A Free OSINT Lesson: Search Indexes, Record Shops, and Flipping through Vinyl
Sometimes the simplest lessons make for a good story
Recently, I got into vinyl.
I know, I know… a near-forty-year-old white guy suddenly becomes nostalgic and gets into records—it’s cliche, it’s dumb. I’m well aware of how this will sound to you, dear readers.
So, apart from doing countless hours of research on the subject of vinyl collecting, I spend some of my work day visiting local record shops. Feel free to tell my boss.
I read reviews. I talk to other collectors. And I pop into the shop.
I’ve noticed that record shops (locally owned, not chains) all have different strengths and weaknesses. They have vibes. They cater to certain types of clientele and put resources into certain types of music over others. In simple terms, the shop owners and staff have their own likes and dislikes regarding music (natural) and tend to lean into those areas with the records they buy, sell, carry, and market.
In my town, there are plenty of vinyl shops. One of the biggest is a massive ugly building that heavily caters to the vintage and modern punk scene. Looking for jazz? “Fuck off,” they’d probably say. Another really digs weirder, more eclectic stuff and has a large collection of synth and psychedelic records—nary a pop album to be seen. Another one, which I visited yesterday with my son who was home sick from school (pretty sure he was playing me), a super cool hole-in-the-wall kinda joint, was big into the classics and oldies with the tiniest “New Music” collection I have ever seen. They had 10 contemporary records.
For the record (hah!), I did still buy a used limited cut of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles and a slightly rougher and older copy of David Bowie’s The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. They were on for a great price.
The point here is that an individual record shop has a place in a city’s broader vinyl landscape. By doing your research, talking to people, and actually going to visit, you quickly get a feel for where they fit.
There’s an OSINT lesson here…
Last week, my boss wrote a great piece on investigation bias. In it, she mentioned a case that we've been noodling at Bullshit Hunting for the last while. To quote Chuck Palahniuk's novel Fight Club, "it's the little scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if only you would stop tonguing it, but you can't."
We recently began revisiting it more seriously, and I started work on tracking down folks who may have a more intimate knowledge of the events. Now, this rather grizzly incident occurred in Canada roughly 30 years ago, in the early 1990s.
We’ve been spelunking into archives, old newspaper records, FOIAs with law enforcement, and generally digging in. Our pal Justin has timelined the shit out of this. You should see the rainbow of colours he’s got going.
I digress.
30 years is a long time. Names change, people change. Some of them die. I’ve found quite a few people connected to the story, but there was one I was eager to reach.
I tracked down a journalist who I knew covered the story, but sadly, he died in 2021. I took a leap and reached out to his former editor. She told me she didn’t recall anything about the incident, but she said that there was another journalist who covered crime in the city and may know more.
A 79-year-old dude who looks like someone I want to be when I grow up. A kick-ass white beard. Round John Lennon-style sunglasses. A black French 1920's style Casquette flat cap.
Who is this guy? The epitome of timeless cool? He must own a record player, I desperately thought to myself, and a rough and very used copy of Ziggy Stardust.
There was one photo of him online. One article from 2020 that highlighted his career. One Facebook account hasn't been updated since 2017. And a boatload of articles between 1990 and 2010 from a now-defunct local newspaper. This dude was so dope that surveillance capitalism said, "Nah, we can't…" and it left him alone.
I leaned back in my chair, frustrated. Typically, the older generation has landlines and phone numbers in the Yellowpages. He must have been too cool for a landline. He probably just whispered into the wind and sent his messages via vibes.
I went to grab a Coke Zero from the refrigerator. I wondered if he enjoyed a good cola? I could see him sitting there in a big old easy chair, Abbey Road playing in the background on some kick-ass vintage Japanese record player from 1981, talking about how great cola is to his wife of fifty years, still smoking hot. She interrupts him as her favourite song comes on, then pensively wonders if there is some other investigative journalist somewhere else in Canada, sipping a cola with a record player…
Sorry.
Perhaps my insane imagination wasn't off. Perhaps he was married. My eyebrow raised, and I returned to my computer and logged into one of our newspaper archive toolsets. I punched in his name and the city in question. Fortunately, his name wasn't a common one. While a boatload of his articles came up, I added keywords like "marry," "matrimony," "marriage," and "announce."
