For our hiatus, one of my players at the table ran a Delta Green/Cthulu one-shot for us. There were 3 players and the DM, and for a nice change, I had a chance to actually play. Here's the write up in story form from my character's point of view. He died, it was a Cthulu game, so no surprise there.
Attached is the transcribed voice-over IP recorded audible log of E-5 Sergeant Bryce Massaro, Intelligence Case Officer for the Department of Defense, Peterson Airforce Base, Colorado Springs, Colorado. Possession or review of this document is classified as grade Delta Green and above only.
(5:28 AM, Monday, August 14, 2017)
So here I am, slogging my way north on 25 on my way to Greenbrier, some shit town on the north end of the state just past Fort Collins. Trying out my sub-harmonic recorder. Already set up the relay and upload for NavSat burst at 5 Mhz which should help since I’m going to be on the east end of the Rocky’s and signal can be dicey.
Showed up for my 5 to 5 DW shift as normal, cup of black joe and a powerbar on hand as usual. We’ve been doing joint Declass Five exercises for the last 3 weeks with the Air Force Academy near Glen Eagle and I fully expected to continue the same crypto-scramble and “prick-prod” we’d been doing when my OS Superior stopped me in the hall and handed me some new orders. Being reassigned to some joint multi-department task venture and had to meet the Agent at the Motel 6 in Greenbrier. By 8.
Fuck a duck. So now I have to stomp slog my way north and pisspour my way through rush-hour at Denver. I saluted my OS Sup, turned about face, and made my way to the Armory where I was assigned a 9-19mm Parabellum Beretta M9 pistol, signing off with Clevis on the dotted line and then high-tailed it to my Audi A6 and was out of the parking lot 5:04 for a 2 ½ hour commute. At best.
Got on the Samsung 8 and quick dialed my Pop, Frank, leaving a message for him that I wasn’t coming home today as I was trucking north and was on assignment. When I know more, I’ll tell more. Pop’s still looking out for me since I mustered out of Big Green 13 months ago, parleying my 4 plus 2 time and experience to the DOD. My headshrink still won’t give me any pills, saying the night terrors will fade naturally in time. That’s great doc, until then I’ll still wake up 1 day in 3 covered in sweat with a white knuckled grip on my pillow. Tell it to Janice who couldn’t stand to be near me when I was convulsing in bed at 4 in the morning, growling like an animal. So she left, and truthfully, it’s just easier to flog my log than try to explain to whatever girl wants to sleep with me why I’m a basket case and won’t talk about Anbar. Or Fallujah. Or Lisbon.
Fucking Lisbon. Fucking Portugal.
Whatever. I’m doing 73 now on the 25 and making good time. Going to burst this out and focus on making time.
(7:52 AM, Monday, August 14, 2017)
Made the trip without issue, just a brake check when skirting Denver as I missed the start of rush hour by ten to fifteen. The further north I went, the crappier the towns and the longer the stretches between them. Made it through Fort Collins with little issue and then at the north end hit the community of Greenbrier.
You can tell that 20 years ago, it was its own little town, but both it and Fort C have grown with the influx of Cali immigrants and Mexican transplants – so there was little to separate the two but for some residential roads and a stretch of strip malls capitalizing on both sets of homesteaders.
Found the Motel 6 without issue – typical of its kind – along the main road, 2 stories, both an inner and outer balcony set up. 4 cars in the lot; one CO, 2 AZ, and 1 WY. Early morning Coors drinker was sitting on a plastic chair on the 2nd floor near a set of stairs but other than that – no one paying attention.
I parked one row away from the hotel, facing towards the road, and then got out, locking the Audi behind me. Entered the Motel and the weed-head libtard checking his favorite alt-gov blog on his phone barely acknowledged I was alive as I walked up to the counter and grunted. After making sure this was the right place and learning where the pool, spa, and conference room was, I then asked Mr. Community College drop-out where the vending machines were and made my way away from the stink of mediocrity and double timed it up the stairs.
4 quarters later and I was walking along the balcony munching on my Kit Kat, one bar at a time. I scanned the rooms and windows as I walked, noting which were open and which weren’t. It was early, or at least early for the lazy shits that were sleeping away their Monday mornings, and no one was paying attention to either me or the location. Good.
