husbands, their sons, their fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins, and, more recently, wives, mothers, aunts and sisters. The stories that had simply faded out. You waved goodbye full of fear and trepidation and then, that was it. There was no ending, no closure. If she had any guiding force behind her, and she was never quite sure if she did, it was this; to give the stories back, to record as many as she could so that everyone would know them, so that every life lived with leave some mark.
+
+Chase had loved history ever since she was a little girl. It had been part of her from a very early age. Her dolls did not have tea parties, they explored the Oregon Trail, clamored through the pine needle forests of the Sierra Nevada in search of the Donner pass and took the air with Amelia Earhart in a quest to be first around the world. Even the far end of the bathtub was nothing short of the Northwest Passage, or the Cape of Good Hope, depending on which books her grandfather had been reading to her at the time. 
+
+She was told she had an active imagination. She had heard her mother say as much many times, but Chase never saw it that way, even when she was older and knew what her mother had meant. For her it was never really imagination, it was retelling. It was reliving, finding herself inside the story. For Chase it was a chance to become a part of something much larger than the here and now, something bigger.
+
+It surprised no one that she majored in history. It was even less surprising that she stuck with it all the way to a PhD. What had surprised everyone, except perhaps her grandfather, though he had been dead some time by then, was that she had turned her back on what her professors assured her would be a promising academic career to work at a small, overlooked government bureau with little funding and no real career path to offer. 
+
+But it was a chance to reclaim stories. And for Chase it was always about the stories. Without the stories there was no point to history. Only statisticians cared who fought whom where and when. Only hindsight ever found a pattern to history, the truth was that history made no more linear sense than the present. Eliminate the illusions and misconceptions about what history is and eventually you discover the kernel of truth that Chase had always known: it is nothing but stories. Lose track of them and you lose everything.
+
+Chase set down the pink slip of paper pulled up a search window on her laptop. She hesitated, staring at the screen. She had been putting off a web search all day because she didn't want to know, she didn't want to lose the mystery. At the same time she had vague sense of unease about the whole thing. The strange encounter with the prostitute had left her feeling strangely exposed. Anyone could walk into the DPMO and ask for her, but whomever had sent the note did not. Yet whomever had sent her the piece of paper obviously knew who she was. What creeped her out more than a little bit was that this person seemed to not only knew the what DPMO was, but apparently had the free time to followed her around. Or perhaps he had only followed her that day. Perhaps, thought Chase, suddenly feeling little sheepish for being paranoid, perhaps this person had in fact gone looking for her at her office and, discovering that she was playing hooky, had simply been pointed in her direction as she walked out of the building. But then why not approach her directly? And even if it wasn't direct for some reason, why employ an outlandish prostitute to deliver your rather simple message. That of couse assumed the woman who handed her the paper was telling the truth. Chase considered for a moment that perhaps the story of the man was simply a ruse, something along the lines of *I have this friend...* But that seemed preposterous given the circumstances.
+
+She went through her memory, trying to see the people on the street when they had walked out of the building, when they had been talking on their way to the dinner, was their anyone familiar? Anyone that had been there more than once, anyone that was familiar because they were following her? She simply didn't see the world in those terms so there was nothing. She closed her eyes and went through her morning in her mind as though she might suddenly notice lurking in the shadows someone she had never noticed before. Nothing came. You can't will yourself to notice things that you have already not noticed she thought. Or maybe you could, but she was pretty sure you would need a hypnotist.
+
+She sighed and poured another glass of wine. Did it really matter? She was interested in the name, not he reasoning behind whomever gave her the name. If she just wanted the story it didn't matter who give her the name or why. The story was there to be found either way, the why didn't really matter. 
+
+She shoved the thoughts from her head and focused on the far more interesting question, what did this person expect Chase to do with the name? After turning it over in her head for a while, she decided she would do whatever she would have done if the name had come from her boss rather than some cloak and dagger obsessed individual. She plugged Lt. Otto Lawrence into the search box and hit return. Two dozen hits blinked up instantly. She narrowed the search by date, wrapping it around the years of the war and found almost nothing, which was odd. There should have been an official notice, something posted in the papers by the family. And of course the old War Department's records were also available online, to say nothing of WWII memoires, the sheer volume of which generally meant that almost everyone had been mentioned at some point. In every case Chase had worked so far there had always been an MIA notice or a KIA notice somewhere on the web. She expanded the search to pull in a few years after the war, since she realized that the MIA notice in Lt. Lawrence's file didn't actually have a date. Perhaps Lt. Lawrence had survived World War II and disappeared later in Korea or Vietnam. She added in enough time to cover everything up through the first Gulf War and found a few hits on Lawrence, including a Lawrence Foundation, but most of it seemed unrelated. She finished her glass of wine and sat down on the sofa.
+
+With little to add to her notes on Lt. Reese Lawrence her mind swung back around to the question of who wanted her to find him. She tried to distract herself. She logged into her news stream, checked the latest weather, and replied to a message from her mother and wondered absently if whomever it was that was, apparently, stalking her--the word made her glance up suddenly and look around the room as if an ax murderer might have suddenly slipped in--was also watching her public news feed. Her profile listed her job for all the world to see and she wasn't shy about posting questions when she needed outside help. If whomever it was knew enough about the DPMO to ask for her they must have also known that she didn't have the rank to charge off on her own whim, pursuing whatever she wanted. Her bosses, on the other hand, had that luxury, so why not ask them? Unless of course there was something about this Lt. Otto Lawrence or something about the nature of his disappearance that the mystery man didn't want revealed to higher ups. So, if the person wanted to know about Lt. Lawrence, but didn't want the military to know about him then why not go to an outsider?
+
+She dug around the web, looking for freelancers that specialized in veteran affairs. The sort of investigators rich families used when they wanted to solve something quietly. Something off the books. There were a few, but judging by the client lists they were allowed to divulge most would have no trouble accessing the same records Chase could, and probably a lot more. No real reason to not use an outsider. But this person had not. This person was trying to use Chase Kovele. When she phrased it in those terms the whole affair suddenly sounded entirely  crazy. Why in the world would anyone want Chase specifically? Chase wrote why at the bottom of an already full sheet of questions and notes about Lt. Lawrence. She drew a box around the question and stared at it while she listened to the rain lashing against the house. The wind was rattling the window boards, but so far everything had held just fine. 
+
+
+
+------------------------
+This needs to go, but there needs to be some good reason why this person, whoever it might turn out to be, has decided to pursue this via Chase...................
+
+Athother problem, though not necessarily with the section below is that the name is too common, there would be millions of Google hits, so either I need to rewrite the above slightly and make her process of narrowing it down a bit more believable, or I make the name something less common. 
+
+Then it hit her. You use Chase Kevele to send a message to the people above her. This person had known that Chase would walk into the DPMO and start asking questions. And of course she already had. Or at least had sent Steven to do it for her. They wanted to get someone's attention and they were using her to do it. The thought made her angry. You logged into her site and posted a message to the web. "I am not your errand girl, Mr. Paper. Find someone else" A couple of her friends popped in to ask what they hell she was talking about. Her college roommate took it as an anti-media rant, but as the stream of the web rushed past it was quickly lost without further comment. She closed the laptop and poured another class of wine. She was sure whomever it was would be watching. Your move Mr. Paper.
diff --git a/missing-persons/CH-3.txt b/missing-persons/CH-3.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5e3b267
--- /dev/null
+++ b/missing-persons/CH-3.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,80 @@
+Norm Canton retired from the Navy as a Commander to undertake a distinguished career as an occasional pinochle player, sometime golfer and frequent partaker in the 'leaven at lenny's breakfast group, a gang of retirees that frequented the Denny's down that street from his new condo on the golf course. Despite the, by many standards quite busy, retirement schedule, Norm could never shake the uncomfortable feeling that he was forgetting something, or that there was something he needed to do, somewhere to be. He had never had much practice in the art of loafing and, after years of it dangling carrot-like in front of him he found, regrettably, that it did not suit him.
+
+He was a stout man, barrel chested and square jawed in a way that suited a career Navy man. He kept his gray hair cropped short, they way it had been ever since the war, the way it would always be. He had developed a habit of rubbing his chin while thinking, something he willed himself to do early on in his career because he found it gave his men some extra measure of confidence in what he was about to say. The habit stuck and though it had been years since Norm sent men off carrier decks to die in the air over foreign countries, he had never stopped rubbing his chin when he got lost in some train of thought. 
+
+He found himself doing it now more than ever. Since Evelyn, his wife of forty years, had passed on his loafing retirement days had grown even more irritating to him. He tried to do like she said, keep yourself busy Norm. He got more serious about the model airplanes he had always built in his spare time. Serious enough to enter his intricately detailed creations in contests around the country. He found, on attending a few scale modeler conventions, that he was not the only ex-Navy man with the large rough hands who nevertheless spent hours on end pinning delicately etched plastic and thin decal insignia to tiny scale models of the planes he had once called home. It was better than watching television, but it wasn't quite what he was looking for. For that he had to run into Ed Wald. Or rather Wald had run into him. Both men still attended the annual reunions for pilots and crew of the 234 bomber group, but they rarely talked otherwise until Norm had moved down to Annapolis. It was at the meeting two years ago that Wald, whom Norm knew had left the service shortly after the war and, from what Norm heard, had done quite well for himself in the stock market, approached him about organizing the archive. In the end it proved to be the thing that had, prior to that day, been missing from retirement. It wasn't quite a good as looking after a carrier air group at sea, but it had been a long time since he'd done that anyway. Now he got to look after the memory of a carrier air group at sea.
+
+The archive, such as it was, was really just the storeroom in the back of Ed Wald's local VFW. For reasons Norm could never track down, Wald had become the de facto keeper of the squadron's memorabilia and non-essential records ever since the 234th had been official retired at the end of the Vietnam War. In typical military fashion papers and photos had simply been thrown into boxes and unceremoniously dumped in Wald's lap. Busy with his day trading at the time, Wald had simply dumped them on to the store room. It was just a makeshift solution with a more long term plan to be forthcoming. But of course that plan never came forth and eventually the task seems too monumental to even discuss, let alone do anything about. Until that is, Wald had met Norm at the reunion. What Norm discovered, after he had already agreed to the task, was a singularly massive mountain of paper and files that stretched from floor to ceiling and spanned nearly 40 years of flying history. Paper and boxes completely consumed a desk that Norm didn't unearth until his third or fourth day of excavations. The first day Wald was trying to point out a stack of boxes near the back when Norm made the mistake of turning around too fast only to collide with a stack of paper that crashed to the floor and blocked his escape. "Well, see, there you go, somewhere to start," said Wald as he gingerly retreated out the the room.