And I found a hit. This cool-as-fuck journalist got married in 1982. His wife went by Liz—not even Elizabeth—just "Liz." So cool. According to the article, she took his last name.
I turned to Google and punched her name and the town into a search. Not much. No social media that I could find. Not a single useful hit. Liz was a ghost.
Then, momentarily, I pondered those record stores, each with their own weird distinction. They each had their own little selections and purpose, and they indexed different styles of music based on their strengths or interests.
There are other search engines. It was a long shot, but I turned to Bing.
I put Liz's name in quotes and the name of the town. There were hits, but I find Bing categorizes stuff differently. I don't love Bing.
I took a sip of Coke Zero. This town was small enough to have only one area code, so I added it to the search.
Liz's name in quotes. Town name. Three-digit area code.
Bam. Second hit.
Found a cell phone number and an email address.
Moreover, just because it's worth mentioning, Liz is the Treasurer of her community's local Bocce Ball league.
Who doesn’t love Bocce?
Assholes. That’s who. Assholes don’t love Bocce.
So my cool 79-year-old journalist and his kick-ass wife play Bocce.
Now, as a quick aside, I punched those exact search terms into Google, and the Bocce site was also indexed, but not until the 3rd page, which was weird.
Multiple search engines. Multiple record shops. Just sayin’.
I dialled the number, and Liz answered. I asked if her husband was a former journalist for the local newspaper, and I explained who I was and that I had a question about an old story he may have written about.
She called out his name and said,
“There’s a gentleman on the phone for you. He says his name is MJ.”
The way she said, “he says his name is MJ,” was wild. It was like she only half believed me. She was probably used to weird men calling her husband on random Tuesdays asking to talk about some horrific murder, and making up dumb names.
As the phone was passed off, I could hear music in the background. I bet it’s a fucking record, I thought to myself.
Then, a voice I could only describe as a dark, gloomy fog said, “Hello.” It was like Leonard Cohen and Tom Waits had a grandson who probably saw some shit as he grew up, and those experiences had taken a toll on his voice.
I explained who I was (frankly, it was an honour) and the reason for my call.
There was a moment of pause. A long inhale on the other end of the line, and a "hmmm." It was the sound of thinking, like fingers flipping through dozens of albums in a used record shop, with a momentary pause looking at the cover. Except these were thoughts of crimes, murders, assaults, and court cases.
"What did you say your name was?"
"MJ."
"Well, MJ, I'll be honest. It does ring a bell, but that's about it. It's been a while."
"I understand. I'll leave you my number if anything jogs your memory."
(Or if you ever want to hang out)
"Yeah, but you know… there was another guy who covered this beat. A colleague of mine. A guy named Warren."
He proceeded to tell me about Warren, his last name, and that this Warren guy covered a lot of criminal and murder cases. I explained that I didn't see his name attached to any articles about my subject, but he said that didn't matter. They all talked. He may know more.
"Did you have Warren's phone number?"
There was an exhale now, a sort of deflated failure. He was clearly interested in helping but just couldn't.
"I don't. Sorry. But I know he's on the West Coast now. He moved to Victoria (that's in British Columbia) about ten years ago."
Another possible lead. Another hunt for an old dog journalist. This is the way it goes.
I appreciate that this lesson was a long-winded way of simply telling you to use multiple search engines and multiple tools for the same selector. Data gets indexed differently, so find various methods to access that data and see what pops up.
It's a simple lesson, but it's a classic one. We live in a world of all these big 'ol intelligence firms and their claims of speed and alleged accuracy in returning information back to a client. Like a music streaming service with shitty algorithms trying to guess what you want, paying their artists and staff next to nothing, raising their prices every few months to feed the oligarchs of Silicon Valley, and just pretending to give a fuck. It's all a bit soulless now; just like frozen yogurt; we've all decided to settle for "OK."
Maybe simple is better. It's warmer. Maybe we chill out, put on some tunes, and, whether it's for some long-lost vinyl record or that long-lost target hunt.