I Think I Have To Type

Hi. My name is Christina. And... I honestly have no clue what the fuck's going on. Let me try to do this in chronological order.

At approx. 5:15 PM I got a call from Levi Harrison. An old recluse who, with the mixture of a large inheritance and the job of regional manager for Armour food products, was able to afford himself a fairly large McMansion out on a hill. I know. Sounds cliched. Well... deal with it.

I got here at about 5:40. There were already two other people here. A man in priest's garb and a man who I knew very well from his time in the drunk tank- Jonah Reed. He's been suspected of pushing and abusing heroin, but he's always been a couple steps ahead of us and somehow left not a trace of heroin- not in his apartment, not in his bloodstream. I glared him down, and three more people came in. Only one of them I also knew- Randall Monroe. We tried to book him for perjury, but he's as slippery as Reed.

The doors were locked mysteriously. We didn't see any reason why the door would be locked. At about 5:55, after minutes of shouting to open the door and banging on the large wooden frame, it swung open. We were greeted by the sight of a dead Levi Harrison.

I found the laptop hidden away near a grandfather clock. It's striking five as we speak. I saw that it was already on, with a new post tab on and the word "TYPE" on it. So here I am.

I think it might be a good idea to keep this thing around. It's fully charged and it won't go bad for about six hours.

Well... I'll see if anyone else wants to type. Phones don't work, and the windows... they're not locked, I don't think, and they can probably be broken, but that's the last thing that we'd try to do.