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Someone wrote in
2013-07-04 05:52 am (UTC)
FILL: all the things we don't talk about, Reese/Finch, 18/?
Finch promised to call if a number
come in, and Reese left, Bear in tow.
Sunlight did its best to shine through the dusty windows, and Finch drank the last of his tea.
Then he took a deep breath, and opened the door to the bedroom.
A number came in the next morning. Severin Sheffied, 14, student at the Owlsgate Academy in New Hampshire.
Reese was surprised. "A boarding school. That's a new one. Didn't know they had murders in boarding schools."
"Unless it's another suicide case. Think it's another suicide case, Finch?"
"I shouldn't like to hypothesize ahead of the facts, Mr. Reese."
Reese immediately set out to take photos of the unfortunate (and unfortunately named) Severin Sheffield. It would take his a few hours to get to the boarding school, which would allow Finch to create an identity for him.
Owlsgate Academy was in the middle of the woods, near a small village called Meadow. It housed less than a thousand boys and girls, of middle school and high school ages.
After the first hour's drive, Finch called. "You will be passing yourself off as a National Geographic photographer doing a piece on New England, Mr. Reese."
Reese couldn't help feeling a thrill as he heard Finch's voice through the comm. It had been
. He heard Finch throw Bear his ball, and decided to keep comm channel open as he drove.
It was nearly lunchtime. The roads were getting progressively smaller, and the trees started to outnumber the humans. Reese stopped off for lunch, and to purchase some clothes. He had a sneaking suspicion that National Geographic photographers did not wear suits.
"Gotta tell you, Finch, it's been a long time since I've done field work in an actual field."
Soon enough, Reese finally got a visual on the new number.
"Unfortunately, Mr. Reese, a visual is all we have for now. I can get access to all the computers in Owlsgate Academy, but I have no way of knowing which one belongs to Severin Sheffield."
Reese found Mr. Sheffield was sitting below a willow tree, reading a dogeared copy of "Huh. Look at that: Seamus Heaney. Didn't know teenagers read poetry."
"Did they not teach you to read at your alma mater, Mr. Reese?"
Reese snorted. "Nah. My high school thought reading was dangerous. It might have led to independent thought." He looked through his lens at Severin Scheffield. "Finch, this kid looks terrible."
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