Chapter 3
chapter
three
Lawson bent over her desk, pressing her fingertips into her temples.
Case files spread across the surface in messy stacks.
Two hours at the gym hadn't helped. Punching bags and treadmills couldn't silence the voices from that podcast. Monica's blood.
The accusations. They clung to her thoughts like smoke.
Her partner's desk sat empty. Four different partners in five years.
None stuck around longer than twelve months.
The department stopped trying to assign her anyone new.
She worked better alone anyway. The precinct moved around her like water around a stone.
Officers found reasons to bypass her office.
Conversations died when she entered the break room.
The coffee in her mug had turned cold hours ago.
Black sludge with a film on top. She drank it anyway, needing the caffeine more than the taste.
Her computer screen showed seventeen unread emails.
Internal memos about policy changes. Training updates.
A reminder about the department picnic next month.
All the normal business of police work felt surreal after listening to herself beg for Monica's life on a podcast.
"Detective Lawson?"
A woman filled her doorway. Small frame, sharp haircut that made her face look like it could cut glass.
Navy blazer, white shirt, jeans that cost more than Lawson made in a week.
Designer boots. But her eyes grabbed Lawson's attention first. They moved constantly, taking in everything, filing it away.
"Leah Blackwell." The woman stepped inside without an invitation. "Dead Air podcast."
Lawson's back teeth ground together. "I know who you are."
"Good. Saves us both time." Blackwell settled into the visitor's chair like she owned it, one leg crossed over the other. "Wasn't sure you followed my work."
"Make yourself at home," Lawson muttered. "Who signed you in?"
Leah's smile never wavered. Either deaf to sarcasm or immune to it. She pulled a small notebook from her bag, flipped through several pages covered in neat handwriting. Phone numbers. Names. Questions written in blue ink.
"You're early," Lawson said. "Thought Savannah wouldn’t see you until next week."
"I scout locations first. Get the lay of the land before I start digging." Blackwell's shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. "Meet the key players."
"I'm a key player?"
"You're the star." A digital recorder appeared from Blackwell's bag. Sleek black plastic that she placed between them like a chess piece. "I want your version of Monica Landry's murder. Your truth."
Lawson leaned back in her chair. The leather creaked under her weight.
Five years of sitting in this same spot, working cases, avoiding the one case that mattered most. The Monica Landry file sat in her bottom drawer, an unofficial copy she'd made before the case got reassigned.
She'd read it so many times the pages were soft from handling.
"My truth. Right."
"Facts matter to me." Blackwell's voice stayed level despite Lawson's tone. "I investigate. I don't make things up for entertainment."
"By stealing sealed evidence? Broadcasting private radio calls?"
"Nobody stole anything. Someone gave me that recording because they think people deserve to know what really happened."
The radio call. Lawson's voice pleading for Monica's life while blood pooled on concrete.
She'd never heard the recording before now.
Police radio calls were archived, stored on servers most people forgot existed.
Someone with access had pulled that file.
Someone who wanted the world to hear Lawson's desperation.
"What really happened?" Lawson leaned forward. "I couldn't save my partner. The shooter escaped. I live with that every day."
Blackwell watched her for several heartbeats. "You're smarter than that. This case has layers you haven't talked about."
"This case has a podcaster trying to make money off a dead cop."
"Listen to my previous episodes before you judge my motives.
" Blackwell pulled out her phone. A sleek device in a leather case.
Everything about her screamed expensive.
Money from podcast success or family wealth.
Either way, she'd never understand what it meant to work cases where every mistake could cost lives.
"Here's a sample from episode two. Maybe it'll change your perspective."
The screen lit up before Lawson could protest. Blackwell's recorded voice filled the office, crisp and professional.
"Detective Landry's death marked the beginning of her partner's downward spiral.
Erin Lawson received three excessive force citations in the following five years.
Two insubordination charges. Multiple incidents involving alcohol during work hours.
Department sources describe increasing isolation, obsessive behavior around cold cases, and open defiance toward supervisors. "
Lawson knew exactly what each citation represented.
The excessive force reports came from suspects who resisted arrest—suspects in whose faces she saw Monica's killer.
The insubordination charges stemmed from refusing to let cold cases die.
The alcohol incidents were Wednesday mornings when bourbon seemed more manageable than facing another day of unsolved mysteries.
Blackwell paused the playback. Her eyes never left Lawson’s face.
“You missed the public indecency charge,” Lawson said. Her voice came out flat, emotionless. Inside, her blood turned cold. Those records weren’t public. Personnel files lived in locked cabinets behind access-controlled doors.
“That charge got dropped.” Blackwell didn’t hesitate. “The night in lockup didn’t.”
The night in lockup. Lawson remembered fragments. A bar fight that started when someone made a joke about dead cops. Waking up in a cell with bruised knuckles and a split lip. Richardson bailing her out at dawn, his face a mask of professional disappointment.
Heat flooded Lawson’s chest, rising into her throat. “Where did you get this information?”