+
+It had been a monumental task, one that had kept him occupied for the better part of a year now and he still wasn't completely finished. The only way Norm could ever come up with the make it a more managable task was to make it personal. In its early days the archive was turned into the personal story of Norm Canton's career in the 234th, starting with some photos he found of himself at flight school in Pensacola Florida, circa 1955. Norm standing in front of a very dirty prop-driven plane, the eager young man following in his father's Navy footsteps. Norm had taken the image, along with a dozen others old photos of Norm and Wald and rest of the squardron just before they had shipped out for Korea down to Kinkos and had them digitally restored and enlarged. Norm had the photos framed and hung in a ramshackle, but Norm thought pleasingly so, manner behind the VFW bar. 
+
+Norm was studying a photo of Wald's old plane, the Tigress, contemplating the scripted lettering that ran across the flared exhaust cowling and sloped back down under the nose art, a long thin-legged nurse straddling a bomb. Norm was wondering for the five hundredth time why the hell a nurse would straddle a bomb when he heard the screen door behind him slam shut. He slowly spun around on the barstool and was about to tell whomever it was to go away when he saw that there was a far more real long legged, though clearly not a nurse, woman silhouetted in the darkness of the VFW.
+
+Norm studied her in silence before he said, "may I help you?"
+
+"I'm looking for Norman Canton." 
+
+He couldn't see much of her with the light behind her, but she looked young, not much over thirty. "Hmm. What do you need that old fart for?" He pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted at her.
+
+"I heard he's organizing the squadron photos and was hoping he could help me find some information." 
+
+Norm chuckled, "who told you that?"
+
+She sat down on the bar stool next to him and smiled. She was young, probably not a day over thirty he decided, with black hair that was cut short, just above her shoulders, like a military woman he thought. When she smiled her dark eyes relaxed and took on a good humored appearance that Norm found trustworthy, though he noticed that when she stopped smiling they had a very driven look.
+
+"I can't really say who told me that Mr Canton was organizing photos."
+
+Norm smiled "MmmHmm, I can't really tell you where Mr. Canton is..."
+
+"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound rude there Mr. Canton, I just really don't know who told me that. I got an anonymous message that I should talk to you."
+
+"If you knew who I was why did you ask for me?" Norm eyed her suspiciously.
+
+She gave him her best disarming smile, "it seemed the polite way to begin. But yes, the man sweeping outside told me you were in here 'studying the photos again' as he put it." 
+
+Norm snorted and turned back around. 
+
+She spun her barstool around and followed his gaze, taking in the jumble of photos, mean and airplanes, tents, racks of bombs. She caught the name Tigress on one of the planes. "The 234th, right?"
+
+He was startled and made no effort to hide it. "You seem to know an awful lot about me."
+
+"Not you. The 234th carrier squadron." She extended her hand, "Chase Kevele, I work at the Defense POW Missing Persons Office."
+
+Chase noticed him hesitate an instant and then he took her hand and smiled. "The POW office huh? You people do good work."
+
+She smiled. "We try."
+
+"What can I do for you?"
+
+"Well, it's a bit strange. To tell you the honest truth Mr. Canton, we're not looking so good on this one."
+
+"Call me Norm."
+
+"Okay Norm, here's the thing. My bosses gave me a case, gave me a name that I'm supposed to track down, locate, recover and file away right?" She watched him nod politely and decided he wasn't buying her simpleton act, but she was too far in to stop now, she plowed ahead. "Well, I went to find the file that would give me a starting point and it turns out the be a very incomplete file. There's only some enlistment papers, an order sending the cadet to flight school and then a transfer notice to the 234th. Somewhere along the way he was apparently even promoted all the way to lieutenant, but there's no record of that at all in the main archive. Well I was working the case as best I could." She leaned in conspiratorially, "by which I mean I moved on to something that had papers."
+
+Norm raised he eyebrows, but did not return her smile. 
+
+"It'd been several months, I'd put it out of my mind by this point, I mean, what could I do? Then, out of nowhere, just after that storm last week actually, I get a message to my inbox saying that I should come talk to you. Weird right?"
+
+"That is odd," said Norm though his voice said something else, more like that's irritating or that's boring, Chase wasn't entirely sure which. "What'd you say his name was?" Norm heaved himself off the stool and walked around behind the bar. He poured another bit of whiskey in his glass and then pulled up another and set it in front of Chase. She shrugged and he filled it for her.
+
+"I'm looking for a Lt. Reese Lawrence who, last thing I know, was assigned to the 234th, which then shipped out to Panama in 1942."
+
+Norm stared down at her glass. Chase wanted to pick it up and drink it down to help ease her nerves but she didn't want to break his lost in space spell in case he was tracking down the name somewhere deep the recess of memory. Finally he looked up, met her gaze for a moment and walked back around the bar, calling from near the end, "The squadron did start out WWII in Panama, but that name doesn't ring a bell. Of course that was years before my time." He sat down beside her and raised his glass, "to the fighting '34th." They toasted and she slugged back the whiskey in a single shot. She noticed Norm just sipped at his. "I started with the 234th in Pensacola, right out of flight school, '53 I believe it was. Shipped out for Korea on the USS... we were still flying the Skyraiders back then," He gestured to an aerial photo of a squat, ungainly looking plane that Chase knew, from earlier cases, had been the workhorse of the Navy for nearly two decades. "Ugly thing isn't it? Love that plane though. Best thing I ever flew. 'Course the A6 was a good plane too, but by the then I wasn't flying much anymore, mostly sitting up in the flight deck plotting missions. Anyway, I don't remember anyone named Lawrence coming up in stories and lord knows the old guys, the WWII vets, they did love to tell some stories. 
+
+Chase nodded and was about to press her case when Norm got up off the stool. "Of course it's been a long time, who knows what I've forgotten about." He gestured toward the closet, "all the records we have are over are over here if you want to look." He walked over to the back room and unlocked the door. "Can't imagine this stuff will be too helpful though, none of it's official. Mostly just photos and old plaques and the like." Canton stood by the door looking inside as Chase made her way over.
+
+"Photos are exactly what I'm after Mr. Canton, thank you."
+
+Chase spent over an hour digging through the files, most of which were letters and photos to and from home, along with a few post flight reports and other paper work that would, were it not she guessed for the nostalgia of the men who lived through it, have long since been sent to a pulping mill by now. 
+
+From time to time Norm poked his head in the door to see how she was doing, or answer a question, but mainly he let her have the run of the place, which struck her as odd because she had a nagging feeling there was something he wasn't telling her. After a while he retreated back out to his whiskey and photos and Chase started using her phone to scan some of the photographs still in the archive. Pictures of the planes and their crews, hardly more than boys, posing against a backdrop of palms and canvas tents. It looked hot, nearly everyone's t-shirts were ringed in sweat. 
+
+Sometimes she went back out to the bar and Norm pointed out the faces he remembered. Then she would go back into the archive and login into the DPMO site, uploading photos and tagging them with names, which could be used to find service numbers. The most useful thing she found in the still quite disorganized closet was a pair of squadron Christmas photos, one taken in 1941 in San Diego and another from 1942 in Panama. It would be hard work, boring work she knew, but she had done it before and she knew she could go through and match service record photos with the faces in the Christmas images and perhaps, by process of elimination, at least find out what Reese Lawrence had looked like. A picture was, after all, worth a thousand words. Especially when it came to jogging the world's memory about things it seemed to want to forget.
+
+The sun was setting by the time Norm walked her to her car. She thanked him, left a copy of her card and promised she'd let him know if she ever found her mystery man. She watched him in the rearview mirror, standing there in the parking lot, waving as she pulled out into the street.
+
+
+
+After she left Norm went back inside. No one would come tonight. It was Tuesday night, everyone went to Walt's house for poker on Tuesdays. Norm went inside and locked the door behind him. He went behind the bar and pulled out the bottle of Dewers and set it on the bar. He pulled the phone over from the wall and sat down. He poured himself a shot and slugged it back. He poured another and drank it. He picked up the phone and dialed the number he'd been thinking about all day. The connection was bad, the line warbled like it was underwater, but he recognized the voice. "We need to talk."
+
diff --git a/missing-persons/CH-4.txt b/missing-persons/CH-4.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..eba4171
--- /dev/null
+++ b/missing-persons/CH-4.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,119 @@
+"Let me get this straight. You think you can go through the DoD records and match the enlistment photos, or whatever photos, against this Christmas photo you found in some VFW?" Steven was talking with his mouth full again. Chase cringed and wondered how he could fail to realize he was doing it. She had tried telling herself that maybe the sight of partially masticated hamburger was a kind of art. Living art. But that idea never worked. Now she just insisted they sit side by side at a counter whenever they went out for lunch. That, at least, minimized the visual effects.
+
+"That's the plan, yes." She sipped her coffee, felt the acid rumbling in her stomach. She did not add *and you're the only one who who has access* because she figured Steven ought to be well aware of what she was asking. He was the one who had told her what he could do back when he thought, for a brief moment, that maybe she really was going to solve the Whitmore case. He'd volunteered his services, Chase saw no reason to think that offer had been limited to one particular case.
+
+"Well, okay, I'll help you pull the photos. Assuming you give me names."
+
+"I sent you a list of names this morning. Two groups. Early war and late war. The Christmas photo was labeled 1942, but in case that's wrong I pulled the squadron records for 1940-1942 and then 1942 to the end of the war. Start with the first group and we'll see where that gets us."
+
+"'We' huh?" Steven pushed back the plate of fries and twisted on his stool to face Chase. "Have you told Littrell what's going on?"
+
+"Of course not." Chase liked her boss. Littrell seemed to shared her genuine enthusiasm for the work. She had actually spent most of the morning debating whether or not to tell him about her freelance case, as she had come to think of it. In the end she decided she would keep it to herself for now. "I've already run the name through everything we have. I know as much as Littrell could know unless he started doing fieldwork. That one tiny file is still the only official thing I have." Chase looked out at the street. She had, ever since that day, insisted they come back to the same tawdry Greek diner. The walls were still yellowed with cigarette smoke, though it had been years since anyone had been allowed to smoke indoors. The booths that lined the back wall were tattered, orange foam tufts stuck up through rips in the black vinyl cushions. But Chase had come to enjoy the place. The food wasn't much, but coffee was good, and Chase could sit at the counter and stare out the window using the mirror in front of them. It let her keep an eye on the street despite having her back to it. Chase was half looking for the prostitute, but deep down she knew she would never see her again. And even if she did she probably wouldn't recognize her. Outside people had on overcoats, the northern winds were starting to blow. No one was running around in rubber micro skirts, not even prostitutes. Chase and Steven both had overcoats and yet they had still taken Steven's car down the to the diner rather than face the cold bite of the wind for  a dozen blocks.
