Lawson did not immediately conclude that Loomis was part of a conspiracy. She wanted to know whether the department's complaint system was understaffed, whether he had been instructed to close cases, or whether he had personally chosen to avoid confronting a deputy with deep family ties. The answers could have different consequences, and careless allegations would allow people responsible for real failures to dismiss the entire inquiry. She requested the relevant emails, assignment rosters, and records of supervisory meetings.
The old files also told a more human story. Several complainants had moved away. Some had changed jobs or phone numbers. One had died, leaving a family that still possessed a copy of the letter closing his complaint. Another refused to participate because the prospect of renewed attention from law enforcement made him afraid. Investigators respected that refusal and did not turn private pain into another form of public pressure.
Grace received periodic updates through counsel and the appropriate official channels, but she did not direct the interviews. She was a complainant, a witness, and a military officer whose work had already been interrupted. She could insist that investigators treat earlier victims seriously, and she could make sure her own department cooperated, but she could not decide which allegations were true. The distinction protected the credibility of the process she wanted to see succeed.
There was another reason she cared about maintaining distance. She remembered a young soldier whose misconduct investigation had begun with the commanding officer announcing an outcome before the evidence was reviewed. The investigator had eventually substantiated serious concerns, but the premature announcement created years of procedural arguments that overshadowed the people harmed. Grace had promised herself she would never allow her authority to become an excuse for cutting corners, even in a case where the evidence seemed obvious.
Perkins, meanwhile, lived through a week in which his name traveled farther than he had ever imagined. His wife, Claire, stopped answering the telephone because strangers were calling their house. Their seventeen-year-old son, Luke, found his father's photograph on social media beside comments so angry that he could barely read them. Claire asked Dwight not to discuss the case with Luke until they had spoken to counsel. Dwight interpreted her caution as a lack of loyalty.
"They're making me look like a monster," he said one evening, standing in the kitchen while the television showed silent footage of the town square.
Claire turned off the screen. "I watched the video, Dwight. You pulled decorations off that woman. You put cuffs on her. What did she do to make you think that was necessary?"
"She was acting like she was above me."
Claire stared at him. "That's not a reason. And it doesn't answer what I asked."
He looked away, angry that the question sounded too much like the questions from the investigators. Their marriage had survived long shifts, financial worries, and the strains of raising a teenager. It had not prepared Claire to watch her husband use his position against someone who had already offered proof of her identity. She had heard him complain for years about people who questioned his authority, but she had never imagined the contempt could become so physical.