“I don’t know, Sheriff,” the woman behind the receptionist desk at the Stroudsburg police station said to Bobby. “That’s a long time ago, and of course we’ve had a lot of turnover in our department since then.”
It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Bobby and Jonathan were standing in front of the reception desk. Jenny was exhausted, so they had left her and Reuben at a motel downtown, promising to come get them if anything turned up.
The receptionist, an older woman dressed in the uniform of the Stroudsburg police, paused a moment to think and then brightened.
“I can call Bill Martin,” she said. “He was our lead detective in nineteen fifty and still comes around to do training. He might be able to help you.”
The woman got on the phone and dialed. The two men could hear it ringing, and