Blackwell’s smile widened just enough to show teeth. “Multiple sources. People who think it’s time for transparency.”
Multiple sources meant a conspiracy. Someone wanted Lawson destroyed. The question was who and why. Richardson had protected her career despite her mistakes. Other officers avoided her but didn’t actively work against her. The leak came from someone with access and motivation.
“I also know about the prescription medications,” Blackwell said. “Anxiety. Depression. Sleep aids. All prescribed after Detective Landry’s death.”
The prescription history was protected medical information. Someone had violated federal privacy laws to give Blackwell ammunition. This wasn’t journalism anymore. This was warfare.
She stood and gathered her equipment. “I’ll contact you again soon. When you’re ready for that interview, you have my contact information.”
“You didn’t give me a card.”
Blackwell paused, genuine surprise crossing her features. Then she laughed. “You’re right.” Her hand disappeared into her blazer and emerged with crisp white cardstock. “Oversight on my part.”
The card was heavy stock paper with raised lettering. Leah Blackwell, Investigative Journalist. Dead Air Podcast. An email address and a New York phone number.
She left without another word. Expensive perfume lingered in the air along with the taste of dread.
Lawson grabbed her phone the second the door closed. Claire’s number was already highlighted. The call connected on the second ring.
“This can’t be legal,” she said instead of hello. “She has my disciplinary file, Claire. My complete disciplinary file.”
“Take a breath.” Claire’s voice carried that lawyer calm that made everything worse. “What exactly happened?”
“Blackwell ambushed me at work. Played audio from her next episode. Every mistake I’ve made since Monica died. The drunk tank, the write-ups, all of it. Tell me she broke some law.”
Papers shuffled in the background. Claire was probably reviewing case files while they talked. Always multitasking, always thinking three steps ahead. It made her a great lawyer but a frustrating friend.
Silence stretched across the connection. “Depends how she obtained the information,” Claire finally said. “If department personnel leaked it …”
“Of course someone leaked it! Personnel files aren’t public record!”
“Then the leaker might face consequences. But she’s protected as a journalist. First Amendment covers reporting information she receives, even if the source obtained it improperly.”
Lawson’s fist hit the desk hard enough to rattle her coffee mug. Cold liquid sloshed over the rim, spreading across case files. She grabbed tissues from her drawer and dabbed at the spill, watching ink blur on witness statements.
“So she broadcasts my failures to millions of people? Paints me as a suspect?”
“You don’t have to cooperate. Refuse interviews. But stopping the podcast requires proving malice. That she’s knowingly spreading lies to damage you.”
“She is damaging me.” The anger drained away, leaving something rawer behind. “She’s building a case that I killed Monica.”
Another pause. Longer this time. “Actually, you might not have to do anything.”
“What do you mean?”
"Judge Elizabeth Byrd called this morning.
She's one of my private clients—I handle some personal legal matters for her occasionally.
She's also a major donor to both the museum and the police benevolent fund.
" Claire's voice took on a cautious optimism.
"She wants me to file for a temporary injunction against the podcast."
Lawson straightened in her chair. "On what grounds?"
"Interference with an ongoing investigation. The Monica Landry case was never officially closed, just went cold. Judge Byrd argues that broadcasting sealed evidence and encouraging amateur investigation could compromise any future prosecution."
"That would work?"
"It's a valid legal argument. A temporary injunction could halt publication while the court reviews whether the podcast materially interferes with law enforcement. Could buy us weeks, maybe months."
"Good." The word came out harder than Lawson intended. "Do it."
"Erin, there's something else. If she's this thorough, she's not chasing viral content. She has specific goals."
"To destroy me."
"Or to solve a five-year-old murder." Claire's tone softened around the edges. "Antagonizing her makes you look guilty. If you're worried about her narrative, maybe control it yourself. Talk to her."
"Not if Byrd can shut her down first."
"The injunction isn't guaranteed. And even if we get it, Blackwell can appeal. She has resources and a legal team."
Lawson stared at the business card on her desk. "Let me worry about Blackwell. You just file that paperwork."
The business card lay on her desk. The raised lettering caught the fluorescent light from overhead.
"I have to go."
"Erin …"
She killed the call and shoved the phone away. Her bottom desk drawer called to her. The bourbon bottle waited inside, amber liquid promising temporary peace. Her hand moved toward the handle, fingers brushing the cold metal.
No. Blackwell wouldn't drive her back to drinking. Four months sober meant something. Monica would have wanted her to stay clean, to keep fighting for justice. The bottle could wait.
Lawson snatched her jacket and keys. The Rafferty files would be archived in the county records basement by now.
Boxes of evidence and witness statements gathering dust in climate-controlled storage.
If Blackwell was investigating Monica's death, she'd start there too.
The drug trafficking case had consumed Monica's final months.
She'd been convinced someone inside the department was protecting the operation.
Time to discover how much the podcaster already knew. And maybe find out who wanted Lawson destroyed badly enough to feed sealed records to a journalist.