The Precinct Lab smelled of toner ink and stale bleach.
Sarah stood under the humming fluorescent lights, her arms crossed tight against her chest. On the stainless steel table, the crumpled note from the warehouse sat inside a sealed evidence bag.
ASK HIM ABOUT THE FOUNDRY.
The letters were jagged, blocky, and angry.
"Well?" Sarah asked, her patience fraying. "Is it a match for Krell's handwriting?"
Dr. Aris Thorne (no relation to the Captain) adjusted his spectacles. He was a small man who smelled like mothballs and wore a bowtie that hadn't been fashionable since the 1950s. He hummed, tilting his head as he magnified the image on his screen.
"Not Krell," Aris said, his voice wispy. "Krell writes in cursive. Looping 'L's, aggressive 'T' crosses. This? This was written by someone el