I dumped the wrapper, walked past the counter again where the fry-cook failure watched me under his beetled brow, and strode to the conference room. Empty. No one here. Watch showed 7:45 and no one here, no one in the lot, nothing even written on the white board.
I stationed myself near the window, facing the door, and have been flicking the blind over again and again as I scanned the parking lot. I noted another CO vehicle rolled up, Jeep CJ-7, driver was some ram-rod with a pair of aviators. He got out, looked around, and stayed by the Jeep, watching the road. Already going to dislike this job.
(8:57 AM, Monday, August 14, 2017)
8:00 means 8:00, not 8:05. That is 5 minutes late. Five minutes where something is not going to plan.
My new direct supervisor for this venture was a battleaxe career FBI Special Agent identified as Lilliana Buhl. She had the Agency Short Hair Cut #4 and was what I considered to be thick. Had to be pushing 50 and from what I can tell, besides being career, most likely didn’t get along with the higher steps since she was terse, short, and abrupt.
The last one (yes, last one – there are 3 of us – 1 chief and 2 indians) was the thick neck that had driven up in the Jeep. Jan Shoaf, and either a flight jock or wannabe flight jock from Peterson.
The job was easy as explained. Had to go to the domicile of the recently deceased Clyde Bauman and scrub the departed’s domicile for documents or memorabilia that was deemed “interesting”. Seems Clyde was a former and well liked member of some shadow org called “The Group.” I had heard their name bandied about the darkweb and from what I can tell besides being deep supporters of Bitcoin was that they were a fairly deepstate intel think group that had their hands in and around many pies that radiated out from Langley, the Pentagon, and even the Hill.
Why some upper-mid tier desk jockey and 2 grunts were being sent to do a scout and scour 3 days after the target’s death made no sense to me if this Bauman was indeed a part of such shadow org, but again – that’s why I’m the grunt.
But I’m not a moron and when this scout and scour is over, I have to go back to the DOD so I did ask about a search warrant in case we are stopped. And I was just looked at like I’m a moron. Just because I’m half your age doesn’t mean I have half your IQ. Millennial doesn’t mean crybaby fuckwrangler – it means we’ll question instead of just “assuming it’ll all go to plan.”
After assuring me we wouldn’t need one, I nodded my head and mentioned I’d be right back. I headed off to the courtesy desktop the Motel had near the front counter and spent a few minutes digging around an old Denver PD PDF archive until I was able to find a blanket search warrant that would pass casual muster. I printed out 2 copies on the shitty HP and then went to the counter to harangue the dopeass who was STILL trolling on his phone for a handful of pens and some index cards that truthfully, should have been already in the conference room.
Once equipped, I rejoined Buhl and Shoaf, filled out the warrant, and handed it to Buhl for her perusal. She made a few adjustments to it and then handed it back. She gave us the address for Bauman’s, and we all filed out to our respective cars. No way I was driving with either of them and leave my Audi here? I did note that the WY plate was no longer in the lot but since the Coors drinker was also missing, I put one and one together and paid no mind to it.
(11:06 AM, Monday, August 14, 2017)
I followed Buhl to Bauman’s addy, a set of late 50’s box style 2x2 apartment buildings that were on the east end of Greenbrier. The alleys had some tags on them and I noticed a few gang signs in the depressed neighborhood. Shoaf was taking his sweet time and I assume stopped for a lollypop to appease his sour puss since he wasn’t here yet.
Scanning the area showed nothing serious in the neighnorhood, the rats had scurried away when the Ford POS and my Audi rolled up. There was some motion on a nearby building and I was watching it carefully, wondering if the addy was being wattched when the blaring of a horn scared the crap out of me. Some 19 year old Mexican-american was leaning on the horn and telling me to get out of the road.
I did the license and badge flip trick to get the Chulo to calm the fuck down but instead the gang-banger is screaming in my face and shouting “Cop! Cop! Cop!” Just what we don’t want since the locals are poking noses out to see what’s going on. I tell him to knock it off and motion him along and he flips me off as I do the same to him, his shit-box Mazda disappearing around the corner. Shoaf shows up at long last, nods to me, and we follow Buhl who has this “I’m surrounded by children” grin on her face to the addy.
There is a mailbox with 1-4 on it and Buhl tells us we are looking for #4. 1 and 2 are ground floor, 3 and 4 are up a set of shitty stairs poorly lit to the landing above. We walk up, Buhl showing some field skill as she shifts her weight and keeps the noise to a minimum; Shoaf blowing out stealth away with his heavy booted tread.
