Page 10 of Logan’s Way

“I’m telling him what the system shows,” Rivera said calmly. “Which is that this certificate was processed in a way that shouldn’t have been technically possible, and someone with high-level access made it happen.”

Angus absorbed that. He didn’t ask who. Didn’t ask why. He just stood there, looking at the transfer log, Logan’s name listed among the ordinary dead of Thornfield County—fishermen and farmers, people who’d died unremarkably and had been filed away with all the proper documentation intact.

Everyone except Logan.

“Could I get a copy of that transfer log?” Angus asked.

Rivera hesitated only a moment, then nodded. “I’ll print it for you. It’s public record.”

While Rivera walked to a printer in the back, Morrison gave Angus a searching look. “You’re a sheriff, right? Is this an official investigation?”

“No,” Angus answered honestly. “I’m on leave. This is personal.”

“Personal how?”

“Logan Reid was my brother.”

Morrison’s expression softened with sympathy that Angus didn’t particularly want. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

Rivera returned with the printout and handed it to Angus. “I wish I could be more helpful. But the truth is, what you’ve found here—an index without a source file—is either a massive system failure that somehow left no trace of itself, or deliberate manipulation by someone who knew exactly how to hide their tracks.”

“And you don’t believe it’s a system failure.”

“No,” Rivera said quietly. “I don’t.”

Angus folded the printout and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “If I wanted to find out who had the credentials to override the system in 2014, how would I do that?”

“You’d need to request access logs from IT. But that would require a formal investigation and probably a warrant. And even then…” Rivera shrugged. “If someone went to the trouble of manipulating the vital records database, they probably covered their digital tracks too.”

“Right. Of course.” Angus extended his hand. “Thank you. Both of you. I appreciate your honesty.”

Rivera shook his hand. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. Or at least understand why it’s not there.”

Angus left the archives building and walked to his truck. The afternoon had turned colder, with wind picking up from the north. His breath fogged in the air. Inside the cab, he sat without starting the engine, looking at the printout Rivera had given him.

Thirty-seven names. Thirty-seven deaths. All transferred from Thornfield County to the state archives in the same quarter. All processed correctly, filed properly, with documentation intact and verified.

Except one.

Angus pulled out his notebook—the same one where he had recorded every step of this investigation. He flipped past his notes from Thornfield County and observations from his earlier document review, and turned to a fresh page.

He wrote the date then beneath it:

State Archives confirms: Index entry exists. Source file does not.

System override required to create this discrepancy.

Override requires supervisor credentials and administrative code.

No log entry explaining why override was used.

Then, after a long pause, he added one more line:

Who had the authority to do this?

Not who did it. That would come later, if he was lucky. Right now, the more fundamental question was capability. Who could manipulate a state vital records database? Who had the access, the knowledge, the authority to make a death certificate appear in the system without the documentation that should have accompanied it?

It wasn’t a clerk or some low-level functionary making a mistake. This required planning. Technical knowledge. The kind of access that came with position and clearance.