Sometimes the answer is right in front of you.
"So why all the mystery?" I asked. "Why couldn't they just tell us that he was there and then he wasn't there? I don't get it."
Eugene smiled. "That one's easy. It's called covering your butt. You see, it wouldn't look very good for a police department to have to admit that they lost a prisoner. It would be kind of embarrassing. And since this was a relatively minor offense, they just wiped it off the books. It's like it never happened."
As we sat in the hearse, a yellow school bus pulled up in front of the police station. On its side were the words Camp Phoenix. Seconds later a long line of teens paraded out the front door of the station and onto the bus.
"Eugene," Henry said, "how do you think Josh escaped?"
Eugene scratched his head. "He must have slipped out somehow. It's a mystery. Maybe he blended in with a group of people leaving the station. Normal folks go into police stations for any number of reasons—asking for directions, paying parking tickets, reporting a dog bite—you name it. It's the only think I can think of."
I found myself watching the kids filing onto the Camp Phoenix bus. They were all teenage boys. And suddenly it got me thinking.
"Wait a minute," I said, pointing to the bus. "I know exactly where he is."