+
+"That's not true." 
+
+"Sorry what?" Chase tried to focus on what Steven was saying, but something was nagging her, something kept drawing her attention outside.
+
+"That's not true. There was a handwritten note with the file right?"
+
+Chase nodded.
+
+"That means someone else looked into the case at some point... What sort of paper was it?"
+
+"What?" Chase had drifted off again, she was staring out the window, watching a man parked across the street, sitting in a green Lincoln, reading a newspaper. "What sort of paper? Um, I don't know, paper."
+
+Steven turned around again and grabbed her shoulder. "Listen Chase, You have to pull the file again, figure out what kind of paper it is."
+
+"Why the hell do I care what kind of paper it is?"
+
+"Because it might give you some clue as to when the person looked into it." Steven was grinning from ear to ear. "Figure out when the paper comes from and you might be able to get Littrell to pull the assignments log and find out who looked into it. Then you can track them down and find out what they know." Steven half bowed his head, clearly proud of this leap of logic, which, Chase had to admit, was clever, if not very practical.
+
+"All right. I'll give it another look tomorrow." She grabbed the bill and spun it around. She fumbled through her purse and pulled up a dollar fifty in change which she dropped on top of Steven's money in the tray. "Let's get out of here."
+
+Chase couldn't help watching the man in the car as she and Steven left the diner, but, as far a she could tell he never so much as blinked. *I've become paranoid*.Steven's car smelled of Nutter Butters. Down by her feet a handful of video game magazines that made for a slick carpet of crunching noises. They were two blocks away from the office when something made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. 
+
+Steven was stopped at a red light. Chase reached into her purse and pulled out some lipstick. She swung down the sun visor and angled the mirror back behind her. She brought her lips up and started to apply lipstick, but her eyes darted around the scene behind her. She saw nothing at first, and was at the point of admonishing herself again when she glanced across the seat at Steven's side mirror and saw, two lanes to their left, the same man in the same green Lincoln. Her heart started to speed up. 
+
+"Steven, change of plans, I totally forgot I told a friend I'd meet her down at the mall this afternoon." She glanced around, up a head, they were just about to TK, which would cut down to the mall where there were thousands of tourists milling about the monuments. 
+
+"Okay," he glanced over at her, surprised.
+
+"Tell you what, why don't you cut down TK, drop me off at TK and I can walk from there." She risked a glance backward behind Steven's seat. The man was not looking her way. He did not really look like the sort of man who would hire a prostitute to deliver a slip of paper. He did, however, look like the sort of man who would work for that sort of man. She risked another glance. He had close cropped hair, almost a buzz. Ex-cop turned PI she decided. She looked again. He was wearing some sort of sport coat, Chase couldn't tell the color, but it was dark, probably blue, maybe black. It probably went with a suit, though Chase could not see a tie. He wore cop shades, aviator-style glass that were almost mirrored. If he did work for the man she had come to think of as her employer than her employer had very strange taste in employees. What, Chase realized with a start, did that say about her? Of course it was entirely possible that this man did not work for her erstwhile employer, but was following her for some other, entirely different reason. But, while she acknowledged the possibility she knew she didn't believe it. Whomever he was and why ever he was following her, Chase knew it had something to do with the Lt. Lawrence case. 
+
+What surprised Chase was that it did not surprise her. She realized that on some level she had been expecting something to happen. Some part of her, some instinctual part she was not entirely familiar with had known something was wrong with the Lt. Lawrence case ever since she found the note Steven wanted to trace by paper history. But anticipating and living through were too very different things and Chase was pretty sure she did not like the later. She wanted to turn around and stare at the man, but she didn't want him to know she was on to him. But not turning around made her anxious, restless. She tried to keep herself from fidgeting in her seat. Instead she began to tap her foot against the pile of gaming magazines below, which prompted Steven to ask if she was okay. She sat up straighter in her seat, gave him her best fake smile, and assured him that she was fine. The truth was she was starting to not be fine. But mentioning what she was feeling to Steven struck her as absolutely impossible. She had begun to feel not just nervous but also embarrassed, *like the feeling you get when you dream you're naked in public* she thought suddenly. She realized she was blushing, but could not think why. Her hands had begun to sweat. She rubbed them along the sides of her seat, another nervous tic she willed herself to stop. But most of all she willed herself not the glance over her shoulder at the cars behind them. It was there, she knew it was there. She could feel it there. It was four long, excruciating blocks to their first turn and Steven hit every signal on the red. Chase felt like her heart was going to explode right out of her chest every time she saw another stoplight turn yellow just as they approached. Finally she turned to him in irritation, and told him that he needed to find a faster way to the mall or she was going to be late. Steven glanced over at her, unsure what to make of her behavior. More than anything he looked hurt, she decided. Typically male, when all else fails, look hurt. But he hung a left on tk and took a side street down toward the mall. Chase started telling Steven where to turn, leading him down increasingly narrow streets that would force the following car to reveal itself. The green Lincoln dropped further back, began to lag several blocks behind and other cars made sharp turns in behind Chase and Steven, but the Lincoln did not abandon them. Finally, when they were within a block of the mall, she told him to pull over and she hopped out at the curb, slamming the door behind her with barely the hint of goodbye. She knew as she marched away that if she had looked behind her that Steven's hurt face would have intensified, but she never looked back. She rounded a corner and ducked into a doorway, which turned out to be a bank alcove. She went up to the ATM, as if to use it, and instead watched as the man in the green Lincoln passed by, his head swiveling from side to side, clearly looking for something, most likely her.
+
+She waited until he was forced to make a decision; he turned left. Chase took off in the opposite direction, walking as fast as she would without drawing attention to herself in such a way that he might notice in his review mirror. She went two blocks without stopping and then crossed TK and headed into the grassy fields of the mall. She slipped into a crush of tourists thronging around a bus, getting ready for the long walk up to the reflecting pool. No one seems to think anything amiss with her so she tagged along. About halfway down the mall she moved over to another group, ignoring a few glares from this group, which clearly thought she was freeloading on their tour. That she had no headphones to hear what they were listening to did not seem to occur to them. She stuck with them only long enough to get the steps in front of the Air and Space Museum where she broke away and sat down to collect herself. She was quite sure she had lost the man, whomever he was, but she was also quite sure that if she went right back to work or even perhaps to her apartment, he would pick her up again. Chase was unsure what to do, so she called her mother.
+
+Her plan had been to ask her mother to come get her, but as it turned out, her mother was still in Las Vegas, staying with Aunt Elene now since Aunt Elene had apparently bought a condo out in Desert Shores. Chase momentarily wondered if perhaps she didn't need to drop her own problems and fly out to Vegas to stage some sort of intervention and stop her mother from, well, being in Las Vegas. 
+
+"Honey, I'm fine, no need to worry. I won't go spending all your inheritance." Chase's mother found this uproariously funny and Chase had to hold the phone away from her ear while her mother and Aunt Elene cackled in the background. "Seriously Chase darling, don't worry, we aren't even gambling. God, haven't even been to a casino room since I talked to you last. Done with that. There's so much else to do dear..." Chase could hear Elene snickering in the background and decided that she did not want to know any more details. Instead she told her mother she was headed out the Chesapeake house and to let her know if or when she might be coming home so Chase could clear out before she did. "Well then I'm not telling you. Clear out. What kind of way to talk to your mother is that?"
+
+"I only meant so you could have your space. It's your house mom, I'm just dropping in while you're out of town. So if you don't want me there when you get back, let me know. That's all."
+
+"Well don't worry dear I won't be back for another few days yet, we switched our tickets to next week. But I'd rather you were there when I got home anyway, that place gets so lonely out there this time of year."
+
+Chase assured her mother she would stay and visit, though she already knew she probably would find an excuse not to. She hung up and walked two blocks to the subway station. She got off an exit sooner than she would normally and walked the last half mile above ground, keeping an eye out for green Lincolns. She didn't see any, nor did the hair on her neck ever stand up, which she was beginning to trust more than she used to. She went in the office, told her boss she was going to be working remotely for a few days, grabbed her things and bolted. Steven watched her go, the hurt look having been replaced by a more honest general sense of bewilderment. Chase smiled at him and waved from across the room as she headed out the door.
+
+
+                                -----
+
+
+"So she just jumped out of your car and took off?" Elliot shook his head. The signal was slightly delayed, but Steven saw that he was going to drop his head in his hands and give one of his famously exaggerated sighs.
+
+Steven had been half-sitting half-leaning on the arm of Hiroshi's chair and craning his head down so that the camera atop the monitor would see him and send both their heads flying down the wires, under the ocean and back up into Elliot's London flat where it was, Steven glanced at his watch and did a little math, well past four in the morning. At least it wasn't that late in D.C. But then again, Steven thought suddenly, imagine how much more of a clusterfuck this could become before that time in D.C. Lovely.
+
+His back hurt and Elliot's disapproval was expected so Steven saw no point in sitting through it. He stood up and paced behind Hiroshi who was exhorting Elliot to cut them some slack. Steven admired his roommate's ability to take no shit and wondered absently, and not for the first time, if he would get more respect had he too had sold his first company at the age of eighteen. Or for that matter, if he had just sold a company. Or even started one.  
+
+"So what the hell did John do?"
+
+Steven glanced over at the arched doorway to the kitchen where John was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and brows furrowed. "I pulled back," he said drily, raising his voice to make sure that Hiroshi's Skype mic picked him up.
+
+"You mean you lost her?"
+
+John shook his head. "Yes asshole, I lost her." Look, why the fuck was I following around Steven's friend in the first place? That's the real question here. How the hell did we let you talk us into this crap? We had a good inside person who could help us. Now, thanks to your strange desire to play cloak and dagger games, we've spooked her to the point that if she ever does find out what's going on here she's sure as shit going to want nothing to do with us."
+
+Steven was pretty sure Elliot has missed about half of John's rant thanks to the damping acoustics of the room's stained beige carpet and the microphone's natural tendency to kick into mute mode, but it appeared, when Steven glanced over at the monitor, that enough of it had gone through to make its point. He leaned over the top corner of Hiroshi's new Aeron chair, lifted from the now defunct internet startup that had taken care of his visa, paid his way from Japan, put him up in this apartment with Steven and then, about eight months later, imploded. Hiroshi didn't seem worried, in fact he seemed to love being unemployed and, as he pointed out whenever Steven asked if he felt cheated, he had a very nice chair. Steven stuck his head into the camera frame and scowled at Elliot, "Seriously, I look like the asshole here."
