Enough time to enter the room.
Remove a ledger.
And leave.
"Who authorized the camera shutdown?"
Dana looked down at the folder.
Then back at me.
"Deputy Chief Mercer's office."
For several seconds, I said nothing.
Then I asked, "Any other cameras?"
Dana nodded.
"The hallway camera remained active."
I leaned forward.
"What does it show?"
She placed a printed still image on the table.
The picture was grainy.
Black and white.
But clear enough.
At 2:23 a.m., Sergeant Keller walked through the corridor carrying a rectangular storage box.
The box was marked with the archive classification used for evidence ledgers.
He turned toward a service stairwell.
At 2:26, he returned without it.
I studied the image.
"Where does the stairwell go?"
Dana looked at me.
"Basement level. Records disposal area, maintenance rooms, and the old loading dock."
I stood.
"Then let's find out what happened to the box."
The records disposal area was located in the basement of a municipal storage building connected to the precinct through a secured service corridor.
It smelled of cardboard, dust, and old electrical equipment.
Several large bins stood along one wall.
Most contained approved administrative records awaiting scheduled destruction after retention review.
Each disposal batch was supposed to have authorization paperwork.
A record of what it contained.
And a documented approval before anything was destroyed.
The box Keller carried did not appear in the authorized disposal list.
That mattered.
The absence of an entry did not tell us where the ledger went.
But it eliminated the simplest legitimate explanation for why the book might have been placed downstairs.
Our team examined the available access records, interviewed maintenance personnel, and reviewed additional hallway footage.
A custodian remembered seeing a uniformed officer carrying a box near the loading dock early Saturday morning.
He did not know what was inside.
He remembered the time because he was preparing to leave his overnight shift.
He also remembered the officer seemed irritated when asked whether he needed help.
The custodian described him.
Broad shoulders.
Short hair.
Dark uniform.
Sergeant stripes.
Keller.
The custodian said the officer placed the box inside a maintenance closet.
Then locked the door.
The investigators obtained appropriate access to the closet.
Inside were cleaning supplies, spare light fixtures, a broken vacuum cleaner, and several cardboard boxes.
One was marked with an evidence archive classification.
My pulse quickened.
The box had been opened.
The original seal was broken.
We documented its condition before examining the contents.
Inside were three binders.
Several outdated equipment manuals.
A stack of blank property forms.
And one large bound ledger.
I looked toward Dana.
She looked back.
Neither spoke.
The book was recovered.
But when the forensic examiner carefully checked its pages, the central problem remained.
Page 187 was gone.
The surrounding pages showed clean cuts near the binding.
Someone had removed the sheet deliberately.
And there was something else.
Between pages 186 and 188 lay a small strip of blue paper.
No larger than a receipt.
Folded twice.
The examiner photographed it before moving it.
Then carefully opened it.
The handwriting was hurried.
Only one line.
Check the original incident camera. They took both bags.
There was no name.
No date.
No explanation.
Dana looked toward me.
"Another tip?"
"Maybe."
I studied the paper.
Then looked toward the ledger.
Whoever placed it inside may have been trying to preserve evidence.
Or may have been attempting to direct us toward something misleading.
We could not assume its origin.
But the message matched the anonymous envelope.
Don't ask only where the money went.
Ask what else was in the bag.
And now this.
Check the original incident camera.
I looked toward Dana.
"Call the digital evidence team."
She nodded.
"What do you want?"
"The entire seizure inventory revisited. Every device. Every storage medium. Every property label. And every record of anyone accessing the missing recording device."
Dana picked up her phone.
I looked down at the damaged ledger.
Somebody had spent considerable effort trying to make one page disappear.
But the page was not the whole story.
The physical book had survived.
The scanner had preserved part of the missing entry.
The hallway camera recorded the unauthorized removal.
And someone inside the building had apparently been leaving small warnings for anyone willing to look.
The question was no longer whether evidence had been mishandled.
The question was what the missing recording device contained that frightened someone enough to compromise an entire police precinct.
The answer began with a mechanic.
Daniel Price.
The same man detained during the South Harbor raid.
He was thirty-eight, a white American automotive technician who had worked for Isaac Brooks for fourteen years.
He lived in a small house outside the city with his wife and two daughters.
When I first interviewed him, he seemed nervous.
He sat across from me at a table, twisting a baseball cap between his hands.
He had already spoken with local investigators several times.
Each time, he said, the questions focused on whether Isaac Brooks was involved in drug trafficking.
Nobody seemed interested in what the officers took.
I explained our investigation.
Then asked him about the recording device.
His expression changed immediately.
"The black box?"
I nodded.
"Tell me about it."
He leaned forward.
"That was our security recorder."
"Where was it installed?"
"Office storage cabinet. Connected to the security system."
"Did it record inside the garage?"
"Several cameras. Front office. Vehicle yard. Loading entrance."
I made a note.
"Did anyone maintain backup copies?"
He hesitated.
"Usually."
I looked up.
"Usually?"
"The system uploaded selected recordings to an off-site account. But we had trouble with the internet connection."
I nodded.
"Do you know whether the night of the raid was backed up?"
He looked down.
"I don't know."
"Who managed the account?"
"Mostly me."
I leaned forward.
"Do you still have access?"
He nodded.
"Maybe."
That afternoon, with the owner's permission and appropriate evidence-preservation procedures, our digital forensic team examined the off-site security account.
The account was still active.
Several older recordings remained.
Most were routine.
Vehicles entering the yard.
Employees opening the shop.
Customers walking through the waiting area.
The camera timestamps required verification because the system clock had occasionally drifted.
But the footage itself appeared consistent with the garage's equipment and layout.