The landing was left 3 and right 4, 4 showing old police tape now gone, only a few scraps in the upper corners. I listen to 3 and hear a female voice and the TV – nothing else. Not sure if we’re being watched, I rip an index card in half as Buhl unlocks #4, and use a bit of the scotch tape still on the jamb to hold the card over the peep hole on 3.
I’m on point and we enter. L shaped Kitchen left, living room right – hallway beyond the L. Fridge recessed drawing on surface, table 2 chairs, a few normal pans, pots, etc. Clear. Foyer key hook with ring, no stand, umbrella, anything. Living Room worn couch, chair, tube style TV on drawered stand, coffee table with scattering of books. Quick look, clear.
Shoaf and Buhl follow me in, we’re all on pins and pistols are noticeable and hot. I motion down the hall and Buhl agrees as Shoaf goes for a detailed search in the Kitchen and Foyer.
Stealing my spine I go. Short hall, 6 paces, wicker doored linen closet @ end, door right and left. Smell of dead body is noticeable. Left is ajar. Linen closet first – four towels, 2 washcloths, half a box of baking soda. Nothing else. Checked right. Bedroom: bed, dresser single paperweight and 3 pictures on top. Quick look showed target and similarly aged woman, and 2 pics of a younger girl estimated age 4-6. Second door beyond here – suspected closet but not sure. Under bed clear. Bedroom clear.
Second right room was an office. Bauman was a hoarder. No personal effects anywhere and the place was seriously Spartan, but everything else he ever did was in here. Office room, LOTS of boxes of paperwork and stacked up all over. A god-real-forsaken TYPEWRITER was on the desk in front of the chair. Real old school. No windows. Check and check, clear.
I came back to the hall and give Buhl the thumbs up and prod the left door open, pistol out. Target died here. Stick of dead body was strong. Bathroom, busted towel bar, broken toothbrush holder, blood markings on the tub.
Let Buhl know my findings and she and Shoaf was giving the place a deeper look over. I stood by the door to the hall, checked 3 again, and shut the apartment door for now. I let the two of them do what they were doing. Sudoku puzzles? Reader’s digests and TV Guides? I asked Buhl a few times what we were looking for and she replied again and every time: something interesting.
Bug hunt. I was babysitting a FBI career agent on her bug hunt. Right then my respect for this “mission” was tanking. All I wanted was to do my job, get my inter-department DD 101 signed off on and head back to my desk to do something a bit more country specific than this crap.
Buhl was going to take all the records and mentioned that Bauman had a car nearby on the street. Shoaf had already looked over the key rings and it had 3 on there each with a Brother P-Touch label on them: Apartment, Cabin, Toyota. Shoaf and I went out leaving Buhl to look over the sad leavings and I’m sure her miserably pathetic mullings over her career to date and found the Corolla parked and untouched.
Older model, tires regular wear, no markings. Trunk had a gym bag with 2 sets of clothes and boots, worn and dirty. Interior was clean. Glove box had normal bits of paperwork and insurance paper – plus a set of coordinates N 40.22.75 W 105.35.06. A quick look on the phone showed it a good 2 plus hours from here, mostly west and south, and along the northern skirt of the Rocky Mountain National Park.
Shoaf and I went back and informed Buhl who was boxing up the last of the records and had taken the drawings and pictures of what we now assumed to be Bauman’s granddaughter Cassie. She wanted to scrub the place down and then we were to all trip out to this cabin at the coordinates. But Bauman wasn’t much for cleaning and we found little to do the job right. So she sent us to the CVS to get some bleach and I’m sitting out here in my Audi with the half box of baking soda and a towel while Buhl is finishing up her version of Pulp Fiction and spic and spanning the place. Shoaf and I had loaded her car with the boxes and anything personal that Bauman had and are now waiting for her battleaxe highness to emerge so we can get this bughunt on the road.
(2:43 PM, Monday, August 14, 2017)
Have to burst this now while I still can. Sitting in the back of Shoaf’s Jeep with the window cracked so Jan and Buhl can’t hear me. This entire bughunt and scout and scour has gone pear shaped real fast.
