Unit 47 was rented by Harold Morrison, paid regularly for three years until he stopped making payments last fall. We sent the usual notices, but never heard back from him or his family. Marcus leans forward with practiced concern.
Did something happen to Mr. Morrison? We’d hate for valuable family documents to get thrown away if there are relatives who might want them. Harold passed away last October, Janet says, her voice carrying the sympathetic tone she’s developed for discussing deceased tenants. Heart attack, according to what I heard.
His daughter came by afterward to ask about his belongings, but she said the family couldn’t afford to keep paying rent on the unit. That’s why it went to auction. Elena exchanges a quick glance with Marcus, both recognizing the implications of Janet’s information.
Morrison died without telling his family about the storage unit’s hidden contents, taking knowledge of the concealed treasures with him. The daughter who visited the facility had no idea what her father had hidden in the seemingly worthless collection of junk. Do you remember anything specific about Mr. Morrison? Marcus asks.
What kind of person was he? Janet’s expression softens with the kind of fondness that develops between people who share brief but regular interactions over extended periods. Harold was a nice man. Quiet, very organized.
He came by every few months to check on his unit, always paid his rent on time. He seemed like the type who took care of important things. Did he ever mention what he stored in the unit? He said it was research materials and family items.
Nothing unusual about that. Lots of people store boxes of papers and documents they don’t want to keep at home, but can’t bring themselves to throw away. Elena presses gently for more details.
Research materials? Was Mr. Morrison some kind of scientist or professor? I think he was retired, but he mentioned being interested in local history, Arizona’s mining heritage, Spanish colonial period, that sort of thing. He struck me as the kind of person who spent his retirement pursuing hobbies he never had time for while he was working. The description fits perfectly with what Elena and Marcus have discovered.
Morrison was an amateur historian who somehow acquired Spanish colonial artifacts and took considerable care to hide them in his storage unit. His death eliminated the only person who knew about the hidden compartment and its valuable contents. Janet retrieves a manila folder from her filing cabinet containing Morrison’s original rental agreement and contact information.
His daughter’s name is Patricia Morrison-Wells. She lives in Scottsdale, I think. She seemed genuinely sad about not being able to keep her father’s things, but she said the family couldn’t justify the storage costs for what appeared to be boxes of old papers.
Marcus copies Patricia’s contact information, though he’s not certain whether contacting Morrison’s family would help or complicate their situation. The legal ownership of storage unit contents transfers to auction winners, but the discovery of valuable artifacts hidden by the previous owner creates potential ethical obligations that extend beyond strict legal requirements. Was Mr. Morrison working with anyone else on his research? Any partners or collaborators who might have known about his projects? Janet shakes her head.
Harold always came alone. Very independent person, from what I could tell. He mentioned going on research trips to various historical sites around Arizona, but I got the impression it was a solitary hobby.
As they leave the storage facility office, Elena and Marcus process the information Janet provided. Morrison was a serious amateur historian possessed knowledge about Spanish colonial treasures hidden in Arizona’s desert landscape. His careful concealment of artifacts in the storage unit suggests he understood their historical and monetary significance, but Morrison’s death created an information gap that could prove crucial to understanding what they’ve discovered.
The artifacts represent only part of a larger puzzle, and the person who best understood that puzzle took his knowledge with him when he died unexpectedly. Patricia Morrison-Wells lives in a modest ranch house in North Scottsdale, surrounded by the kind of xeriscaped landscaping that characterizes Arizona’s suburban adaptation to desert living. Elena and Marcus park their Honda Civic behind a newer Toyota Camry, both vehicles looking out of place in a neighborhood where most driveways contain luxury SUVs and sports cars.
Patricia answers her door with the cautious friendliness of someone who’s learned to be wary of unexpected visitors. At 43, she carries herself with the efficient grace of a working mother who manages multiple responsibilities with limited time for complications. Her expression shifts from wariness to curiosity when Elena explains their connection to her father’s storage unit.
That’s very thoughtful of you, but Dad’s research was just a hobby. He spent his retirement years reading about Arizona history and taking trips to old mining sites. I never understood the attraction, but it kept him busy after Mom died.
Elena shows Patricia photographs of the Spanish coins on her phone, watching carefully for recognition or surprise. Did your father ever mention finding historical artifacts during his research trips? Patricia studies the images with growing amazement. These look genuinely old.
Where did you find them? Hidden in the storage unit, Marcus admits. Your father went to considerable trouble to conceal them. We think they might be Spanish colonial silver, possibly quite valuable.
The revelation transforms Patricia’s understanding of her father’s activities. She rises from the couch and walks to a bookshelf filled with Arizona history volumes. Pulling out a leather-bound journal that appears well-used and carefully maintained, Dad kept research notes about everything he studied.
I never looked through this journal carefully because the historical stuff didn’t interest me. But maybe it contains information about what you found. Elena accepts the journal with the reverence appropriate to handling someone’s life work.
The pages contain Harold Morrison’s meticulous handwriting, documenting decades of research into Arizona’s Spanish colonial period. Maps, historical references, theoretical locations for lost treasure sites, and detailed notes about expedition routes through desert terrain. Your father was very thorough, Marcus observes, reading over Elena’s shoulder.
These notes reference documents we found during our own research at the library. Patricia settles back onto the couch, her expressions cycling through surprise, regret, and something approaching pride. I had no idea Dad was this serious about his historical research…