+
+"No shit."
+
+"Fuck off man. I really don't care what you think of me, I don't care what anyone in Enigma thinks of me, but Chase is my friend. You don't do this sort of the thing to friends."
+
+Elliot sighed again. "Well, I have good news gents. I'm coming to straighten all this out. I'm coming to America."
+
+Steven and Hiroshi exchanged a look that more or less said, *no way he stays here*. Elliot stared at the screen looking a touch hurt. "No room at the inn, is that the problem?" He clapped his hands in the mic, which produced a loud crunching sound in Hiroshi's speakers. "Did I say anything about needing a place to stay you twats? Relax. I'm coming over for a Ruby conference, giving a talk actually," he paused as if waiting for someone to ask what it was about. No one did. "Anyway, I'll be in D.C. for four nights, two weeks from today actually."
+
+No one on the D.C. side of the conversation had anything to say. 
+
+"I think it'll be grand," Elliot continued. "Good to get over to the colonies every now and then." He leaned his face in closer to the camera and appeared to clicking around on his desktop. A moment later the background of his London flat was replaced by an image of the American flag. "It'll be good gents, first time we're all in the same room. The brain trust here can really put its brains together and figure something out, maybe come up with something that will take this investigation a bit further than our esteemed steven_42 has managed to do thus far."
+
+The conversation had devolved to username insults. Steven walked away from the camera and sat down on the leather couch that he and Hiroshi had gone in on back when there was money in the house to spare. He poked around on the coffee table, sifting through a few pizza boxes until he found the two they had ordered earlier. I pulled out the last slice of peperoni and ate it even though we wasn't hungry. He half-listened to Hiroshi and Elliot, but mainly he was thinking about Chase, which produced in him a feeling that thinking about Chase had never produced before: guilt. In the beginning it had seemed so simple, when they started searching there had been very little to go on. They used the same search tools everyone used, but they came up largely empty so Steven started plugging it into public government databases, but again there were no significant hits. Then one day he had been sitting at work, watching Chase from across the room for the millionth time, when he decided to try plugging the name into his own database. Nothing. Then he tried the DoD database, which technically he wasn't supposed to do. The DoD logged all its queries, even Steven's, but he decided no one would ever care. He barely looked at the log files for the systems he was supposed to maintain and he assumed that Walter Peabody probably didn't look very closely at his query logs either. After all the main point of a log was to have a record of what happened to the database in case something went wrong. It was pretty unlikely that anything was going to go wrong with a single search, so pretty unlikely that Walter would ever even notice that Steven had searched. He would see Steven logged in, but that wasn't unusual since the network Steven was in charge of was set up to connect to Walter's when it needed to. So Steven had just plugged in the name. 
+
+The crust of the pizza was a spongy, terrible thing that made Steven regret ever taking a bite of pizza in the first place. He tossed it back into the box. The first bite of pizza tastes very different from the last his father used to say. 
+
+He kicked at the pile of boxes suddenly, sending them flying up from the coffee table and onto the living room floor. What sort of people had obscene number of pizza boxes lying around their living room anyway? The flying pizza boxes drew John off the doorjam where he had been leaning ever since Hiroshi and Elliot connected almost a hour ago now. John sat down next to Steven, but didn't say anything. John was older than Steven, older than any of them, probably close to fifty Steven guessed, and John had been the Marines for twenty years which, apparently, gave one a great appreciation for silence. John didn't look like a nerd, and when they first met in person at a shortwave conference several years ago Steven hadn't liked him. John was old. He was divorced. He had kids. He talked to people he didn't know, said hello when he ordered coffee, called waitresses by their names. He did not fit any of the stereotypes Steven believed were traits of people he related to. And yet, despite all that John was definitely a nerd. He had that intangible thing that drew him to other nerds and Steven could sense the same thing in John that he had found years earlier in Hiroshi. He might not share Steven's social awkwardness or Hiroshi's blindingly single-minded focus, but John had the obsession and curiosity that Steven considered prerequisites for serious friendship and so, while it took longer, they had eventually become friends outside of Enigma as well as within it.
+
+Elliot Denning on the other hand was not a nerd. Nor was he something that Steven would ever call a friend. Elliot was an opportunist, as John had put it. He thinks there's something cool about nerds so he hangs around them Steven had told Hiroshi when he noticed Hiroshi was spending more time Skyping Elliot that Steven considered healthy. He and John had staged an Elliot intervention of sorts, but in the end it was decided that since Elliot actually had a bit of money, or at at least claimed to, they should keep him around. Hiroshi has taken to calling him our investor. There was also that small fact that Elliot was the one who noticed the transmission in the first place. Not that Steven or John or Jason wouldn't have eventually, but Elliot had actually found it. As he insisted on reminding them at least once a week in the chat room. Hiroshi, who had more experience with such things thought that Steven and John just didn't get Elliot's dry British sense of humor. "They're all a bit off over there, it's just a different language is all."
+
+Now Steven knew why he instinctively hadn't liked Elliot from the first time he had encountered his handle (lionhearted, cringe-worthy even by Enigma standards), because Elliot convinced him to do things that were very bad ideas. What he should have done was listen to his own instinct and done what he initially planned to do -- tell Chase the story from the beginning, asked for her help and if she had said no, well, then there it was. But he had a feeling she would have said yes. Clearly she liked a mystery, that much was obvious to him now. But now he had to explain why he had had a hand in sending her messages via prostitute, following her around after work and generally freaking her out enough to make her, apparently, leave town for a few days. 
+
+He wasn't looking forward to the conversation, but as he listened to Hiroshi and Elliot planning meetings around Elliot's conference schedule Steven suddenly knew he had to tell her first thing tomorrow morning. It would be over the phone, which he didn't like, but it had to be done even if it wasn't the ideal way to do it. 
+
+Ever since Chase had hurriedly gathered up her things and abruptly left work on a Tuesday afternoon, she had been calling Steven every morning and making him call in every favor he had with everyone he knew at the DoD. He was out of favors at this point and quite possibly out of friends as well, but he had managed to get her nearly thirty photos from service records, most of whom were not deceased, which meant that he had absolutely no business asking for them. Nor did she. But he had done it because he knew he would have done just about anything Chase asked him to do.
+
+"Stop beating yourself up about it, it's my fault. I didn't know she'd be that aware." John had leaned over and was speaking softly. Steven nodded.
+
+"Most people aren't that observant. Unless of course they're doing something wrong, then they look over their shoulder every two minutes..."
+
+"Well, we did sort of give her some confusing information and it's made her do somethings that she probably shouldn't have. So I guess she's one of those people now."
+
+John nodded. 
+
+"And I made her that way..."
+
+John snorted. "You might be taking a bit much credit there kid."
+
+Steven felt himself blush. He didn't like it when John called him kid. 
+
+"Come on Steven, I think you need to get out of here tonight. Let Hiroshi work out the details with Elliot and how about you and I go get a beer?"
+
+Steven didn't really want to get a beer. In fact he wanted to sit around feeling miserable about himself all night. Or even better go to bed. But it was Friday night. So he got up, threw on a nicer shirt and ducked out the door with John in tow, leaving Hiroshi and Elliot to scheme on their own.
diff --git a/missing-persons/CH-5.txt b/missing-persons/CH-5.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6fe9ec1
--- /dev/null
+++ b/missing-persons/CH-5.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,130 @@
+The living room was covered in photos, 8x10 images of young men, most barely old enough to shave, hair recently shorn away, eyes looking innocent, unsure, some frightened. All of them stared up at her from the coffee table, the couch and the floor where they were scattered. Chase curled her legs beneath her and leaned back on the couch. 
+
+She picked up the old squadron Christmas photo Norm Canton had given her. The men were arrayed around a P-29, the workhorse plane of Navy bombing squadrons in WWII. This particular P-29 had been christened the Emma Jean and bore a stylized image of a woman in a modest, 1940s-style bathing suit -- presumably Emma Jean -- astride a bomb. Someone had hung a Christmas wreath on one of the lower engine cowling flaps. The green and red of the wreath stood out against the dark blue plane, but struck Chase as odd since the rest of the photo made it clear the scene was int he tropics, miles from the nearest wreath-making pine or fir. When Chase looked closer with a magnifying glass, she realized the wreath was actually made from twisted reeds or perhaps banana leaves. 
+
+The men in the photo were spread out along one side of the plane, stretching from the propeller in the front all the way along the wing, with a second row of men squatting down in from of the first. Nearly everyone in the image wore regulation khaki pants. The men Chase assumed to be the officers had on matching khaki shirts. The rest wore simple white t-shirts, though a few were bare chested in the midday sun. Those with uniforms on had rings of sweat under their arms, in the background Chase could see the paltry patches of shade offered by palms and banana trees. 
+
+She set the photo back on the table and shivered. The house was cold, Chase felt a long way from the tropics and for a moment she almost envied the men in the photo. She wanted to be with them just then, just for a moment, to warm herself and ask a simple question, *excuse me, which one of you is Lt. Lawrence?* The job would be so much simpler with a time machine.
+
+Instead she had to contend with forty some odd headshots of servicemen that might or might not be in the Christmas photograph. Thanks to Steven's willingness to bend some rules and call in a few favors around the department, Chase had enlistment photos for nearly everyone listed on the squadron roster in 1941. Of those she had managed to narrow the field to forty, based on service records. Steven had then sent her photos of her forty which she printed out and started comparing to the Christmas photos. She had twenty matches she was sure of, ten more that she considered highly likely and eight more that seemed to look like, but perhaps not as much as she would have liked. That left two for which she had no photo, meaning she had, most likely, found her mystery man. Twice. 
+
+She had already resigned herself to the fact that nothing about this case was going to be easy, nothing about it was going to make sense, but even she had thought for sure this would work. It had seemed so simple, a process of elimination that would finally lead to an image she could then show to survivors. Provided she managed to track down some survivors. But now she had two unidentified men and twice as many questions.
+
+One of the men in question was a short, stocky, dark haired man sitting on the wing of the P-29, legs dangling in the air above the others in the photo. He was one of five that had climbed on the plane, the only one on the wing. At first his presence on the plane led Chase to think he was her man, since she considered it unlikely that enlisted men, squadron mechanics and like, would be climbing on the wings of the plane. But a bit of searching the net had set her straight. In fact the mechanics were more likely to be on wings than the pilots, who generally seemed to think of their aircrafts not as things, but as extensions of themselves, whereas for the mechanics they were typically birds, or girls, in other words, external things. One could climb on external things, one did not climb up on an extension of one's self. That would be perverse. Or at least that was how Chase had explained it to herself, though she admitted that perhaps she was over braining the question. Whatever the underlying reasons, in most photos she found of the era, pilots sat in cockpits, mechanics sat on wings. She also liked this theory because an unidentified mechanic was easier to explain than another unidentified pilot. Steven had already run through all the names in the squadron and failed to come up with another case in the DPMO. That didn't mean there wasn't another POW/MIA case to the squadron, just that so far there was no paperwork. Which again dovetailed with the theory that her mystery man on the wing was a mechanic who perhaps had simply been on loan, or just wandered into the photo for some reason. 
