The

Bees I'm smashing food in the kitchen, dumping out the garbage, rubbing it into my hair, hitting me.

I remember how I felt sitting there.

Nessled in the heart of mid-Michigan, Mason is the kind of place where life tends to move at a slower pace.

With its quaint courthouse square, historic brick buildings and tree-lined streets, it gives off the unmistakable charm of small-town America.

The community's close-knit,

the kind where people nod to one another at the grocery store and gather for Friday night

football games. It's a place that rarely makes headlines. Quiet, predictable, safe. Just beyond the

town's core, on the outskirts of May since it's the Ingham County Sheriff's Department,

surrounded by open fields and framed by the occasional passing car on a nearby country road,

the department is far enough from town to feel a bit removed, but close enough to respond quickly when needed.

On most nights, the pace there is steady, but rarely frantic. The 9th of March, 1977 was no different, at least not at first.

Inside the department that evening, things were running as usual.

The radio's crackled with the occasional traffic stop.

Officers filled out reports, sipped lukewarm coffee and chatted quietly in the dim

light of the squad room. The wind rattled against the windows, a reminder that winter still

lingered in Michigan. It was a routine night, or so it seemed. Jeffrey Simons was working as the

gate guard that night, stationed in a small booth near the

department's entrance.

At 8.45pm his quiet shift took an unexpected turn.

A blue Ford Granada pulled up abruptly, its headlights cutting through the dark.

Behind the wheel was a woman, wide-eyed and visibly shaken.

...