We left Bauman’s and followed Buhl back to 25 where we went south until Loveland. From there she pulled over in the municipal park and ride and we all piled on with Shoaf since his Jeep was better suited for the mountains and trails than either of ours. It was a good 45 more minutes west of Loveland as we made our way through the back roads and smaller places and it was right around Estes Park that cell service dropped from one bar to “HA HA HA”.
We followed the nav map as best we could along smaller roads until we were up some rough back unpaved trail for 2 miles until we arrived at some Evil Dead cabin in the woods. Faux-logs, wires leading to it so electric yes, and 2 buildings behind. We parked and listened, it was quiet. Once again I was investigative man on point so I circled the cabin gun drawn.
8x8 shed, newer construction outhouse, and the dug up bit and visible hatch of a septic tank. Woodline came right to the back, 25’ tops clearing. Circling back around there was a waterpump so an artisian well was here and a woodbin was half full. Filled in Buhl and Shoaf and they went to front door, I stood by corner and watched back door in case the place had an unfriendly that was going to pull a runner.
They went in and in a minute the back door opened and I was motioned to come in.
Cabin had one main room with a stove, kitchenette, bed and what not. A side bathroom was here but the outhouse led me to believe it was non-functioning, and a quick check of the tank and bowl confirmed that. After giving the place a once over, Buhl led us to the sleeping area where there was a twin bed, night stand, foot locker and an envelope with a green triangle marked on top.
Shoaf worked on the locker while Buhl read the note. Bauman must have suspected he was of poor health and commented that there was 20 gallons of gasoline in the shed and they should pour it in the septic tank and burn what was in there alive and that he was sorry.
Gas? Burn? Whiskey Tango Foxtrot??
Shoaf meanwhile had found 3 Vietnam style active gas grenades, some museum aged bone handled iron knife, and a leather pouch which contained a matt of animal hair, some bird feathers, and a handful of human infant teeth. What a fucking freak.
So we went out back and verified the locked shed DID have 20 1 gallon plastic jerry cans of fucking gasoline! Plus an axe and a book of matches. What was Bauman planning? We then looked over the outhouse next and it was just a hole in the ground as expected. So that left the dug up septic tank and the submarine door style chained down in place hatchway. The heavy metal hatchway. Chained down.
And I was able to hear a voice, female, calling for help. In the septic tank. Said it was Marleen Bauman and her husband had trapped her down here 4 years ago. Wanted to get out and please help.
I turned to Buhl and flat out asked her, is that our mission? Are we really going to burn some woman alive? Is this the end game? Buhl was poleaxed and couldn’t answer and after Shoaf and I continued to question her and SERIOUSLY press the issue, she told us to get back in the Jeep and that she had to make a call. So here we are, bouncing our way back OUT of the mountains and heading along to Estes Park so Buhl can make a phone call. Again, what does Buhl know and why do I get the feeling she can’t be trusted? She’s been cagey since minute one and I get it, need to know and all that, but fucks sake – there’s only THREE of us – who the fuck are we going to tell?
(5:37 PM, Monday, August 14, 2017)
This mission is rating a 9.5 on my WTF-o-meter. We drove towards Estes Park and stopped at the Friendly Camp Supply Store just shy of the town where Special Agent Buhl got out of the car and walked up and down the pullover, gesticulating firmly often and growing frustrated and angry in between long pauses. Jan seemed to be getting fed up with Buhl and we muttered out misgivings to one another for now. It was difficult to read Buhl’s lips, but I did my best and what little I picked up verified what I had suspected: Buhl was out of her element, there was more we didn’t know, and she was kicking it up the pole to get someone to tell her to burn whatever was in the septic tank alive.
She came back and sure enough, informed us that the mission was to perform Bauman’s final request and that was it. I was stunned. Alright, what if it WAS Marleen? Four years trapped in a septic tank? In the dark, no food or water? It made no sense.
This was tugging at my lizard brain and it reminded me of some of the strange shit myself and Team Bravo had seen in Fallujah. Sergeant Major Barrows had been on hand then, my SO was in charge of the situation and he guided myself and the rest of the company through those strange days when things just didn’t add up.
Best advice he ever gave? “Bryce, do your homework. Verify and collect intelligence before you commit yourself to an action or an order that just rankles you the wrong way.”