+
+There was no way to tell for sure the rank of the man on the wing. He was wearing only a strained white T-shirt and had no hint of insignia on him. Even on those men who did look to have lapel pins of some sort, it was nearly impossible to make out a specific rank. She'd even taken the photo down to the basement, dug up her grandfather's old microscope and tried to see if there were more detail to be found at that scale. There wasn't, unless you considered film grain to be detail. She called up a friend of Steven's in the tech department and sent him a scan to see what he could enhance it somehow. He had laughed hysterically and all but hung up on her, which she took as a no.
+
+After that she decided she was due for a break so put the image away for a while and took a walk. She walked the road, looking over the houses. Eventually she found herself standing in front of Duncan's house, talking to his wife Eileen who insisted she come in for a cup of coffee. Chase filled the couple in on her mother's adventures in Las Vegas and even let it slip that she was beginning to suspect her mother wasn't coming home. She ended up spending most of the afternoon out on the deck with her neighbors, watching the sun sink down over the mainland. Eventually she wandered back down the road in the dwindling Friday evening light and went back to her pictures. 
+
+The second unknown man in the image was squatting down in the very front. He had sandy hair swept back with pomade. His smile leaped out of the photo in a way that made Chase seriously doubt he was the sort of man anyone would forget. She certainly would not have forgotten him. He looked a bit older than the rest of the men and even in a white T-shirt he conveyed a sense of authority. Whether or not that meant an actual rank Chase didn't know. Of the two though, this one struck her as a Reese Lawrence more so than the man of the wing.
+
+Chase was suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. She had been doing nothing but poring over the photos for the better part of three days. She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. She got up and opened the fridge looking for something to eat. There wasn't much, save the Chinese takeout she had ordered two days ago. For the most part she was subsisting on boiled eggs, spinach salad and wine. She pulled out the Chinese and a half-full bottle of Rose. She flopped down on the couch, pulled out the cork with her teeth and drank from the bottle. The only way to drink Rose she thought with a smile.
+
+So there were two photos to pass around. That wasn't so bad she reasoned. And Steven had provided another clue earlier that more when he called her up breathlessly rattled off a store about the yellow paper that Chase had trouble following. Chase managed to slow him down long enough to learn the gist, which was that Steven had somehow managed to learn that the note in Lt. Lawrence's very skinny, unhelpful file had been written on a smallish lined yellow notepad manufactured for over thirty years by a paper company from Seattle. He was very vague as to how he had tracked that info down, which made Chase suspect perhaps he was stretching the truth a bit, but she was nevertheless vaguely impressed. She would have been more impressed if the window of time wasn't thirty years. She had already dismissed the information since a thirty year window did not help narrow down who might have once had the file, but then Steven pointed out that, while it was unlikely she'd ever know who had put the note in the file, she did know that apparently the DPMO had not started looking into Lt. Lawrence until the mid to late 1970s. In other words, it was unlikely any family had been pestering the department after the war, looking for information on their missing son or brother or husband or father. It was, in short, unlikely that anyone had missed Lt. Lawrence. That also meant there was unlikely to be many people who knew what he looked like. That bit of information had derailed Chase's plan.
+
+The wine began to warm her belly. She reached over and turned on the lamp by the window and watched her reflection in the dark glass. On one hand the absence of relatives made her job harder. There was no one to track down, no one to interview, no one to produce War Department telegrams with dates and other helpful information. There were fewer data points to place on the timeline. On the other hand the fact that no one appeared to have missed Lt. Lawrence made the case even more intriguing. Here, thought Chase, was a story that truly needed saving, a person who had vanished, leaving hardly a trace of their existence behind.
+
+The wine made Chase restless. It was quiet late, but she brought up Norm Canton's number and recorded a brief message asking him to meet her for breakfast the following morning. She told her phone to send it straight to voicemail.
+
+She opened the back door and went out on the deck. It was a lovely night, crisp and clear. She stared up at the Big Dipper, followed Orion's belt down, her eye draw to the faint purple hint of light and city on the far western horizon. She drank more of the wine, sat down in the white plastic chair she had previously pulled out of the basement. She could smell the Potomac, she thought about the river, somewhere further up the bay, running all the way from the Pennsylvania mountains, perhaps even further she reasoned, though she knew from a few camping trips as a child that river ran through the hills north of Pittsburgh. It ran all the way down to here, where it was swallowed up by the Chesapeake Bay and drug out to sea. All that water disappearing into so much more water. All these people disappearing somewhere, disappearing into so much water, so much time.
+
+
+                                -------
+
+
+It was still chilly the next morning. Chase dropped the keys twice trying to lock the front door, her numbed fingers fumbling with the cold metal. Just an hour earlier Norm Canton had woken her up to say that not only could he do breakfast, but if she was game she could sit in with the 'leven at lenny's group. From what she gathered the 'leven at lenny's group was a meeting of eleven or so people at a Denny's on the outskirts of Annapolis, down by the bay. Norm suggested she come since there would several other men from the 234th on hand that morning.
+
+The Denny's was, as Norm had said, probably the nicest Denny's she had ever seen. The parking lot backed up against the highway, but inside the usually drab brown and yellow decor of Denny's was considerably improved by virtue of a spectacular view out over the north end of the Annapolis harbor where hundreds of ships were berthed in slips leading well away from the shore, a series of wooden dock that extended out as far as Chase could see. Once a fan of Denny's, back in her hard drinking, greasy food craving hangover days, Chase had, along with most everyone else under 65, realized that Denny's was incompatible with the figure she liked to keep. At some point though, to judge by the group of the men Norm introduced her to, one stops caring so much about the size of one's waistline and, presumably, re-embraces Denny's.
+
+The 'eleven at lenny's group was ensconced in a giant booth in the back corner closest to the parking lot. Norm spotted her as she came in the door and waved her over, he was obviously quite proud of her, or himself for knowing her, Chase wasn't sure, and it was clear that Norm had upped his status with the group considerably by bring an attractive young woman to the table.
+
+Chase tolerated some leering she might not have were she not trying to ingratiate herself a little bit, at least with Norm and Charley Shummaker, who, according the Norm, knew some of the older WWII era men in the squadron. Shoe, as Shummaker was universally known to his friends, was older than the rest of the men, but had retained more of his hair and, despite the weathered face, looked not unlike the instinctively trustworthy faces found in home loan brochures. His hair was a deep silver and was kept slicked back atop his head, a slight wave from a cowlick in the back. She wanted to compliment him on his hair, on his lucky genes, but doing so would require explaining why she knew what he looked like in 1954.
+
+Shoe took it upon himself to explain the group to Chase. She settled in to the booth, wedged between Norm and Shoe and proceeded to travel back in time with Shoe whispering in her ear, guiding her around the table telling the unit info and background of all the men in the booth. Most had not been in the 234th, though two others had not come over to Korea until the end of the war. "All they ever did was eat Dim Sum and chase whores in Tokyo," Shoe waved his hands dismissively, but good naturedly at the men. "Least we could land our planes" shot back the younger of the two.
+
+What?" Chase asked in mock horror.
+
+"It's nothing, nothing at all."
+
+"Oh come on Shoe, tell her the story."
+
+Shoe turned away and flagged down a waitress for some more coffee. "And maybe some bibs for my friends over here, this lovely young lady is causing excessive drool I believe." The waitress laughed, Chase smiled, but she pressed him because she knew he wanted to tell the story.
+
+"Okay, well one day, now," Shoe paused and looked her over, "I don't know how much you know about the Korean War, most people these days don't even know there was a Korean War."
+
+She nodded thinking about Norm's lecture. "I know the gist of it, North and South, divided still on what was the front right?"
+
+Shoe nodded, "more or less I suppose. Did you know the war never ended? Most people assume there was truce or an armistice or something, but there wasn't, just a little cease fire agreement. That's why we still have a massive military presence in Korea. You go over there some time, go up to the DMZ and have a look. That war is still going on, you have to see to understand. Might be that no one is shooting right now, but the war is definitely still going." Shoe was staring at his coffee, appearing to drift off somewhere. "Where was I? Oh, right," he smiled and glanced around the table. "It was late in the war, maybe two weeks before the ceasefire. We never really knew what was happening on the ground, but for us it had been weeks since any serious anti-aircraft guns had been firing. Maybe because we had backed of the bombing so the diplomats would look better at the ceasefire talks. Maybe it was because the gunners knew the talks were happening too. If they don't fire no one knows where they are, no one calls in an air strike. The other guy wants to live too you see... not just me, that's what I learned over there, the only people that want a war are the people that don't have to go to it." Shoe laughed bitterly. Chase glanced around the table and noticed that the other conversations had stopped. The rest of the men were nodding along with Shoe. 
+
+"Jets came in in Korea you know? We were still flying propeller planes, turbo props they called them at this point. But the jets were faster and those jet boys were pulling all the bombing missions late in the war. Toward the end, even before the ceasefire talk started we stopped doing any bombing, they had us dropping leaflets. You know, little propaganda flyers we'd spread all over the hills, try to convince them to throw down their weapons. Stupid assignment, god I hated those mail runs. Hell of a thing to risk your life for, some paper. Mind you, we knew that paper was just going to wind up shit smeared in woods anyway. I'da preferred the fuckers used leaves. Pardon my French. But I dunno, maybe it worked. Maybe it did something. I mean it's not like there was much else. Radio I guess, but the more isolated troops, the ones dug into the valleys, they weren't going to get any radio up in the mountains. It's not like we had all these phones and gadgets you kids have today. We didn't have all that see?" He leaned into Chase and gently elbowed her in the ribs.
+
+"You're kidding?" Chase gave him a deadpan look.
+
+"Oh, a smart one are you. Okay. Okay." Shoe laughed and nodded. "I suppose you know how to fly a plane too huh? You know it's not all grabbing a stick and yanking it around."
+
+Chase raised her eyebrows. But Shoe seemed to have not even considered what Chase was thinking about. 
