Unidentified by Mikel J. Wisler Page A

Mitchell, possibly regretting having brought the subject up. “Now I know what you’re thinking, but I’m no gullible yokel. I believe in what I can see. And for a long time, I thought all this talk about UFOs was absurd.”
    Mitchell wondered how long ago her mind had changed. Had it been after the Tommy Ferguson case or maybe during?
    “But …” Evans prompted her.
    “But then I saw something,” O’Conner said, her voice low but with no hesitation. “About a year and half ago, I was on a speed trap. From where I parked, I could see Linden Pond. Must have been about two hours into my shift there, I saw lights in the sky out over the pond. There were three orbs of light. One came down and silently went into the pond. The other two circled around and around. The next morning, we got a call from Frank Simmons. He’s got a farm about a mile away from there. One of his cows had been killed, drained of every last drop of blood and cut up. Local vet didn’t know what to make of it. The cuts were made with surgical precision. Several organs were missing, including the genitals.”
    Evans nodded.
    “So this was before the Ferguson case?” Mitchell asked.
    “Yes. I believe you read about it in our files,” O’Conner said.
    “I don’t recall you seeing lights, though.”
    “I never filed an official report. But there was a report made about Frank’s mutilated cow,” O’Conner explained.
    “I see,” Mitchell said.
    “If you’re wondering,” O’Conner continued. “I didn’t come to really believe there might be anything to all this UFO business until after we investigated the Ferguson case. As a matter of fact, the last few years, there’ve been a lot of cases of lights in the sky and other such strangeness.”
    “And people report them to the police?” Evans asked.
    “Sure they do,” O’Conner replied. “Not every time, and not always officially, but most folk want to talk to us about anything suspicious so we can keep an eye out for it too. These are our friends and neighbors, after all.”
    “Is there any chance we could take a look at your files on those cases?” Evans said.
     
    ***
     
    Located on Lost River Road, the North Woodstock Police Station was a small single story building with white vinyl siding. Inside, in one of the small rooms used for meetings and the occasional interrogation, Mitchell sat at the table. She checked her phone, seeing she’d missed a call from Anthony. He was probably checking into how things were going. She’d call him back later.
    Officer O’Conner walked into the room with a large file box. She set it on the table.
    “This is every case we’ve had in the last six years,” she said.
    “Thank you,” Mitchell said as she stood and looked down at the box.
    O’Conner turned to head for the door.
    “Officer O’Conner,” Mitchell said, turning to her. “It’s good to see you again.”
    O’Conner stopped at the door, looking back. “Likewise,” she said. “I was sorry to hear about your partner.”
    Mitchell just nodded.
    “You need anything else, you just call,” O’Conner continued—for which Mitchell was glad. “I’ve been through all of these files myself trying to make sense of just what the hell is happening around here. So, if you have any questions, I’m happy to help.”
    “Thank you,” Mitchell said.
    “Hopefully things turn out differently this time,” O’Conner said before turning to head out the door.
    Mitchell turned back to the box on the table and stared down at it. It was, in fact, a pretty full box. What the hell is going on around here? She reached into the box and pulled out one of the folders. She sat back down and began looking through the files inside the folder.
    Evans walked in a moment later with two cups of coffee. He set one down on the table near Mitchell then took a seat across from her.
    “Thanks,” Mitchell said, not looking up from the case file. “Where do you want to start? I’m familiar with most of