Since we had cell service, I did my magic and learned that Marleen Bauman DID die 4 years ago of a heart attack, dying in her sleep. She was interred at Macklemore Cemetery in Fort Collins and the Bauman’s had 2 children, Michael and Sharon. And Sharon had a daughter named Cassie. Everything was panning out.
I called Macklemore and spoke to a director, putting on my best friendly voice and getting him to verify that Marleen was interred there almost 4 years ago and that Clyde had visited the gravesite no more than a week ago. I thanked him and asked both Buhl and Shoaf if these facts are true, than what is buried beneath the ground outside of Bauman’s cabin? To which Buhl replied that was why we should proceed on the mission.
We went into the camp store where a few purchases were made, for me I needed another baking soda, 2 bottles of vinegar, a maglight, 2 bottles of Arizona iced tea, and a lighter. I know the others bought their own purchases and we filed outside to Jan’s jeep. I downed the 2 iced teas and then filled the glass bottles each half way with baking soda and capped them in place firmly. I then wrapped everything in the paper bag and we made the drive back to the Cabin.
We checked under the house – 2’ crawlspace but the pipes from the bathroom had been jigsawed away, meaning there was no easy way to pour the gas in. So we’d have to do it under the house. Buhl went to the hatch cover to listen, Shoaf was bringing me cans of gas, and I was under the house pouring the first one in slowly.
Buhl informed us she couldn’t hear the falling liguid which to me meant it was blocked up. But she was listening to the whatever it was saying it was Marleen, begging for release and its life. I wiggled out, went to the wood bin and ripped of a length of plywood. Then crawling back under the house and Jan joined me with the tire iron from the Jeep, I poured the baking soda down the hole from one of the bottles – and then dumped the vinegar down the hole as well. We slid the plywood over and jammed the tire iron between it and the house just in time as the 2 items mixed and blew out and down the septic line.
Buhl informed us that “Marleen” was yelling “what are you doing?” and that she could hear liquid running. She was yelling at me to get it done, get it done! Pour the gas and light it! What the fuck is with that Yankee Oxford Lima Oxford crap? It’s GASOLINE, I had no interest in going up like a candle. Bbut a job’s a job, so we dumped 3 more jugs of gas down the hole and then I lit the fucker and backed away.
Marleen was screaming and Buhl was sweating and rocking slightly as the screams were going on. It continued for a while until the fire died out and then Buhl got up from the ground and her eyes soaking wet and howling like a banshee, ran off into the woods shrieking and shaking and moaning. I looked at Shoaf who said merely, “Ugh. Let her go.”
Wow. Hard core, dude.
We went back to dumping gasoline down the hole but after 4 we were stuck again, this time the gas was backed up down the entire septic pipe. So this time I popped a hole in the plywood cover, did the same baking soda/vinegar trick but it wasn’t as effective since the pipe was filled with gas. But the pressure DID force open whatever the “Marleen” had jammed in the pipe free and the gas was running down again. Another light and WHOOSH! More fire down the pit.
We could hear only some growling and then nothing.
This was going to take forever and the Marleen was still jamming the 3” pipe with whatever it had. We needed more material and a better plan. Plus it was 5 PM and we agreed not to be here after dark. Buhl was still nowhere to be found so I tured on the Jeep, faced it into the woods, and blew the horn again and again, hoping to attract Buhl and guide her back to the cabin. Meanwhile Shoaf was gathering the empty gas cans and policing the area.
Buhl eventually came out of the woods, filthy and sheepish. She didn’t even thank me for attracting her back, only agreed that we needed more equipment and had to do this correctly tomorrow. We got back in Shoaf’s Jeep and began the long ride out of here. Buhl informed us we would be going back to the Motel 6 to rest up and will be coming back here in the morning. That was fine by me, but I wanted to hit the Home Depot first and Shoaf was very big on refilling the jerry cans.
And Buhl? She is sitting there, staring out at the passing trees in the gathering dark, saying little but her eyes, they have that stare in them. The stare that says, “I’m not doing well with all this.”
Toughen up, Buttercup. We’re all a bit strung out.
(8:48 PM, Monday, August 14, 2017)
I love shopping at Home Depot. Hope to hell I get reimbursed for all this, my Amex took a hit and a half. Purchased a Dewalt 20V cordless drill and then picked up a ¾” spade bit. We grabbed 3 shovels, I found a 4’ plumbers crowbar used for lifting manhole covers. 4 gallons of bleach. I then went to toll rental and they had a gas powered 50’ plumbing snake. Very neat. Rented that for tomorrow but I had to give a $20 security on top of the prepay. What am I going to do? Keep the damned thing?
