I understand chain of custody, Captain. I'll bring you a copy, sir. If that recording is evidence in an active investigation, holding on to it could No, sir. I don't believe I'll be handing over my phone. You'll have your copy tomorrow. He hung up before the man could answer, then sat looking at the empty chair across the table where Loretta used to sit.
He called his granddaughter, Leah. It rang five times and went to voicemail. He sat there for a minute with his heart going faster than it should have, then called again. This time she picked up out of breath a television loud behind her. He asked her how to put a video somewhere besides his phone. She went quiet then walked him through uploading it to the cloud one button at a time, patient with him the way Loretta used to be.
When they were done, she asked the question he had been waiting for. Grandpa, why can't you just give them the phone? Because the last time I handed my proof to that department, it disappeared.
At 10, Russell Puit walked into the interview room with a thin folder under his arm and a fresh cup of coffee he didn't drink. Before he sat down, he reached up to the small control panel beside the door and flipped a switch. The red light over the camera in the corner went dark. Your camera's off, Captain.
Nobody needs a recording of a friendly conversation. Read that. Take your time.
He slid a single printed document across the table and Lennox read it where it lay. It was a release agreement. In exchange for walking out that night, Lennox would acknowledge that he had no complaint about the handling of seized material and that any electronic devices taken during the incident may have been damaged or unreadable before they ever came into the department's custody. He read the last part twice. Then he looked up.
You wrote this tonight. Does that matter? It matters when you want me to sign a statement about evidence I've never been allowed to see. Then let's not make this complicated.
Outside, Cara Beckett was walking past the observation window when she noticed the red light was off. She stopped. Interview recordings were never turned off. It was the first thing they taught you.
The audio control board was in the dispatch alcove 20 feet away. She had worked that board for six months as a trainee. She knew exactly which switch it was.
She also knew that if Puit saw her do it, her career in Ridley County was over. She walked to the alcove. The dispatcher was on a call about a loose cow on Highway 401 and didn't look up. Cara reached past her shoulder and flipped the switch for interview two. On the board, a tiny red light came on. In the room itself, nothing changed at all.
Inside, Puit leaned back in his chair and let his voice go soft and reasonable. The voice of a man who had settled a hundred problems exactly like this one. Mr. Hargrove, I've been doing this a long time. Let me tell you how this works.
My deputy made a hard call on a strange stop. You made it harder by not explaining yourself. Your windows can be fixed. Insurance pays for glass. You sign this.