“Thirty-seven complaints in four years.”

“Thirty-seven?”

“And twenty-nine of them involved either Morrison, Harris, or Captain Reeves.”

Troy stared at the screen.

“That isn't a department with a few bad officers.”

“No,” Keller said. “It's a system.”

Across the building, Jason Morrison sat alone in an interview room.

His confidence was gone.

A federal agent placed a recorder on the table.

“You understand that this is a federal investigation?”

Morrison said nothing.

“You understand that your previous statements are being compared against video, audio, dispatch records, civilian recordings, and GPS data?”

Still nothing.

The agent slid a document toward him.

“This is your report.”

Morrison looked down.

“You wrote that Marcus Troy repeatedly crossed the center line.”

“Yes.”

“We have traffic-camera footage showing he didn't.”

No response.

“You wrote that he refused to provide identification.”

“He gave us his license.”

“You wrote that he attacked you.”

“He resisted.”

The agent leaned forward.

“When?”

Morrison's jaw tightened.

“When did he attack you?”

“I don't remember.”

“That's interesting.”

The agent pressed play.

Morrison's own voice filled the room.

We can do this the difficult way.

Then the sound of the window breaking.

Morrison looked away.

The agent continued.

“You wrote that you had no choice.”

Morrison finally spoke.

“He was acting suspicious.”

“Suspicion isn't a charge.”

“He was questioning my authority.”

“That isn't a crime.”

Morrison slammed his hand against the table.

“You weren't there!”

“No,” the agent replied. “But the cameras were.”

Silence.

At 2:13 a.m., FBI agents opened the department's internal-affairs archive.

They expected missing files.

What they found was worse.

The files existed.

Every complaint existed.

Every witness statement existed.

Every photograph existed.

Every medical report existed.

Someone had simply changed the digital status of the cases from ACTIVE to CLOSED — INSUFFICIENT EVIDENCE.

Troy stared at the screen.

“Who has authorization to close these?”

Keller looked at the access logs.

“Captain Reeves.”

Troy frowned.

“Only Reeves?”

“No.”

She turned the screen toward him.

“There are two usernames.”

One belonged to Reeves.

The other belonged to a civilian administrative account.

Troy recognized the name.

Lydia Grant.

“Who's that?”

“Records supervisor.”

Troy stood.

“Find her.”

But Lydia Grant was already gone.

Her desk was empty.

Her phone was switched off.

And her apartment door stood open when agents arrived.

Someone had warned her.

Troy looked at Keller.

“We have a leak.”

Keller nodded.

“And whoever warned her knows exactly how much evidence we have.”

CHAPTER 3 — THE MAN BEHIND THE BADGES

The following morning, Deerfield woke to news helicopters.

By 8:00 a.m., footage of Morrison smashing Troy's window was spreading across social media.

A pharmacy customer had uploaded her recording.

Within hours, it had millions of views.

The comments were brutal.

He wasn't resisting.

Why did the cop smash the window?

Look at the man's hands.

This officer lied.

The Deerfield Police Department released a statement claiming the incident was “under active review.”

Nobody believed it.

Inside the federal command center, Troy watched the footage again.

Not because he enjoyed it.

Because he was looking for something.

“Pause there.”

The video stopped just before Morrison smashed the window.

“Zoom in.”

An FBI analyst enlarged the reflection in the Audi's side mirror.

A second patrol vehicle was visible.

Troy recognized the license plate.

“Who was driving that?”

The analyst checked.

“Officer Daniel Harris.”

Troy frowned.

“Harris wasn't supposed to be there.”

Keller looked over.

“What do you mean?”

“Harris wasn't assigned to traffic patrol yesterday.”

She immediately ordered a personnel audit.

Twenty minutes later, they found something strange.

Harris had requested a patrol shift change two hours before the stop.

He had specifically asked to be placed in Morrison's area.

“That wasn't random,” Troy said.

“No.”

“Pull his financial records.”

Keller hesitated.

“We'll need another warrant.”

“Get it.”

By afternoon, they discovered payments.

Small payments at first.

$300.

$500.