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I tossed the letter back on the table.

“I saw that one,” Dad said. “There’s no return address.”

I turned the envelope over. “Just a postmark. Sault Ste. Marie.”

I kept looking. I found six other letters on the same type of torn paper. The flavor of them was the same. Fawning praise. No return address on those either, but they were also sent from towns in Northern Michigan. Manistee, Alpena, Harrison.

Between Dad and me, we separated out three dozen letters written in the same vein. Oddly worshiping Sidney. Describing his killings as art. Claiming they saw some higher purpose in what he was doing that no one else understood. They mostly came from Midwestern towns. Fort Wayne. Toledo. Chicago. Madison.

“The guy is getting at least three letters a week,” Dad said. “It quadrupled after his conviction. I just don’t understand people.”

After another forty-five minutes, I had a stack of eleven letters that seemed the most similar. They started out fawning, then stopped making sense. They devolved into gibberish. Incomplete sentences. Non-linear thinking. Seven of them were on the same torn paper but originated from different towns. The other four were written on a variety of paper, from standard three-hole-punched spiral notebook paper to laser printer paper and two from a green steno pad.

“I think these might be from the same person,” I said.

“Why do you think that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just the words the writer uses. He’s referencing great literature. Comparing Sidney to poets, painters, musicians.”

“No signature?”

“No,” I said. “Which is sort of what makes me feel like they’re the same person. Like the attempt at anonymity is too deliberate. But they’re from all over. Wisconsin. Michigan. This one’s from Indiana. Another is from Austin, Texas. I don’t know. If it’s not the same person, maybe they’re a group on social media or something. Some are typed. Some are handwritten. But I can’t tell if it’s the same handwriting. Some are printed. Some in cursive. It’s all over the place.”

“I think you’re reading too much into it. We probably need to take a break. It’s almost three. I for one don’t know how much longer I can keep at this for one day. It’s making me lose my faith in humanity. Which was already thin to begin with.”

I was about to agree with him.

“I wish I could figure out if Sidney was replying to any of these.”

Dad had by now come over to my side of the table and started rereading the letters I’d grouped together.

“I think you’re right about these,” he said, holding up four letters. “They’re all gibberish.”

I’d noticed that too. While the beginning and end of each letter had the basic praise and admiration for Sidney’s so-called genius, the middle got really strange.

“Thirty-seven ports to mile seventeen. If you turn left, God will be with you. Make sure to bring the soda pop. Balls are nice too.”

“This one’s even better,” Dad said, reading from another letter. “If you’ve given me fifteen pieces of silver, then ten are for you. I mean to line up for the evening prayer. Good will is won, not stolen.”

“Is it a code?” I asked. There was something else, too. Some of the longer letters had strange markings above the words. They looked like superscripts. Numbered footnotes. Not all of them had them. But I separated out seven specific letters with those strange markings.

“Not one that anyone’s ever been able to crack. They brought in some FBI codebreakers. I don’t know if they focused on these specific letters, but these really sound like someone who was beginning to decompensate mentally. Schizophrenia or some type of mania. I’ve seen stuff like this before. I know my way around an insanity defense. This stuff can’t be faked.”

Dad was right. We were spinning our wheels at this point. I was ready to pack it up and start fresh tomorrow.

“Helloooo!” a male voice called out.

Before I could get out of my chair, Kent Derby poked his head in the door.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to break up the party. You really need a receptionist out there.”

I’d lost track of the time. It was almost three thirty. Our appointment was at three.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I had no intention of keeping you waiting like that.”

Kent smiled. “Knock it off my bill. I don’t mind. Got caught up on this month’s AARP magazine.”

“Go do your thing,” Dad said. “I’d like to keep at this. Just give a holler when you’re done. Sorry to hear Liza’s putting you through the wringer, Kent.”