The plan as of now is to drive back with 2 cars, Jan’s and Lilliana’s. Lilliana parks her rear wheel on the septic hatch cover. We dig a bit shy of the tank until we get to the waste line, bore in and then snake whatever mess is in the way , dropping the gas down the hole. After the initial burn, we pry up a corner of the hatch and ten drop the rest of the gas down, burn whatever the fuck it is, and I get my DD 101 signed off and get away from crazy-eyed Buhl and back to my normal non-fucked up 9 to 5.
At least the room at the Motel 6 I have is shitty and the mattress feels like I’m sleeping on gravel.
(10:16 AM, Tuesday, August 15, 2017)
Slept like a baby, we all had breakfast, and I snagged an extra bagel to eat in the car. We’re loaded for bear and I feel pretty confident about this plan. Jan is noncommittal but he did inform me that Buhl is still acting strange and we are hoping that when this is over that we never have to work with her battle-axe crazy ass again.
We’re coming up to the house now so it’s just about game time.
At this point, there are snippets of bursts that have been uploaded but they are disjointed and involve much screaming. Where there were gaps in the burst it has been noted in the transcription below. We are not sure if Sergeant Massaro was aware he was recording during these pockets of conversation. Based upon the other voices that were picked up on the recordings, it is obvious that the volume of others involved was also just as elevated and chaotic as Sergeant Bryce.
“Burn motherfucker, Burn!”
“No, move the snake back and forth only a little bit. Don’t want it to grab the end.”
“Fuck this isn’t going to work.”
(FEMALE VOICE) “Don’t undo the chain.”
(Metal creaking followed by a broken exchange of something falling and heavy smashing)
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
“Get it! Use the knife!”
(MALE VOICE) “Die you bastard!”
(MALE VOICE) “Die you bastard!”
(Shots fired, followed by a pain filled guttural roar)
“Fucking almost hit me, Buhl!”
“Take this, you bitch!”
(Drilling noise and more guttural screams)
“What the fuck!? How the fuck are we going to get it now?”
(FV)”I don’t know. But we have a mission and have to go after it.”
(MV)”Are you out of your mind?! It flipped a car!”
“There’s a fucking drill sticking out of its kidney!”
(FV)”It’s your fault! If you had done your job properly it wouldn’t have gotten away!”
“Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Ma’am! I not only, WE not only did our jobs, we went ABOVE and BEYOND the parameters of them as had been set down by YOU Ma’am!”
(FV)”Don’t take that tone with…”
“Just sign it! Sign the damned DD 101 because truthfully I’ve done my job and I want out of this mission now.”
(MV)”Special Agent Buhl, what more did you expect of us?”
(FV)”How about not letting it escape? How about stopping it? The job isn’t over yet, kids. Fucking Millennials.”
“Ma’am, you are certifiable and a fucking loon.”
(MV)”Ma’am, please put the gun down.”
“You’re going to shoot me?”
(FV)”Give me your gun, Massaro. Now”
“Holy shit! You are bat house fucking nuts, Buhl!”
(Howling and screaming followed along with the sound of a shot. It sounds like something is shuffling along and more yelling. Difficult to discern exact what is happening)
“Fuck! Sssshhhot me in the fuuuughing faccccheee!”
(More struggling and then two voices, FV and we suspect Massaro give a brief shout and then the sound of falling)
(At this point we no longer hear Massaro’s voice and the burst upload is muffled and garbled as if submerged slightly, but we did manage to extract this last bit)
(MV)”Fucking die! Die! Burn you! Burn!”
(Sound of liquid falling)
(MV)”You twisted crazy bitch.”
(Sound of a striking match and then a last scream and burst upload ends)
We did a clandestine follow up, Jan Shoaf did return to his command yesterday evening on the 15th and reported to his SO that Special Agent Buhl had finished with his services and released him. A filed DD 101 interdepartment action report was on hand and it had a scrawl along the bottom. Handwriting comparison shows that the signature although marked as Special Agent Lilliana Buhl does not match her signature on file. Sergeant Massaro has not checked in with the DOD, and Special Agent Buhl has not reported back to her superiors. Again, this document is classified as Delta Green.