This terminal is monitored. Access is limited to authorized personnel and to holders of a current case file. Unauthorized use is an offense under the municipal code.
Part of the story. Your location is looked up in your browser, shown to you only, and never sent to us or stored. Certifying starts the music quietly. There is a sound button in the corner if you would rather work in silence.
Four printable case files from the Riverbay Falls PD. Real evidence, real ciphers, one name at the end of each. Nothing here spoils the novel.
Downloadable case files. Six names hidden across police reports, statements and door logs. Find the numbers, decode the name, work out who the police let go. Each case is a logic puzzle with a real victim and real suspects, solvable by reading close and thinking harder.
They are free, and they are staying free. No account, no email, no trial, nothing to unlock. Download one and take an evening over it.
A briefing, the four people the police interviewed, the documents and a decoder. Police reports, witness statements, door logs, lab notes, ward charts. Nine pages for the first two cases, twelve for the third, fourteen for the fourth.
About seventy-five minutes, on your own or round a table. Read it on a screen or print it. Either way, all you need is a pen and this site.
Every document has one number ringed in red, somewhere inside it. In Cases 001 and 002 the letters spell a name. In Cases 003 and 004 they spell a word, and the word opens the department's system. In Case 004 two of the documents are lying. Either way the name is not one of the four you were shown. Name them below and the department confirms it, and opens the rest of the file.
Riverbay Falls, March 2032. A night supervisor is dead behind the ticket counter. The police found four suspects, then closed the file as a robbery. You have six names ringed in red across nine pages of reports and statements. Only one of them did it. Decode the evidence, eliminate the innocent, find the guilty.
Riverbay Falls, October 2032. A sanitation worker is dead under his own truck. The city said accident. The police interviewed four men, charged nobody, and closed it. You have six names ringed in statements and door logs. The evidence contradicts itself. Work out which name is false, which is guilty, and why the police let this one go.
Riverbay Falls, March 2033. A man given an experimental drug dies on the ward that was meant to be watching him. The sponsor calls it a known reaction, the coroner agrees, and four members of staff walk away. The clerk kept a copy. This time she did not ring a name. She ringed a way in. Eight digits, two decoders, and four of the department's terminals between you and the name.
Riverbay Falls, June 2033. A young man who helped compile the Cohort 9 file, and then tried to say what was in the pages that were withheld, is sectioned, given the drug he was warning about, and found dead on the floor of a seclusion room. No marks. Eyes open. A typed strip of paper in his mouth. Ten documents, and two of them are lying. Every terminal on this site, and one on the Cohort 9 file.
Cases 001 and 002: two of your six numbers are in here, not in the pack. Start at
Station 1 and work down.
Case 003: start at Station 3, the Felon
Index, at the bottom of this page, with the word from Decoder 1. It sends you back up to Station 2,
and Station 2 sends you to the Cohort 9 file.
Case 004: start at Station 3 as well.
It sends you to Station 1, then 2, then the Cohort 9 file. All four.
Each machine tells you what to
put in, and its answer tells you where to go next.
Put in: the code from the access log in your pack, the one that
opened the door. For Case 004, the pass number Station 3 gave you.
You get back: a
ringed number for your answer boxes, and a ringed reference to take to Station 2.
Put in: the reference Station 1 ringed in red, like RBF-?-0000. For
Case 003, the retrieval reference Station 3 gave you.
You get back: a still from the night. For Cases 001 and 002, a ringed number and a coat
number for the roster in your pack. For Case 003, the tape the clinic never handed over.
Decode the file, then run the name through the felon index. Case 003 starts here as well: type the word from Decoder 1 and the index tells you where the withheld material is.
Your name never leaves your browser. Nothing is sent anywhere, nothing is stored, and there is no list.
Screenshot the card. That is the whole ceremony.
There is something hidden on this site. Three evidence tags are pinned further down this page, numbered 1 to 3. Each one carries a door code. Put all three into the door terminal above, in the order you find them, and the department will show you something it was never supposed to keep.
Two years ago Detective Clay Jensen lost his wife and son in a house fire, and the report closed it in nine days. He is clean now, back on desk duty, and writing everything down because he no longer trusts his own memory, and the case on his desk leads back to the drug that saved his life.
Tap a file to see what was written down at the time.
The fire report blamed an electrical fault, and the file was closed nine days later. Lily and Max died inside. A beam came down across Clay's back on the third stair, and a firefighter pulled him out.
Cause: electrical fault, kitchen. No further investigation required. Signed, G. Pike, Deputy Fire Marshal. Handwritten in the margin, in blue biro: "Lily unplugged EVERYTHING before bed. Every single night."
The trial reports listed dependency, memory disturbance and impaired judgement. The reports nobody outside the company was ever meant to read listed one more: suggestibility.
