The trio entered the small office of the Tyler Times, noticing black ribbon draped along the door and a collection of flowers placed outside in remembrance of the fallen reporter. After losing such a promising colleague, the two people in the office were suitably shocked as Pete addressed the pair, directing his attention to the balding grey haired man.
"I'm Don Jackson and this is my wife, Samantha. I just can't believe what's happened," he said sadly.
After introducing themselves, the officer and detectives listened to Jackson's story.
"We're a small team here. I'm retired from a newspaper downstate and my wife here joins me in the office to help with anything we need. We hired Jenna, who just graduated from Berkeley with her degree in journalism. Her emphasis was in news production and investigative reporting, so this little paper gave her a wide berth to apply what she learned. I still can't believe it."
"May we see her desk?" Mike asked respectfully.
"Sure, it's right over here," Mr. Jackson led the group over to a small desk near the back of the office. It had a phone, an unlit lamp, a typewriter, notepads and pens laid out in a way that suggested the murdered reporter was had been actively working on a variety of stories.
"There were some notes about the Goldman murder, I understand?" Mike asked as he flipped the lamp switch on. Mr. Jackson nodded in the direction of one of her notepads. Mike perused the notes. "Do you have a copy machine?" Mike asked.
"No, we don't, unfortunately."
"Okay," Mike answered. "Steve, copy down what you see on the notes."
Steve nodded and grabbed a blank notepad near the phone. With the lamp's light shining onto the angle of the notebook, Steve noticed the imprint of writing. "Wait a minute," he said. "There's something that's been written here."
Quickly grabbing a sharpened pencil, he shaded over the imprint. A look of puzzlement fell over his face.
"What?" Mike asked as Pete craned his neck to see what Steve had on the notepad.
"It says 'Proxelheder 7p' and then gives an address. This is near where she was found, isn't it Pete?" Steve asked as he tilted the notepad to his colleagues.
"Proxelheder?" Mike asked. "The old woman?"
"Could be," Pete answered before Steve could say anything. "Or perhaps her grandson. He was at the high school the night Jacob Goldman went missing."
Mike took a quick look at his watch. "This young woman's murder is your case, Pete, but I no doubt believe it ties to Goldman's. Where would the Proxelheders be at the moment?"
"Do they still live off of 7th?" Steve asked.
Pete, amazed at the young detective's memory, answered. "I think so, but Mr. Jackson, do you have a phone book?"
"I can do you better. I know the name. Florence Proxelheder is a subscriber. We'll get you the address and also check to see if we have her grandson."
Moments later, the trio were handed the address of 644 Baker Ave, in between 6th and 7th street.
