Date: July 26–28, 2005
Location: Seattle
On July 26, 2005, Seattle shimmered under a pleasant 77°F, a light breeze pushing wispy clouds over Elliott Bay, their reflections dancing on the water. In Downtown, modern glass skyscrapers stood alongside historic buildings, the streets alive with a steady rhythm. In 2005, the Seattle Public Library on 4th Avenue was an architectural marvel, its glass walls and geometric design by Rem Koolhaas drawing researchers and tourists alike. But beneath the calm, secrets lingered—the Seattle Police Department reported 60 document thefts in the area that year, often tied to underground researchers chasing historical mysteries.
James Crowe sat in the library’s reading room on the 5th floor, surrounded by stacks of old documents and leather-bound books that smelled of dust and time. His table was cluttered: notes scrawled in his notebook, a pencil he tapped while thinking, and a cup of coffee that had gone cold hours ago. The 38-year-old private detective barely noticed—his mind was a storm of connections. After returning from London, where he’d traced the Family’s history from 1753 to the present, Crowe felt he’d missed something crucial. He returned to the archives to review documents he’d previously dismissed, using his “360 Method” to spot overlooked details and his “chain of connections” technique to link them into a broader picture.
The reading room was airy, with high ceilings and massive windows letting in soft daylight. Around him, the room hummed with activity: students in T-shirts with local band logos studied for exams, elderly researchers in tweed jackets pored over newspapers, and tourists snapped photos of the library’s striking interior. In the corner, a 30-year-old man with dreadlocks and worn jeans read a book on Seattle’s history, occasionally glancing at Crowe with curiosity. Crowe noted the man’s interest but stayed focused.
He worked with Sarah Wilson, a 45-year-old librarian with dark hair in a neat ponytail and thin-framed glasses she adjusted when nervous. Sarah, with 15 years at the library, had access to rare archives on crime history. She brought Crowe a box of 18th-century documents, tied with an old rope, setting it down with a soft thud.
“Mr. Crowe, you’re back again,” Sarah said, her voice gentle but weary. “This is your fourth day in a row. What is it this time?”
“I’m looking for the little things past investigators missed,” Crowe replied, his eyes burning with determination despite his pale, sleep-deprived face. “I need to know how the Family operated in its first century—and why no case was ever cracked.”
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Sarah nodded, though her skepticism was clear. “If anyone can find those ‘little things,’ it’s you,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “But please—no coffee over the documents.”
“Don’t worry, Sarah, I don’t want to get banned for a coffee stain,” Crowe replied with a faint smile, adding a touch of humor. “Though if I don’t crack this case, maybe I’ll open a coffee shop—call it ‘Crowe’s Cold Brew.’”
Sarah hid a smile and left him to his work. Crowe untied the box and sifted through letters, reports, and notes, his “360 Method” in full swing. He imagined himself as past investigators, replaying their actions and mistakes, while using his “chain of connections” to link seemingly insignificant details. In a 1755 London report, he found a 10-year-old boy detained for stealing bread, who claimed his “teacher” from the “Star Path” forced him to steal jewels for an “older brother.” Investigators dismissed it as a lie, but Crowe noticed a detail they’d overlooked: the boy had a star-shaped tattoo on his hand, the “mark of the Star Path,” matching the Order’s symbols from Elizabeth’s journal.
In an 1823 Paris report, a 70-year-old woman named Marie Dupont, arrested for selling forged documents, confessed she worked for the “Brotherhood of Starlight.” Her “son” was a “temporary” family member, but investigators deemed her insane. Crowe spotted a detail: the forged documents bore a star symbol, the “mark of the Brotherhood,” linking back to the 1755 tattoo. In Chicago, an 1872 report after the Great Fire detailed a 15-year-old boy arrested for vagrancy, who said his “father” in the “Starlight Foundation” ordered him to burn a warehouse for insurance money. Investigators ruled it an accident, but Crowe noted traces of a chemical like kerosene—an intentional arson overlooked at the time.
These “slips” by young and elderly members revealed more than the Family intended, but investigators couldn’t connect them to a broader network. The Family designed operations to lead nowhere if they failed, using “temporary families” to confuse authorities—testimonies seemed absurd, while the real orchestrators stayed hidden.
The man with dreadlocks approached, holding his book and smiling. “You look like a detective straight out of a movie,” he said, his tone friendly. “What are you digging for in those old papers?”
“Let’s just say I’m unearthing secrets older than both of us combined,” Crowe replied with a faint smile, adding humor. “What about you—looking for inspiration for a novel?”
The man laughed. “Nah, I just love history. Name’s Kyle. If you need help, let me know—I’m here a lot.”
Crowe nodded, jotting down Kyle’s name, his intuition noting a potential ally. Over the next two days, he gathered enough to solve three centuries-old cases, linking them to the Family’s early operations.
“Well, looks like I’m seeing a picture my predecessors missed,” Crowe muttered, a self-deprecating smirk on his lips as he rubbed his eyes. “If only they knew what I know now, I wouldn’t be sitting here with cold coffee and a headache.”
In 2005, Seattle thrived culturally: the Seattle Art Museum was prepping for an expansion, and Death Cab for Cutie gained fame with Plans. But for Crowe, those details were background noise—these old cases, now solved, were stepping stones to confronting the Family’s modern incarnation.
