The War Room lived up to its name from the moment I closed the iron-reinforced door behind me. African tribal masks, adorned with feathers and bold colors, filled the walls between all manner of ancient weaponry. Above the yellow canopied bed, two American flags from the Civil War hung on crossed flag poles. 

 

Everything was quiet. I flicked the lightswitch, taking just one step forward. My hand felt for the pistol that usually hung on my right hip. In the late night rush, I had left it on my kitchen counter– an oversight I was now coming to regret.

 

“Mr. Flanders?” I said, clearly and loudly. “This is the Salem Police.”

 

I stood completely still for a long moment, only the tick of a grandfather clock disturbing the room’s perfect stillness.

 

Moving cautiously forward, light on my feet, I continued, “Allen, are you in here? I need to speak with you.”

 

Again, silence. 

 

The room was so crowded with memorabilia that there was space for little else beyond the king size bed, a tall, black armoire and a nightstand that was lying broken on its side. Moving deeper into the room, I could see that the bed had been neatly made, and, to my left, on the inner wall, a metal dragon mask hung upside down from a single screw. 

 

In the space where the mask had previously hung, a square cubby hole had been cut into the wall. It was no more than 6 inches wide, just big enough to reach inside. I felt around in the shadows, my fingers finding nothing harsh, wooden perimeters of the space.

 

My hand left the cubby covered in dust. Brushing it clean, I noticed a bit of Allen’s comforter was pinched between the mattress and the bed frame. On a hunch, I lifted the mattress and retrieved a small, white envelope.

 

Opening it, I read: