"They made us feel like the problem," she said. "Then they bought the problem at a discount."
By the time I drove home, the Mustang seemed smaller than it had that morning. What Hadley wanted from me was bad enough, but the possibility that several families had been subjected to the same pressure was worse. I did not yet know how much money had moved through the association or whether any criminal laws had been broken. I knew only that the story was no longer one widower defending a car.
I met with Deputy Chief Park the following day. I told her about my civil complaint and the people I had spoken to, and I disclosed the possible pattern without asking her to take action on my personal behalf. She listened closely, then asked whether I understood that my involvement was already enough to complicate any investigation run by our department. I did, and I said so.
Elena recommended that we refer the matter to the Forsyth County Sheriff's Office and consult the Georgia Bureau of Investigation if the records suggested crimes crossing several jurisdictions. She also recommended that I stop speaking with potential witnesses once a formal inquiry began, to avoid confusing my status as a victim with the authority of my office. I agreed. By noon, a written referral was on its way through the proper channels.
Detective Holt Bramwell became the investigator who handled my complaint. He was thirty-eight and had spent four years in the Georgia Army National Guard before joining our department, where he worked major crimes. Because I was personally involved, Elena arranged for him to serve on a joint assignment under the sheriff's lead rather than report to me about the case. Holt was a careful man with an irritating habit of reading every attachment before he read anybody's summary of it.
He came to my house as an investigator, not a subordinate. He sat at the dining table and asked me to tell the story from the beginning, without skipping the embarrassing things. I told him about paying fines instead of challenging them more aggressively. I told him about ignoring the first offers and about Hadley's phone call proposing to waive HOA charges if I sold the Mustang to her son.
"You recorded that call?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I wrote a contemporaneous note afterward."
He nodded. "Then that's a note, not a recording. We'll label it accurately."
I liked him better for saying it. He asked about the oil container, the night footage, the false-looking attorney letter, and the three men who had sought access to my garage. He photographed the evidence, arranged for items to be collected through normal procedures, and asked me not to handle them again. He also told me there were people who might resent being questioned about an association that controlled their homes.
"Don't talk anybody into being a witness," he warned. "If somebody wants to help, give them our contact information."