Patient attended the day after the Fifth Street incident. He was unarmed at the scene and reports no injury. Sleeping badly. Tremor worse. Says he is not going back to the bad nights. Plan: raise the maintenance dose. Two in the morning and one at night, instead of one and one, for one month. Linden will have it ready tomorrow.
An informant who goes only by Whisper. No face, no name, and not one tip that has turned out to be wrong. Only one person has ever met Whisper: the detective who keeps losing hours.
Re: the informant known as Whisper. No name, no photograph, no contact number. Every meeting reported by Detective Jensen alone, with no witness present. The information has checked out so far. Until someone else sees this informant, treat every tip with caution.
Raymond Tull was made permanent on Friday 7 October. A contract, a pension, and the keys to the yard. He had nine years on the Havelock round.
Fat Sam had eleven. Cash in hand, no contract, no record anywhere in the council system. He had asked for the post three times and been passed over three times, and the reason was always the same one nobody would say out loud: in eleven years, nobody had ever written his name on a list.
The keys were the part that mattered. One of them opened the lock-up behind the weighbridge, the low brick store with the roller shutter, facing the water, where Fat Sam had slept for years. The supervisor’s memo of 6 October ordered it cleared and handed over by the end of the month.
So he was not only passed over. He was being put on the street, in October, by a man he had trained in his first week.
He raised the lifter arm on truck 14 by hand, on the manual override behind the passenger-side step, a thing only the men who were on the round before the depot was rebuilt were ever trained to do. He struck Tull once across the back of the head with the steel comb on the underside of the arm, and left him beneath it, so that the morning would read as an arm coming down on a man who had climbed underneath.
Alan Pryce is on the gate at 05:12 and nowhere earlier, and truck 14 never moved. Nina Coyle signed in at the Pier Road yard at 03:50 and stayed there, and the guard she had been trying to get taken out of service was still bolted on, which is the whole reason the arm could not have fallen on its own. Ian Sowden’s code is not on the gate that morning at all. Kenny Braithwaite came in at 05:29 with the crew, and it was over by half past four.
The four men the police interviewed all had contracts, codes and records. The man who did it had none, which is exactly why the file never reached him.
Code 1180 was retired in 2030 and only ever issued to men who were on the round before the depot was rebuilt, and it opens the gate twice while the yard is shut. The workshop record lists who is trained on the manual override, and the list is the old hands. The night guard at the scrap yard next door describes a man doing slow karate forms by the gate at four in the morning, and says he has watched him do it for years without ever learning his name.
And the supervisor’s memo, written five days before the killing, says there is a man sleeping in the lock-up who is on no list, will not give a surname, cannot read, and is called something the supervisor will not put in a council letter.
The file was closed in five weeks as a workplace accident. Everything needed to reopen it was inside it the whole time. It was simply written about a man the council had never got around to naming.
Adam Lister spent six weeks on placement in the Vessant records unit, paginating the Cohort 9 file for release. He read the hundred and twelve pages that were withheld while he was doing it. He wrote fourteen pages about them and sent them to the regulator and to this department. The regulator booked him for interview on Monday 20 June.
The ethics approval for the Etheron trial carries the signature of a member of Vessant's advisory board. That board member is a consultant psychiatrist at St Jude's. Within a month of his statement she had assessed him, sectioned him for a fixed delusional system concerning a former employer, waived the second opinion, and given him one administration of the drug he had written about.
On the evening of 17 June the sponsor's liaison visited him. Two hours later he was placed in seclusion on the consultant's telephone order.
At twenty-five to three the patient in bed 6 collapsed and the night orderly took him down to A and E, leaving one nurse on the ward. At ten to three the consultant on call signed a 20 ml ampoule of potassium chloride out of cupboard 5, against bed 4 on Ward 10. Bed 4 on Ward 10 had been empty for six days. At two minutes to three her pass opened the ward door. The corridor camera has her at seclusion room 2 a minute later with a tray. She opened the room alone, which the rules do not allow, and put the potassium through the cannula the day nurse had placed on the 16th.
Potassium stops the heart, leaves nothing to see, and cannot be measured once someone is dead. The pathologist found a recent cannula site and nothing else, and wrote that potassium had not been assessed. She put the typed strip in his mouth, locked the door at 03:22, and left. The expression the first officer called a smile was the drug she had given him nine days before, starting on his brain.
THE PROGRAM IS ACTIVE is not his phrase. It is the stamp across every page of Schedule 2 item 08, the contingency drafted and not adopted, and he says so on the last page of his statement. The ward's note that he had been fixated on it since admission was written by the consultant who admitted him. She put it in his mouth so that whoever found him would read a patient who had died with his own obsession between his teeth. What she left was the one line in the file that could only have come from someone who had read the pages the sponsor swore he never saw.
The seclusion record says the orderly looked in every fifteen minutes and found him asleep. He was in A and E. The sponsor's letter says Lister never worked at Vessant. His section order and Vessant's own placement letter say he did. Neither lie is the killing. Both are the reason nobody looked.
