"County regulations state that surveillance systems recording public dining areas need an updated municipal permit," Hollister said smoothly, quoting a law that I knew for a fact did not exist. "Since you don't have one, that footage is technically an illegal wiretap. Bring me the memory drive from the back office. I'll dispose of it for you, keep you out of trouble with a warning."
"The camera barely works, Sheriff," I said, my voice shaking slightly despite my best efforts to control it. "It just overwrites every twenty-four hours."
"Then it won't be a problem for you to bring me the drive," Hollister replied, his smile fading into a flat, dead stare. "Now, June."
I placed the dustpan on the counter and walked past the register, pushing through the swinging wooden door that led to the cramped back office. The small room smelled of old invoice paper and fryer grease. A dusty monitor sat on a cluttered metal desk, connected to a heavy black DVR lockbox.
I sat in the rolling chair and grabbed the computer mouse. The screen flickered to life, showing a four-way split of the diner. I maximized the feed for the front counter. The digital timestamp in the corner read 06:14 AM. I clicked the playback button.
In grainy black-and-white, I watched the truth play out on the small monitor. I saw Walter sitting peacefully in the booth, his coffee cup in hand. I saw Hollister enter, towering over the older man. The footage had no audio, which somehow made the sudden violence seem even more brutal. I watched Hollister grab Walter by the collar, haul him upright, and violently hurl him across the narrow aisle. The impact against the steel cabinet was jarring even on a screen.
It was undeniable, objective proof. If Hollister took the main drive, the truth would disappear forever, replaced entirely by Deputy Miller's fabricated incident report.
I pulled a cheap, four-gigabyte promotional USB thumb drive from the top drawer of the desk. I usually used it to print weekly specials at the local library. I jammed the metal connector into the open USB port on the front of the DVR box.
The system interface was sluggish. A gray prompt appeared: Export Video Clip? I highlighted the timeframe from 6:10 AM to 6:20 AM and clicked Confirm.
A green progress bar appeared on the screen. Estimated Time: 3 Minutes.
"You need help finding it, June?" Hollister shouted from the dining room, his voice carrying easily through the thin drywall.
"No, Sheriff!" I called back, trying to keep the rising panic out of my throat. "The dust is thick back here. Just trying to unhook the cables."
The bar crept to twenty percent. The cooling fan inside the old DVR whined loudly as it processed the data. I watched the office door, expecting the heavy wooden panels to swing open at any second. I thought about the blood-stained towel burning a hole in my apron pocket. I was just a waitress trying to keep a failing business afloat. I had no power here.
But watching that green progress bar, I knew that handing Hollister the only copy of the truth would make me just as guilty as the man who threw the punch.
Forty percent.
I heard the heavy squeak of vinyl. Hollister was sliding out of his booth. Heavy boots thumped against the linoleum, moving slowly down the aisle toward the back office.
Sixty percent.
"I don't have all morning, June," Hollister warned, his footsteps growing louder, the floorboards groaning under his weight.
Eighty percent.