OSWALD’S shoes tapped quietly along the marble corridor as he approached the locked room. The guard standing at the door straightened immediately, head lowered as he unlocked the bolt and stepped aside. Oswald stepped inside, his presence as sharp and cold as the night air that drifted through the slightly cracked windows.

The room was plain but secure, thick drapes drawn aside to reveal the darkness outside, a single bulb swinging slightly above, casting long shadows across the small gathering inside. Carlson sat on one of the low couches, his elbows resting on his knees, that trademark smirk he always wore now replaced with a weary scowl. Beside him, Stanley...