+
+"The stick is important, but you have to work your feet too, see. There are two pedals down there for your feet, stomp on the right one you go right, stomp on the left one you go left. Pretty simple right?" Shoe chuckled. "well, I mean it's a good idea to practice that a bit before you head off on your own into that wild blue yonder." Chase noticed the rest of the table was looking at her smiling. "Well we're out this day flying somewhere over North Korea, and some asshole takes a potshot at me. Probably with a fucking hunting rifle or something, pardon my French young lady. Anyway this son of a, this--guy gets lucky and puts a bullet into my plane. Blasts into the engine, cuts some hoses and then ricochets back and blows right through my left foot. Well, actually they never could tell me if it was the bullet that went through my foot or some piece of metal it tore lose. Either way it hurt like a son of a bitch and all I know is one second I'm fine, headed home to the ship and then next I'm half blind from smoke and there's a hole in my foot. Not good."
+
+Chase instinctively glanced under the table, but he was, naturally, wearing shoes. "I take it you made it back okay?"
+
+Turner and the man with the mustache were snickering, Shoe glared at them. "I did make it back just fine. My foot hurt like a son of a bitch."
+
+"Is that why they call you Shoe?"
+
+"No, they call me Shoe because Shummaker was too long for these hicks to figure out. Anything over four letters and they're lost."
+
+Chase glanced around and noticed that everyone was nodding. Shoe's story was clearly not done, nor, apparently, was anyone tired of it.
+
+"So then what happened?"
+
+"Well, I have a hole in my foot at this point and that's making it very difficult to steer the plane. The engine is leaking oil, pressure gauges are spinning like tops and I've lost my radio. So Canton here, he's using hand signals, trying to find out what the hell is wrong with me. We drop back a bit and fly lower, heading into a cloud so we hide the smoke. It's one thing to fly over people that are tired of war, it's another thing to limp along trailing smoke. That draws fire from even the most uninspired troops. But I manage to fly her back, one-footed. I tell you what, I was never so glad to see a ship as that day. We dropped down out of clouds just off the coast and then there's The Mighty Kay, *the Kearsarge*, turning into the wind... Man, I still remember that feeling, that feeling of wow, I'm going to make it. So then I have to come in on my own, no one to call the ball, nothing but flags, but I managed to hook the third wire, damn near perfect landing." Shoe broke into a smile and everyone at the table began laughing.
+
+"What?"
+
+"He never put the gear down on the plane," Canton leaned in to make himself heard over the laughter at the table. "He was so damn worried about steering he forgot to put the landing gear down." Canton slapped the table and began to laugh again. "He did do a picture perfect belly landing though. But of course command was furious about the plane." Canton lowered her voice, "squad commander at the time swore Shoe would never fly again on his watch."
+
+"Did he?"
+
+Norm took a sip of coffee. "Squadron commander was shot down two days later in almost the same area," said Norm quietly. The merriment at the table had died down as the waitress cleared away their plates. "I guess he forgot to write that order down, because Shoe did fly again. He was a test pilot out at Edwards after the war. Yeah, Shoe flew again," 
+
+Chased listened politely to few more stories, most of which did not involve the war in any way. Gradually the men began to leave, all of them making sure to shake Chase's hand before they did. Eventually it was just Norm, Chase and Shoe. 
+
+"I presume you didn't come here to hear about why I only have half a foot..."
+
+"Well, actually I did. In part at least. Norm wanted me to meet you before I asked if you could help me."
+
+Shoe guffawed, "well, you've met me. Still want my help?"
+
+"Very much so." Chase drew the photo out of her purse and slid it across the new empty table. "I need to know who these men are? The ones circled, there, down in the front."
+
+Shoe fished his glasses from the pocket of his flannel shirt and slowly unfolded them, all the while looking at the photo. He flipped it over. "Christmas 1941," he read aloud. Shoe glanced over at her and then turned the photo back over and studied the image for a while before glancing up, over the rims of the glasses at Norm. "I don't recognize any of these men, hard to tell cause they're pretty small and my eyes aren't the best, but this is well before my time."
+
+"Yes, I'm aware of that," She looked down at the photo. "Norm told me though that you might know some of the men from the old days, men that were with the squadron during WWII..."
+
+Shoe took off his glasses and set them down on the photo. He rubbed his eyes. "I do know a few of them. Or I did, most of them are dead now Chase, it's been over seventy years."
+
+Norm excused himself to the restroom. The waitress filled Chase's coffee again. Shoe shook his head. "What's this photo to you anyway?"
+
+Chase told him about the DPMO and what she did. She did not tell him anything about the peculiarities of the case. She was careful not to lie, rather she just omitted a few details. As with all the veterans she had met the idea that anyone cared enough to track down their comrades, even if they themselves had never known them. 
+
+Shoe nodded his head, staring down at the empty cup on coffee on the Formica in front of him. He glanced over at the bathroom and then back at Chase. "I have heard the name once." Shoe glanced again at the bathroom. "Just once, but I remember it because it was odd. Damn strange I mean. I was in Tokyo, five or six of us had been granted some leave... would have been '53 I believe. Major Willis, our commanding officer at the time, he was shot down and killed about two weeks later, but he had been with the squad from the beginning, all through the Pacific, all the way back to this photo I bet." Shoe paused, Chase was nodding.
+
+"I don't recall which one he is, but he is in that photo."
+
+Shoe nodded. "O'Hearn was the other fellow with me and Willis. I don't think O'Hearn was probably in that photo, but he was definitely there for most of the Pacific war. Never could figure out why he stuck around, guess he just liked flying, didn't seem to mind being shot at even." Shoe spun his empty coffee cup gently on the saucer. "So Willis and O'Hearn and I, we were at a, um, a bathhouse." Shoe smiled weakly at Chase. "Don't tell my wife."
+
+"I wouldn't dream of it."
+
+Shoe nodded. "I'm sure she suspects worse. Anyway, the way those things worked, you got your girl, went off to a private bath and then when you were finished you came back and you could sit in a kind of steam room. Well the room my girl took me to was right next to the steam room. We go about our business and we're lying in the bath after, just luxuriating you might say," She smiled at her. " I remember lying there in the warm water, listening to the Major and O'Hearn tromping down the hall into the steam room., All the walls in Tokyo, they're made out of rice paper you know?" Shoe shook his head. "Anyway my girl said something to me and I couldn't hear exactly what O'Hearn said, but it ended with 'you mean like Lawrence...' and the next thing I know the Major and O'Hearn come crashing through the wall, both of them naked, the Major trying to strangle O'Hearn. I had to separate them like children. And of course I was naked too so it should have been hilarious, but it wasn't. And that's what I remember. Neither one of them would say a word to me or each other for the rest of the day." Shoe leaned back in the booth, stretched both arms over his head and then slumped forward with a heavy sigh. "That's probably not much help I know, but that's what I remember." 
+
+Shoe clearly wasn't finished, but he paused, looking at Chase with what she imagined must have once been quite a sparkle in his mischievous eyes. "My memories might not be much help, but lucky for you I can do one better. I could take you down to talk to O'Hearn."
+
+Chase grinned. Norm had already told her that Shoe would take her to see O'Hearn, but he'd insisted that the key to getting Shoe to do anything was to make him feel like it was all his idea. Now that she'd seen it all come around she couldn't suppress a little laugh.
+
+"Now, O'Hearn," continued Show, "he turned, must be, I don't know, must be about 95 by now, so I don't know how much of him is still left or if he'll even want to talk about this stiff, but we could try if you like. I've always wondered what that was about myself."
+
+"You've been wondering much longer than me Mr. Shummaker, but I'd love to come with you."
+
+"Please, no one calls me that. It's just Shoe."
+
diff --git a/missing-persons/CH-6.txt b/missing-persons/CH-6.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ed417f3
--- /dev/null
+++ b/missing-persons/CH-6.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,141 @@
+Chase knew from the moment that Steven's car pulled up to the curb outside the United counter that something was wrong. Chase had returned her mother's car to the airport's long term parking lot and caught the shuttle into the terminal where she milled around for half and hour before Steven called and said he was entering the labryinth of Dulles International Airport.
+
+She saw him from a distance, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel at a signal light. He was watching the travelers wheeling luggage through the crosswalk in front of him, but also, she was pretty sure, talking to himself. 
+
+He barely said hello when she climbed in the car. She could tell that something more than what could be accounted for by simply her strange behavior of the previous week was bothering him. She could see it in this eyes, the way they remained fixed on the road, glued to it even, as if looking away would reveal somethinng. Traffic was heavy as the car wound the beltway back toward Chase's apartment in TK. The sunset painted the sky red. Chase and Steven sat in silence, he staring ahead at the rows of red lights leading into the city and she out the side window thinking about the concrete monuments of D.C. and the rice paper walls of Tokyo, wondering if there might still be rice paper walls or bathhouses or if she'd ever be sent to Japan. She should she knew, be working on something entirely different, but somehow she couldn't let this go.
+
+It didn't surprise her when Steven said he wanted to stop by his appartment first. She knew he had been prepping for something, had something to get off his chest and while she wanted to appease him, to get him back to the normal, friendy Steven she liked, she was beginning to feel a lot like they were dating and he was going to say at any moment, *we need to talk*. It wasn't a feeling she enjoyed.
+
+Steven's apartment was surprisingly nice, much nicer than her own Chase thought, wondering just how much more the tech department was paying. But while nice it suffered from what Chase believed was the death of the air that happened in most male-only households, some combination of two many pizzas, discarded gym clothes and dirty dishes combining with a lack of open windows and sunlight to produce and effect that never failed to make her glad she was single. 
+
+Steven's roommate was glued to the largest computer monitor Chase had ever seen, bigger in fact that most televisions she had been around. As if that weren't enough there were two other monitors, one on each side turned vertically. He mumbled a greeting, but did not turn around until Steven announced her name at which point the man froze, pounded out what seemed like an entire sentence on the keyboard that causeed all the monitors to go dark and spun around in the chair smiling at Chase.
+
+"Miss Kevele," Hiroshi stood up and crossed the room toward Chase, arm extended. He took her hand in his, "it's so good to meet you, I've heard so much about you."
+
+Chase glanced over at Steven who was blushing. "Just Chase please, otheriwse I think you're talking about my mother."
+
+Steven pointed from Chase to his roomate. "Chase, meet my roommate, Hiroshi."
+
+Hiroshi was still holding her hand, she gripped his slightly tighter, shook it once and then let go. Steven sat down on the couch, Hiroshi dropped the floor and sat cross legged, looking up at her expectantly. Chase dropped her purse into an arm chair and sat down in front of it, on the edge of the chair. "What's going on here exactly?"
+
+"You did not tell her anything?" Hiroshi's voice revealed surprise. Steven shook his head.
