Two weeks later, somebody shattered the front window of her car.
Nothing was stolen.
A folded piece of paper lay on the driver's seat.
Three words.
Let it go.
Elena did not let it go.
She contacted an attorney.
Then a local journalist.
Then the State Bureau of Investigation.
That was when the case came across my desk.
I first met Elena Brooks on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.
She arrived at our regional office carrying a canvas folder so full of documents that the zipper would barely close.
She wore a dark-green sweater, black trousers, and a pair of practical flat shoes.
Her hair was pulled back neatly.
She looked tired.
Not simply tired from work.
Tired in the way people become after spending months trying to convince strangers that something happened when the institutions responsible for documenting it insist otherwise.
She sat across from me.
Placed the folder on the table.
Then looked directly into my eyes.
"Before we start, I need to ask you something."
"Go ahead."
"Are you actually going to investigate this?"
I studied her.
"That's why I'm here."
She shook her head slightly.
"That's what the last three people said."
I did not argue.
She continued.
"One officer told me he'd look into it. Another said the money would be accounted for after the case closed. Somebody from professional standards told me there was no evidence of wrongdoing."
Her voice tightened.
"Then they stopped returning my calls."
I nodded slowly.
"I understand why you'd be skeptical."
Elena looked down at her folder.
Then asked, "Do you?"
I considered.
"I understand you have reasons not to trust another investigator. I won't pretend I know exactly what the past eleven months have been like for you."
Her expression softened slightly.
I continued.
"What I can do is examine the records, document the evidence, and explain what I can and cannot establish."
She studied me for several seconds.
Then nodded.
She opened the folder.
The first document was the original seizure receipt.
The second was a bank deposit preparation sheet from the garage.
The third was a copy of the wholesale transaction agreement.
Then came photographs.
The secured cabinet.
The office before the search.
The damage left afterward.
And a still image showing one evidence bag with its identification number visible.
I examined the photograph.
"Who took this?"
"During the search?"
"Before they took my phone."
I looked up.
"They seized your phone?"
She nodded.
"For almost three weeks."
"Did you receive a property receipt?"
"Eventually."
She handed me another document.
The receipt described one mobile telephone, black, no accessories.
The date was three days after the search.
I examined it.
"Was it returned in working condition?"