He entered quickly.
Looked at my soaked suit.
Then at the officers standing around the room.
For a moment, he seemed unable to speak.
"Investigator Vance?"
I nodded.
He extended his hand.
"Lieutenant Whitaker. I understand there's been some confusion."
I looked toward Rourke.
"That's one word for it."
Whitaker's expression tightened.
He glanced at Keller.
The sergeant looked away.
Whitaker turned back to me.
"Perhaps we could discuss this in my office."
"Certainly."
I lifted my briefcase.
Then paused.
"After someone secures the relevant recordings."
Whitaker nodded too quickly.
"Of course."
I looked toward Ortiz.
"Officer Ortiz has already identified potential body-camera evidence."
The lieutenant's eyes moved toward her.
For a brief instant, I noticed something unusual.
Not surprise.
Displeasure.
It vanished almost immediately.
Whitaker forced a smile.
"Excellent."
I looked toward Rourke.
"Officer Rourke should also provide a statement."
Whitaker nodded.
"We'll handle that internally."
I shook my head.
"The incident involves alleged misconduct against a state investigator during an authorized inquiry. Any internal process will need to be coordinated with the appropriate independent authorities."
His smile faded.
"Understood."
I did not raise my voice.
There was no need.
A badge did not make me superior to the officers in that room.
It did not give me permission to humiliate them in return.
But it did represent a responsibility they had apparently forgotten.
The authority to investigate public officials who might have abused their power.
And the duty to document what I witnessed even when the person responsible suddenly became cooperative.
Whitaker led me through the hallway.
As we walked, officers looked up from their desks.
Some stared at my stained shirt.
Others noticed the black credential holder in my hand.
Whispers followed us.
At the end of the corridor, we entered a glass-walled office overlooking the main operations floor.
Whitaker closed the door.
Then turned.
"Investigator, first let me apologize for what happened."
I nodded.
"Thank you."
He seemed relieved.
Then continued.
"Officer Rourke can be overly enthusiastic."
I studied him.
"Enthusiastic?"
Whitaker hesitated.
"He sometimes takes practical jokes too far."
I looked down at the coffee staining my shirt.
Then back at him.
"Does he regularly pour drinks over people?"
The lieutenant shifted.
"No."
"Shove them?"
"Of course not."
"Then perhaps this wasn't a practical joke."
Whitaker's jaw tightened.
I continued.
"An officer deliberately poured a drink over a person he believed had no authority here. He then made unwanted physical contact while other officers laughed."
The lieutenant looked toward the floor.
"Yes."
"That's what needs to be documented."
He nodded slowly.
I placed the judicial paperwork on his desk.
"And we have another matter."
He looked down.
I watched his face as he read.
At first, concentration.
Then irritation.
Then something closer to concern.
He turned the second page.
Then the third.
Finally, he looked up.
"You're here for the South Harbor case?"
"Among other related records."
He swallowed.
"That investigation was closed."
"Some criminal charges were dismissed. The property-accounting questions were not resolved."
Whitaker leaned back.
"I was told the discrepancy had been explained."
"By whom?"
He hesitated.
"Sergeant Keller."
I made a note.
"And who reviewed his explanation?"
Whitaker's eyes narrowed.
"I believe Deputy Chief Mercer's office."
I nodded.
"That matches the record."
He looked at me.
"Then what's the problem?"
I opened my briefcase.
Removed copies of the conflicting receipts.
Placed them side by side.
"The original inventory lists $217,400."
Whitaker looked down.
"The booking record lists $18,250."
He said nothing.
"Those amounts differ by $199,150."
The lieutenant folded his arms.
"We've been over this."
I looked at him.
"Then help me understand it."
He stared.
I continued.
"Which officer physically counted the money after it arrived at the precinct?"
Whitaker looked toward the documents.
"That would've been property control."
"Which employee?"
He hesitated.
"I don't recall."
"Who approved the amended total?"
"I'd have to check."
"Where is the original count sheet?"
Another pause.
"We can look for it."
I nodded.
"Good."
Then I placed a photograph of the physical ledger on the desk.
"Where is page 187?"
Whitaker's expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
His shoulders stiffened.
His eyes moved toward the office door.
Then back to me.
"Page 187?"
"Yes."
He looked down.
"Damaged during the records move."
"Where is the damage report?"
He hesitated.
"I'm not sure."
"Where is the replacement copy?"
Silence.
I leaned forward.
"Lieutenant, the missing page falls between two intact pages in a bound evidence ledger. The official explanation says it was damaged during a move, but the surviving photographs suggest it was physically removed."
Whitaker stared.
I continued.
"I need to examine the original book."
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he reached for his telephone.
I watched his hand.
He pressed a button.
Waited.
Then spoke.
"Get me property control."
A pause.
"Yes. Immediately."
He hung up.
Then looked toward me.
"Someone will bring the ledger."
I nodded.
"Thank you."
But when the property clerk arrived twenty minutes later, she brought an empty plastic storage container.
And the expression on her face told me the day was about to become much more complicated.
Evelyn Price was sixty-two years old.
A Black American civilian evidence technician who had worked inside the city's law enforcement property system for nearly thirty years.
She wore a pale-gray cardigan over a dark blouse, practical shoes, and reading glasses attached to a thin silver chain.
Her hair was carefully braided and gathered into a bun.
She moved slowly.
Not because she was weak.
Because she had learned that rushing around police evidence was an excellent way to make mistakes.
She entered Whitaker's office holding the storage container.
Then stopped when she saw me.
For one brief instant, something passed across her face.
Recognition.
Not of my face.
Of my name.
I remembered the anonymous envelope.
I wondered.
Whitaker frowned.
"Where's the ledger?"
Evelyn looked down.
"That's the problem."
He stared.
"What problem?"
She carefully placed the empty container on the desk.
"The ledger isn't in its assigned location."
Whitaker's face tightened.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the shelf is empty."
The lieutenant stood.
"Did you check the records room?"
"Yes."
"The old archives?"
"Yes."
"Who signed it out?"
Evelyn looked toward him.
"No one."
The room fell silent.