Outside, the street had gone fully dark. Porch lights clicking off one by one as the neighborhood settled into sleep, unaware that two houses down, a man was sitting at his kitchen table past midnight. Building the case that would decide whether justice in this town meant anything at all. The police department building looked smaller in daylight than it had felt the morning before when four cruisers had rolled onto his street like an invasion.
Francis parked across the lot and sat for a moment, a manila folder resting on the passenger seat, his written statement, a printed still frame from Regina's video, and a request for the official incident report. He walked in at 9 sharp, dressed in a pressed shirt instead of the soaked T-shirt from the driveway, because he knew how these things worked. Presentation mattered, even when it shouldn't have to. The desk officer, a heavy set man with a name tag reading Daly, barely looked up.
"Help you?" "I'm here to file a formal complaint," Francis said, sliding the folder across the counter. "Against Officer Darius Mason. I'd also like to speak with Captain Vanji."
Daly flipped through the folder without much interest. "Captain's not in today." "She told me yesterday she'd be reviewing this personally." "She's not in today," Daly repeated like the sentence answered everything.
"You can leave your statement. I'll log it." Francis kept his voice even, though something tightened behind his ribs. "When can I expect a case number?"
Daly shrugged. "Couple weeks, maybe. We're backed up." A couple weeks.
Francis had seen this play before in cases that had nothing to do with him. Complaints that drowned in paperwork until the people who filed them got tired of asking and walked away. He wasn't going to be one of those people. "I'd like that in writing," Francis said, "that my complaint was received today, with today's date."
Daly hesitated, annoyed, but stamped a copy and slid it back across the counter. "There. Happy?" Daly said.
"Getting there," Francis replied, and left before his patience ran out completely. He sat in the parking lot for a long moment after, staring at the stamped paper in his hand. Federal agent or not, badge or not, here he was, just another name in a stack.
Another complaint somebody hoped would lose momentum before it ever reached a hearing room. He thought about calling Larson, his deputy director, right then, but something held him back. Not yet. He needed more than his word against Mason's report.
He needed something undeniable. That evening, he drove home with the late sun bleeding orange across the windshield, replaying the desk officer's flat refusal in his mind. When he pulled into the driveway, Regina was already on the porch, arms crossed, watching the street with an expression he didn't like. What's wrong?
He asked, stepping out of the car. There's been a car, she said quietly. Gray sedan parked across the street for the last hour. It wasn't there yesterday.