Kofi Mensah lied on the seclusion sheet, and the lie is that he was there. He was not. Bernadette Shaw left at 21:58 and her pass does not move until eight. Ingrid Voss was on the ward three times in daylight and never at night, and her letter is a lie about his job, not about his death. Dana Whitlock put the cannula in for a patient who was refusing fluids, wrote it up, found him, and rang it in.
A controlled drug signed out at three in the morning, on one signature, for a bed that had been empty for six days. An on-call pass through the ward door in the one hour the orderly was off it. A cannula site the post mortem could not explain and a potassium level nobody asked for. A section order in her name that records the job the sponsor swore he never had. A statement, in his effects, that named her twice without naming her. And a tape the hospital never handed over.
The file closed in four weeks as a sudden unexplained death in a detained patient. It was written by the people who detained him.
Nine doses of Etheron came back to Ward B when the trial was stopped, to wait for a destruction run. The sponsor never sent the certificate, so the run was never booked, and the doses sat in a cold storage with a keypad on it. By day the key was with pharmacy. By night it was with whoever was on nights.
Helen Stone was on nights. She had been taking the doses out one case at a time and passing them to the people running the warehouse on the western bypass, the one the Cohort 9 file mentions once and never again. One case is on the log at fourteen minutes past three on the morning of 7 March, against her staff number, marked for destruction.
Robert Ashford did not sleep. He was in the corridor at ten past three and saw her put a blue case in her bag. He asked what it was and she told him it was old stock. In the morning he asked the orderly how a patient could reach the outside monitor without going through the ward's own doctor, and he was given a form. He wrote it out and put it in his locker to send when his head was better.
At twenty to four, half an hour after he had seen her, she put a second dose of Etheron through the IV line that was already in his arm for the immune support, and wrote it up as a line flush. No clinician ordered a flush. A second dose does what the first one did, only faster. The cells go to the brain and keep building. He was tired on the 8th, could not find the word for the corridor on the 12th, did not wake properly on the 13th, and died at a quarter to one on the 14th.
It looked exactly like the drug killing him, because that is what it was. The lead clinician signed it off as a known reaction within the hour, and the coroner agreed.
Dr Marcus Drake signed the death off fast and wanted it quiet, but he was never on the ward at night and his number is not on the cold storage log. Dr Elena Blake is the one who counted the store, found the missing dose and put it in writing, and she was never there after seven in the evening. Timothy Moore was days only, and the note in the locker is the patient asking him for help. Sarah Crane held the day key and ran the count, and it was her February count of nine that made the March count of eight mean anything at all.
The cold storage log has a case going out at three in the morning, for destruction, when destruction is a day job with two signatures and a courier. The patient's own note says the night nurse took a blue case from the fridge at ten past three. The night chart shows her flushing his line half an hour later with nothing ordered. The pathologist found cells in his brain at a density that fits a second dose about seven days before he died, and seven days before he died is that night. And the tape from the ward camera for that night, which the clinic never handed over, shows her at his bed at 03:41.
The file closed in three weeks as a known adverse reaction. It was written about a drug that kills, on a ward where a drug was killing people, and nobody asked why this one was so quick.
Nadia Draper had eleven years with the ferry service. In October her post was cut to part-time hours, and from about that point she began taking cash out of the fare box, around three thousand nine hundred dollars across five months.
Owen Vance kept the fare-box keys on a chain and was due to hand a five-month reconciliation to the regional manager at nine o’clock that morning. Head office had already written to him about the shortfalls. The memo made plain how short the list of people it could be actually was.
She had until nine in the morning, and she knew it.
She let herself in at the maintenance side door at 01:41, on the pass that belongs to the post rather than to any one person. She struck him once with the 24 mm adjustable spanner she had signed out of the workshop at five to midnight, and emptied the till so the morning would read as a robbery.
It did not read as one for long. His wallet was still in his jacket with sixty dollars in it and his watch was still on his wrist.
Ruth Keaton’s pass shows one entry at 22:58 and the counter camera has her all night. Sean Malloy signed his tools back in at 01:30 and the crew vouch for one another at the Anchor. Vince Weston was in his cab in front of the doors from twenty past one, and it was he who saw the side door used. Tom Brenner, the rostered engineer, was at St Jude’s with his wife from 23:10 until six, which the hospital confirmed, and that is precisely where the investigation stopped.
The file closed because everybody read pass 0417 as Tom Brenner, and once Brenner turned out to have been in a hospital all night the pass became a dead end.
The pass log says in its own footnote that passes are issued to the post and not to the person. Since October that post has been covered part-time by a second engineer. The workshop sheet carries her signature against a 24 mm adjustable spanner, signed out at 23:55 and never brought back, and Dr. Park matched the wound to that spanner and found marine grease on the till drawer that only comes out of a maintenance store.
Her name was on a form inside the file for nine weeks. Nobody read the form.