Luther smiled.
It wasn't a happy smile.
"We do what we've always done. We knock on doors, we listen, we document, and we make the system work the way it was supposed to work from the beginning."
He looked around the room.
"Specter, you find the social worker who resigned. Find out what she knows."
"On it."
"Rimshot, you pull every county record you can access on Facility 7. Resident names, transfer dates, any documentation of follow-up care."
"Got it."
"Diesel and Sandstone, you start interviewing families. The 47 on the list. Find out who remembers what. Who saw signs. Who tried to help."
They nodded.
"War Chief..."
Luther stopped.
Met the older man's eyes.
"I need you to help me find Dwayne."
War Chief stood slowly.
"15 years is a long time, brother."
"I know."
"You sure you're ready for what we might find?"
Luther's jaw tightened.
"No. But I'm going to look anyway."
War Chief crossed the room.
Put one large hand on Luther's shoulder.
"Then we look together."
By 11:47 p.m. that night, they had names.
Specter found the social worker.
Her name was Teresa Moss.
She lived in Bluefield now.
Hadn't worked in social services since 2010.
When he called, she cried for 6 minutes before she could talk.
She remembered Facility 7.
She remembered the closures.
She remembered being told to mark the files transferred and close them.
She remembered asking where the residents had gone.
She remembered being told it wasn't her concern.
She gave Specter the names of three other county workers who'd resigned around the same time.
All three, for personal reasons.
All three had refused to talk about why.
Rimshot pulled the Facility 7 records.
19 residents in 2009.
16 marked transferred to independent living.
Three marked family placement.
Of the 16 transferred, zero documented follow-up visits, zero current addresses, zero phone contacts.
Just closed files and a system that had moved on.
Diesel and Sandstone interviewed six families by phone.
All six remembered being displaced.
All six remembered being told it was procedural.
Four remembered seeing Preston Aldridge at community events afterward, shaking hands, smiling, acting like he'd tried to help.
One woman, Dorothy Crane, 71, retired school nurse, remembered Emmett.
"I taught his mother in elementary school," she said, voice shaking. "I saw that boy the week of the eviction. He looked lost. I filed an inquiry with the school. Nobody answered. I called twice. Nothing. I didn't know he'd ended up on the street. If I'd known..."
She couldn't finish.
Sandstone told her it wasn't her fault.