Lives of consequence, recorded plainly. Our standing series, Those Who Knew Too Much, notes the manner of death without inferring from it.
A 1988 book named him as the man who took objects out of three famous photographs. He kept his laboratory's retouch log at home, and it records what came off each print: a hair, a fibre, a registration cross.
A contract support pilot, 11,300 hours, most of them dull. Her personal logbook gives the heading, the fuel and four sentences about an ice-walled shaft. The operator's own fuel sheet cannot account for 71 minutes. She died in June.
He published nine pages in 1984 saying the disputed line was not a closing formula. The re-collation finished five weeks after his funeral agrees, on the same two signs. It was cited three times.
Emmett Chukwu-Prine spent thirty-four years with a pouch chained to his wrist and never opened one. He enlisted into the courier service in 1951. His family asked us for this obituary because they had read the books and believed them.
This desk spent $2,940 on certificates, coroners' findings and police reports. Thirty-six arrived, three jurisdictions refused a stranger, and two of the subjects turned out to be alive. One of them answered his own telephone.
The tickets she pulled from the incinerator queue in 1989 carry no words, only numbers and seconds. The most-dialled number across thirty-two years of conferences was a veterinary surgery in Wassenaar. She never heard a syllable.
The most quoted bracket in the 1972 grain hearings falls two lines after a witness is asked who authorised the sales. Her shorthand notebook, left to a university without embargo, says the chairman was talking about a tape reel.
He is the most quoted witness for the levels under Concourse D. The 4,100 paper discs from his key clock put him on the surface perimeter through every shift he described. He said so himself, in 2011, to eleven authors.
She watched a ball of light come along a farmhouse hallway in 1961 and out through the open door. She told her husband, who was kind about it, and then nobody else until May.
He was a records officer at a forestry office in Suffolk for thirty-four years. In February he found a 1981 stand map nobody had ever asked for, and posted it. It is the strongest single thing in a story about 1980.
For thirty-one years she collected the paper a federal records annexe was throwing away, indexed it by hand on 11,400 cards, refused four offers to buy it, and left the lot to a public library on one condition.
He built the same experiment eleven times, got a null result eleven times, published all eleven, and considered the last one his best work. Somebody, he said, has to hold the bar.
She answered 41,000 Freedom of Information requests from the other side of the counter, released material she could lawfully have withheld, and was formally reprimanded for it twice. Both letters hang in her hallway at the height of a seated person.
He solved the mystery in two years — it was a pumping station — and kept writing it down for another twenty-nine. The result is the longest single-observer acoustic record of a rural night anyone knows of.
We printed her name as attending a conference she had never heard of. She filed a nine-page complaint, won, and then wrote to say the correction was the best part. She is survived by clause 4b.