+
+Hiroshi let out a big sigh. "I am sorry to have to be the, how do say, bearer of bad news? But we have lied to you."
+
+"Lied to me? About what?"
+
+"About Lt. Reese Lawrence."
+
+Chase wasn't sure what she had been expecting Hiroshi to say, but she certainly had never imagined that it would involve anything remotely related to Lt. Lawreance. She felt her jaw drop down involuntarily and her mind swam with confusion. "What? What do you mean? What do you know about Lawrence? She glanced at Steven.
+
+"The paper we gave you, the paper the woman gave you... It was from us."
+
+"Steven, what the hell is he talking about?"
+
+Okay, look, now first, before you totally freak out, this started off as a very simple thing. We got the transmission, Eliot found the name and I was jsut going to ask you to look into it a bit because that's what you do Chase, there's no one else quite like you when it comes to tracking these things down..."
+
+"It's mostly Elliot's fault," broke in Hiroshi. "He thinks that we shouldn't have any links between us and you for some reason which is known only to him and might not be a reason at all since we don't really know Elliot as well as we thought we did, or at least I dont." Hiroshi tooka deep breath and plunged forward. "Then that aweful hooker woman wouldn't mind her own business and just took the paper over to you and at that point it was too late, so we jut kept going with the plan, but the John messed up and you saw him and you freaked out and then it was a big mess and Steven felt aweful and we knew we had to tell you even if Elliot didn't like it." Hiroshi lowered his head and stared down at his lap.
+
+Chase glanced back and forth between the two of them waiting for either or both to start making sense, btu neither of them would look at her. "Okay, wait, so you're saying that *you* two are the one's who want to find out what happened to some pilot in WWII?"
+
+Steven nodded sheepishly.
+
+"Okay," Chase took a sharp breath and exhaled slowly, willing herself to remain calm. "You're going to have to start at the beginning and tell me the whole story. Slowly."
+
+They tell her the story about the radio signal 
+
+
+In the explanation of radio for espinoge work in something to point out that radio is not networked, not prone to network failure, all it requires is a bit of power to broadcast and someone with an anttane to recive, which to this day makes it considerably more reliable than any networked for of communication.
+
+Need to work in a way to conveying Hiroshi's accent and adding something more human about this scen, more descripion of the house perhaps, something to make it come alive since theis is the meat of the setup.
+
+
+And of course she has information that the nerd cabal does not -- everything that Shummaker has told her about Japan and the fight -- which she does not tell them.
+
+After this we jump to the trip with Shoe to see O'Hearn, using what's below, but moving the scene and flushing out O'Hearn a bit. Then we need some rapid action I think, something to move the plot and action forward to Florida where she'll learn that her man disappears while they were stationed in Jamaica and then she gets the date from the records down there and cross references that with flight and boats in the area... nothing, save the Uboat spotting. Somehow Sil gets worked into this bit.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+After she left Norm went back inside. No one would come tonight. It was Tuesday night, everyone went to Walt's house for poker on Tuesdays. Norm went inside and locked the door behind him. He went behind the bar and pulled out the bottle of Dewers and set it on the bar. He pulled the phone over from the wall and sat down. He poured himself a shot and slugged it back. He poured another and drank it. He picked up the phone and dialed the number he'd been thinking about all day. The connection was bad, the line warbled like it was underwater, but he recognized the voice. "We need to talk."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+All of the below can be re-worked into the scene between Shoe, Chase and O'Hearn at the rest home.
+								------
+
+
+
+
+It took her four days in the DoD archives but she managed to match nearly everyone in the photo to their service records. In the end she came up two short. The photo Norm Canton had given her either included two men that were not part of the squadron or its auxiliary crews, or she had found her mystery man. Twice.
+
+She was back in Annapolis by the end of the week.
+
+This time Norm Canton wasn't around, but another former '34er by the name of Ed Wald let her in the office and, for what it's worth he said, after staring for a while at the photo said he did not recall either of her mystery men.
+
+She spent half of the night poring over more photos, trying to find the men in any other photos, but there was nothing. By the time she gave up the bar out front was in full swing with Ed and several other men shooting pool and playing old Merle Haggart and Johnny Cash songs on the jukebox. Chase let them buy her a couple of drinks and listened to a few stories about Norm's efforts in organizing the archive. Eventually hunger persuaded her to leave and she followed their advice to an all-night diner down by the wharf. It was starting to rained when she pulled in and gathered up her things for an all-night retracing of her steps.
+
+She found a empty booth by the window and watched the rivulets of rain run down the window while she waited on a patty melt and fries. She was just finishing the food when a man approached her booth and sat down without saying anything. It took her a minute, but she recognized him form the VFW. She was startled enough by his strange entrance that she didn't say anything, she just stared stupidly at him. he seemed nervous, as though he were in hurry, but unsure how to begin.
+
+"Ms. Chase..."
+
+"Just Chase."
+
+"Sorry. Chase. This man you're looking for, is it all the same to you if you find him or you don't?"
+
+Chase was taken aback, it wasn't a question she had been expecting. She thought about saying something about the family's right to know, but sensed that the man, Shummaker, she remembered Wald calling him, though she had never caught a first name, wasn't going to buy the family angle. "I guess it might be, but I like to think that everyone's story is worth being told, that we all live on a little bit as long as someone knows our story, knows something of us."
+
+Shummaker nodded, rubbed his chin and said nothing for a moment. "Some stories have a lot of pain in them..."
+
+"Almost all of them do."
+
+"So why tell them?" 
+
+Chase sighed, she had thought that Shummaker might have some helpful tidbit to pass along, but she was beginning to doubt that. "Avoiding the pain doesn't make it go away. You can't just bury it and hope that somehow no one will ever find it."
+
+"Hmph. I think you might be able to do just that actually. A lot of things happened in the war, a lot of things that each of us who is there will take to the grave and story will be gone, the pain will be gone."
+
+Chase didn't say anything.
+
+He nodded some more, picked up the salt shaker and rolled it between his hands. "You don't think about it, but every day when you wake up you're glad you did. You should think about that because there might well come a day when you aren't glad you woke up when you realize that everyone you ever knew is already gone and you're just hanging around. The doctors tell me I'm dying. Taking damn long enough" He smiled at her. "It sounds funny I know, specially to someone as young as you, but that's what I wish I had, that feeling of not even noticing that time is passing, not even thinking about it." O'Hearn stared up at the ceiling. Chase couldn't help glancing up, wondering if he was counting the dots. Shoe was quite, folded his hands in lap and stared at them.
+
+"The closer I get to the end the more I think that all those little lies we've all told over the years, even the very innocent lies, they all add up to something bad, something very bad that we have to drag around with us everyday..."
+
+"Lies?"
+
+He waved his hand. "Nothing specific to do with your man, I mean all our lies, the lies you tell yourself at night when you look in the mirror before you go to bed, the lies you whisper in the children's ears to help them sleep at night. All of it builds up, it grows, it becomes a thing inside you that you have to carry around. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to unburden myself just because I know I'm dying. I don't care about me at all, it's them I want to help..." he trailed off and fell silent.
+
+Chase pulled out the photo. She pointed to the man she thought was Lt. Lawrence. "That's Lawrence isn't it?"
+
+Shummaker looked down at the image. He nodded. "That's him, but I never met him, just saw the photo in the Major's billfold is all."
+
+"He dove at you for opening his wallet?" Shoe looked incredulously at O'Hearn.
+
+O'Hearn nodded. "I'd heard some stories when I was sent out the Essex in '45, but then I pulled back to train in the jets and wasn't around for a few years. I remember the name though, Reese Lawrence. Weird name you know, Reese, that was all I really though about at the time.  Then I found that picture in the Major's wallet years later and I asked who it was. He said it was Lawrence The major got a bit angry and I was just teasing him a bit. Next thing I know I'm on the ground in the other room and major is trying to kill me. I don't know anything more than that really. I assume that's what you're going to find out. Major never would talk about it. " 
+
+She nodded. "So, when you say he left, what... he went AWOL?"
+
+O'Hearn look uncomfortable. "Something like that."
+
+Then it clicked and her eyebrows shot up. "He deserted?" 
+
+Shummaker's eyes went wide. O'Hearn shrugged. "I really don't know." 
+
+"I'm looking for a deserter?"
+
+"You're looking for someone who doesn't want to be found."
+
+Chase's heart was beating so hard she was sure Shummaker could here. She said nothing and he eased out of the booth without looking at her again. She watched him walk out of the diner and amble across the parking lot to a '70s Impala. She couldn't get the idea out of her head, I could be looking for someone who's still alive.
+
+
+
diff --git a/missing-persons/CH-7.txt b/missing-persons/CH-7.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..17a018b
--- /dev/null
+++ b/missing-persons/CH-7.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,47 @@
+
+Then Chapter 7 sees her head down to Florida and someone, not John follows her there. That's the mystery man, the other person who picked up Sil's broadcast.
+
+------------------------
+
+
+
+"Let me get this straight, you think this Lt. Lawrence was a deserter?" Steven was chewing with his mouth open again. Chase cringed. He did it whenever he was distracted by conversation he considered more interesting than whatever he was eating. It was part of the reason Chase almost always insisted they sit side by side at a counter whenever they went out for lunch. She kept her head down, sipped her coffee.
+
+"I don't know." She spun the cup in her hands. "It's a possibility." 
+
+"You know what that means right? This guy could still be alive." Steven pushed back the plate of fries and twisted his tool to face Chase. "Holy shit. I mean holy shit. Have you thought this through?"
+
+"I check the records he'd be 93 if he were..."
+
+"Have you told Tk bassman what's going on?"
+
+"Of course not. This has already gone too far to bring it to TK bossman now." She had actually been considering doing just that all day, but she wasn't about to admit it to Steven. And she couldn't shake the feeling that that was exactly what her anonymous tipster wanted her to do. She didn't want to give them the satisfaction until she had the satisfaction of knowing who they were. "Besides I've already run the name through everything we have and there's nothing much there. Certainly no mention of desertion. There was even a note saying he was MIA, so I'm not the first person to look into this one." Chase shook her head. "Part of the problem is that record keeping in the Caribbean Theater was apparently some sort of a joke during the war. Or at least early on in the war."
+
+"I didn't even know there was a Caribbean theater..." Steven stuff the last of the chicken sandwich in this mouth and wipe the crumbs from his lips.
+
+"I didn't either," admitted Chase. "But I do now and by all accounts it was a fucked up command."
+
+"How do you mean?"
+
+Chase shrugged. "Usual power struggles, Navy not wanting to be under the Army, Army appointed to the top position by someone in Washington... the thing is Washington cared enough to keep an eye on the top guys. The canal was down there you know, they considered that a prime target from both sides. There were U-Boats all over the Caribbean as early as 1938. So Washington was always watching closely enough that the infighting stayed mostly out of sight. But the top guys didn't care enough to pay attention to much that was going on below them it seems. And the bases were so spread out, no one was really watching what happened. Well. Except for the Canal, they were watching the Canal. I've found records for nearly every ship that went through it from 1939 until the end of the war."
+
+"Hmm, I thought the Canal was all we had. Guantanmo I guess. I didn't know we had any other bases down there." Steven waved for the bill.
+
+"We didn't and we don't really anymore. But when the Germans invaded Belgium and then France we took over a lot of their bases. Except for some French commander who decided to throw in his lot with the Vichy government."
+
+"Fucking French." Steven laughed.
+
+
+They were headed back to the office when Chase spotted a familiar looking dark green Jaguar in her rearview mirror. She had already seen twice in as many days, but had dismissed it both times. I'm getting paranoid she thought. This time she wasn't so sure. She made a few deliberate but unnecessary turns and the car stuck with them. Steven asked where she was going, but she didn't say anything and he fell silent as she zigzagged her way toward the mall. She waited until they were on Peensyvania avenue and she put a large SUV between them.
+
+"Take the wheel."
+
+"What?"
+
+"Take the wheel dammit." Steven reached over and helf the wheel as Chase climbed into the backseat. "Now slide over." Steven did as he was told. 
+
+"Where do you want me to go?"
+
+"Get in the right lane, I'm getting out at the light. She glanced behind them and sure enoug, it was still there, changing lanes, but Steven darted over faster and car was still int he lane next to them and five cars back when they stopped at the light. Claire ducked down in the seat and opened the door. "Just drive straight, I'll call you," She said and ducked out the door, keeping low to the ground. She crusched behind a set of newspaper racks and ignored the two mean who stopped to stare. She waited until the light turned green and then carefully moved forward the racks until the Jaguar passed and she stood up, pen in hand and wrote downt he license plate with shaking hands. As soon aas she had it she turned down a side street and walked as fast as she could toward the crowd of people exiting a long row of buses parked between the Washington and Lincoln monuments. She fumbled through her purse and pulled out her phone. It took her several fumbling tries to find Stevens name on her phone. Get ahold of yourself she kept repeating. Breathe. She calmed down a little talking to Steven. She told him to go back to work without her, she would take the metro back later. She needed to be outside, to walk off her nervous energy and to be lost in the crowds for a while. She walked the entire length of the Mall.
+
+A couple of kids sat on the steps of the Lincoln memorial. Somebody out on the quad was flying a kite. The leaves had already started to turn orangish, bits of yellow. It was just and another ordinary Tuesday afternoon in Washington D.C. But someone was obviously keeping tabs on her.
diff --git a/missing-persons/_Cuts.txt b/missing-persons/_Cuts.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..fd63746
--- /dev/null
+++ b/missing-persons/_Cuts.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,61 @@
+Truth be told, we'd all dropped our guards a little bit at this point because the talks were actually happening, rumor had it we would be out of there in a few days. I mean, that was the end right? Turned out that was true, but anyway... Still, flying is dangerous in and of itself, but shit, after you've been shot at while flying for three years flying with hardly anyone shooting at you seems like a piece of cake. Until someone decides to shoot at you again.
+
+
+
+For every man he pointed out, Norm had a story; Dory the mechanic who had dropped a thousand pound bomb on the runway causing the entire airfield to evacuate or the time Ed Wald, who figure prominently into a number of the tales, had snuck into the base hospital and made off with two tanks of nitrous oxide to liven up the new years party. Chase tagged Wald in a photo and made a note that she would interview him at some point.
+
+
+Throughout the conversation Norm had been some gracious and friendly she began to feel bad for ever suspecting that he had lied to her. Perhaps he really didn't know that man standing five feet from him in the photo. It was, she though as she drove toward Annapolis, entirely possible.
+Still, she was worried about the results of her search. It seemed obvious to her now that Norm Canton had been lying. He was standing in the photo, a few feet from the blond haired man she suspected of being Lawrence, surely he as least knew the man. Yet Norm had been quite adamant, I'm sure *I never knew anyone named Reese, not the the whole war.* Most people lied to hide something. A few people lied just because it was easier than, for example, tell a sad story or revealing something awkward about themselves. Some people lied because they were pathologically insane, but Chase had never dated Norm so she was pretty sure he didn't fall in the later category. So why lie to her? She needed to go back. Awkward and uncomfortable though it would likely be, she need to confront Norm Canton about his lie. She needed to know why.
+
+When she got home everyone at the office treated her like a pariah. The crazy girl that had bolted off to Europe to chase the Whitmore file. The girl that didn't know when to stop. Chase had been the one to suggest she take a day in the weekly coffee and donuts rotation, it might, he told her, help them feel a bit more like you're a human. In his typically sly manner, he had neglected to mention that it would also get him off the hook for Wednesdays.
+
+
+
+Chase watched her staring out the windows the break room, wondering what she was thinking, he could see from his desk, even through the blinds, the furrowed browser and he could imagine the hard green of her eyes, the way they really did seem to glint when she narrowed them. 
+
+
+She was still thinking about, anticipating it even, when she stopped for donuts and coffee  She knew the rest of the office was uncomfortable around her. 
+
+
+
+I have seven open cases at the moment. I'm about to close one that is yes, a bit old and was fun to track down. But as for what I get next, you know that's up to Peters, not me. So go back out there, tell them that I have no desire to make them look bad, I just happen to really like this job. Tell them they need to fucking relax. Maybe get a life, garden, carve miniatures, golf, something, I don't know, live while you can, indulge yourself, do something you love, that sort of stuff. I mean, if most of them don't like this job, and I have gathered that impression in my brief time here, why the hell do they do it? And even more to the point, why do you do it Chase?
+
+
+ Unlike most, it did not break her, it did not produce the mild sense of hopelessness the cut through the rest of Skull and Bones like a current of quiet despair. 
+
+
+long bit introducing character of politican:
+
+"That's no reason not to vote his way." Louis looked completely serious. For a split second Charley considered launching himself over the massive desk between them and trying to strangle Louis for being so pragmatic. It was like the man had no idea what principles were. But then that was part of why Charley depended on him. 
+
+Charley always knew what he should do. 
+
+Louis always knew what Charley needed to do.
+
+"Louis, there are half a dozen reasons," Charley stood up wearily and walked around the front of the desk, slide an ornate fountain pen holder out of the way and sat down on the edge.  "My personal favorite though is that Bill Tyson is an asshole. The biggest asshole in the party if you ask me." Charley crossed his arms and leaned back. His office was bigger than what most junior senators were afforded. Charley knew his father was behind that somehow, though he had never been able to figure out precisely how. In the end he had given up and moved in. But he had insisted on bringing his own desk, his own bookshelves, his own chairs, all from the mayor's office back in Baltimore. The bookshelves were even filled with his own books, most of which Charley had actually read, something that never ceased to amaze reporters, who would notice the spine of some poetry volume or a novel and, thinking that Charley wouldn't pick up on a quote, would drop one in casual conversation when they could, to try to trip him up, add a little humor to their otherwise doomed for the back pages pieces. But Charley rarely missed the allusions and never the quotes. His sister was a poet, he read what she sent him. Eventually word got around that Maryland had a literate junior senator and, at least for now, the press had been almost universally kind. It had even started to move from the back pages. Of course it didn't hurt that he was the same age as John F. Kennedy had been at his prime or that he looked the part as well, slightly wavy dark hair that framed a face that had attracted no shortage of dates, though thus far no Mrs. Bradford.
+
+"I could find you plenty of people with reason to say Charley Bradford is an asshole." Louis chuckled. His chair creaked as he leaned back and grinned up at Charley. "Shit, I meet people who think you're an asshole just because of your name." 
+
+Charley cringed, but he knew Louis was right. As usual. It wasn't Charley, or at least it was rarely Charley. Few people who had ever met him had, to the best of his knowledge, ever called him an asshole. Some people didn't like the color of his skin, which was too white to be from Maryland and definitely too white to be running against an incumbent black president. But the reason most people didn't like Charley was because his father was rich, and by extension, in most people's minds, so was he. In truth he was rich. And in truth he had not earned any of the money. In a way I am an asshole, he thought. I should just give it away, give everything away and join a monastery and then after a while come back and say hey everyone, here I am, I have no money, I am poorer than you, will you have me now? But Charley knew they would not. The only thing more offensive to someone struggling to get by than being rich is to be rich and renounce your riches. Fuck you and, oh fuck you again. 
+
+Charley sighed. "Goddamn name." 
+
+Louis groaned. "Please. Spare me the hardships of being a Bradford." 
+
+The smile had left his face and Charley realized that on the family score, even Louis had lost faith in him. 
+
+"Look, just give the asshole your vote. Get his pork bill that no one cares about through the committee no one really cares about and we can nudge someone else to shoot down later if it really bothers you that much. Or you can get over it by then and focus on getting some face time in New Hampshire. Either way, we win and no one really loses." Louis smiled again. "But if you really want to fuck Bill Tyson," Louis raised his hands and sighed, "you can. I mean, don't let me stand in your way. But do recognize that you won't be fucking him very hard or very well. And he will come back on you. He'll turn around in fuck you like sailor on shore leave when we head up to New Hampshire. Shit, you won't even been able to get your face on a milk carton, let alone in the debates."
+
+"All right, fine. I'll let it go... what else is there today?"
+
+Louis pulled up his tablet and skimmed down the list. "A few signatures Ev will bring by when we're finished, you have a meeting with the ministers over in Chevy Chase this afternoon, and then we have a fundraising dinner, a couple hours to kill, which you can read as a chance to make some calls and raise a bit of money yourself and then we jump on the plane around midnight and make the hotel by sunrise. "
+
+"Lovely," Charley's head hurt just listening to it, he knew it was going to hurt even worse byt he time he'd done it. "Did you schedule a nice walk on the beach when we get there?" He glanced mockingly over at Louis who was scribbling some sort a note to himself at the top of the day's itinerary.
+
+"Would you like me too?" 
+
+Charley glared at him, but before he could muster a suitably sarcastic response, Ev sauntered in the door, "Morning senator, sign here, here..."
+
+                                      -------
+
diff --git a/missing-persons/notes/russianradio.pdf b/missing-persons/notes/russianradio.pdf
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..42e6b06
--- /dev/null
+++ b/missing-persons/notes/russianradio.pdf