Chapter 9
chapter
nine
Conference Room B sat at the far end of the precinct. Glass walls afforded no privacy, turning interviews into aquarium exhibits for passing officers. Lawson arrived fifteen minutes early, coffee in hand.
The room stood empty. She claimed the chair facing the door and spread her files across the table. Official copies only. The unauthorized material remained locked in her apartment.
Precinct activity continued outside. Officers processed morning arrests. Phones rang. Keyboards clicked. Life moved forward despite the sword hanging over her career.
Ten minutes passed before the door opened.
A man entered carrying a leather messenger bag and a coffee mug with the Marine Corps emblem.
His gray suit looked military in its precision.
No wrinkles, perfect creases. His haircut matched—high and tight, revealing a scar that curved behind his right ear.
"Detective Lawson." His voice carried the clipped cadence of someone accustomed to giving orders. "Lieutenant Eli Parks. Internal Affairs."
She stood and offered her hand. "Lieutenant."
His grip proved firm without domineering pressure. A handshake that communicated competence rather than intimidation.
He glanced around the conference room with obvious distaste, then took a sip from his mug. The grimace that followed seemed involuntary.
"Your coffee tastes like battery acid filtered through a sweaty sock." He set the mug down. "Perimeter Coffee Shop two blocks south makes something resembling actual coffee. Care to continue this there?"
Lawson blinked. "You arranged this meeting here."
"That was before I tasted your coffee." Parks gestured toward the hallway. "Important conversations deserve adequate caffeine. My treat."
His casual tone contrasted with IAB's reputation for rigid formality. "Won't your superiors expect an official setting?"
"My superiors expect results, not location reports." Parks checked his watch. "Fifteen minutes walking and ordering still puts us within our scheduled window."
The unexpected suggestion threw her. Conference Room B offered controlled conditions, even witnesses if Parks became adversarial. Recording equipment if needed. The coffee shop meant civilians, background noise, unpredictable variables.
It also meant Parks couldn't secretly record their conversation using precinct equipment.
"Let me grab my jacket." She gathered her files while weighing possibilities. Either Parks genuinely preferred honest conversation in neutral territory, or this represented a calculated tactic to lower her defenses.
They walked in professional silence. Parks matched his stride to hers without apparent effort. His gaze swept the street with military vigilance—corners, rooflines, vehicles. The habit of a man who'd spent time in combat zones.
Perimeter Coffee occupied a narrow storefront between a bookshop and a vintage clothing store.
Edison bulbs hung from exposed ceiling beams. The espresso machine hissed and gurgled behind a copper counter.
College students hunched over laptops while professionals conducted quiet meetings at corner tables.
Parks claimed a booth near the back exit. "Ethiopian dark roast, black. Detective?"
"Americano, room for cream." She slid into the booth opposite him, arranging her files as a barrier between them.
He returned minutes later with steaming mugs and a small plate with two chocolate croissants. "Owner adds cocoa to the pastry dough. Worth the calories."
The casual approach continued to unbalance her expectations. Internal Affairs typically maintained a formal distance. Parks behaved more like a colleague than an investigator.
"Your file says eight years with SPD." Parks opened the top folder after settling in. "Last five in homicide after your partner's death. Three commendations. Four citations for excessive force. Two for insubordination."
"My greatest hits." She sipped her coffee—significantly better than precinct sludge. "I expected more formality from Internal Affairs."
"Formality serves paperwork, not truth." Parks studied her over his mug. "This situation needs careful handling."
"Which situation? A podcast airing sealed evidence or the department's panic response?"
He almost smiled. "Both qualify." He pulled several papers from his folder. "You understand why I've been assigned?"
"Department needs someone to control the narrative before Blackwell does."
"Close." Parks laid out documents in a neat row. "I need to determine if Blackwell possesses evidence that will embarrass the department, or merely speculation that can be dismissed."
His honesty startled her. IAB usually cloaked objectives behind procedure.
"My assignment includes reviewing the original investigation." Parks tapped the file. "Determining if proper protocols were followed."
"They weren't." The words escaped before she could filter them.
His eyebrows rose. "Explain."
Lawson considered her options. Parks offered either a genuine ally or a sophisticated trap. Either way, playing defense would accomplish nothing.
"Monica believed someone inside the department protected the Rafferty operation." She kept her voice low despite no one seeming to be paying any attention to them. "Before she could prove it, she was murdered. Afterward, the case went cold with remarkable speed."
Parks nodded but offered no immediate reaction. "When was the last time you reviewed the complete case file?"
"Five years ago. Before it went to storage." This much remained true while concealing her unauthorized copy.
"I pulled it yesterday." Parks extracted a page from his folder. "Evidence log shows forty-three items collected from the scene. Only twenty-seven received complete processing."
Lawson leaned forward. "Which sixteen items didn’t?"
"Soil samples from around the body. Partial shoe impressions from the loading dock. Paint chips from the floodlight housing. Shell casings found twenty yards from the primary scene." Parks slid the paper toward her. "All logged but never analyzed."
Her stomach tightened. She'd never seen this discrepancy. The case file copy she'd secretly maintained ended with a different evidence log—one showing all items processed.
"Someone altered my copy." The realization escaped aloud.
"Your copy?"
She recovered quickly. "The copy I reviewed before the case transferred."
Parks studied her with unnerving intensity. "Evidence gaps represent only part of the problem. Witness canvass shows eight interviews conducted on the night of the shooting. Three witness statements reference a vehicle leaving the scene."
"Black sedan. No plates visible. Driver description varied." She remembered those details clearly.
"Correct." Parks nodded. "Follow up interviews never occurred. No vehicle matching partial descriptions appeared in subsequent reports."
Lawson fought to maintain a neutral expression. This information contradicted everything she knew about the investigation. "That makes no sense. Standard procedure requires—"
"Follow up on all witness leads." Parks finished her sentence. "Yet the detective who took over your partner's case closed these avenues within forty-eight hours."
"Who reassigned the case?" She knew Richardson had orchestrated the transfer but wanted Parks' information.
"Orders came from Chief Mason through Captain Richardson." Parks slid another document across the table. "Detective Victor Walsh received primary."
Walsh. A twenty-year veteran who retired six months after the investigation closed. A man known for following orders without question.
"Walsh buried it." The pieces connected in her mind. "But why would Richardson allow that?"
"That question brought me to your doorstep." Parks gathered his papers back into a neat stack. "Richardson protected certain officers throughout his career. Protected you after your partner's death."
The shift in conversation chilled her. "Protected me how?"
"Your blood alcohol level the night of the shooting." Parks kept his voice clinical rather than accusatory. "The patrol sergeant noted alcohol on your breath. Standard procedure requires testing when officers discharge weapons."
"I didn't fire my weapon that night."
"No, but you witnessed another officer's death. Protocol still applied."
Lawson's hands tightened around her coffee mug. "No one ordered testing."
"Richardson arrived on scene and took command. Testing never occurred." Parks closed his folder. "First procedural irregularity in a case that accumulated many."
The shop suddenly felt airless.
"Am I under investigation?" She forced the question past dry lips.
"Everyone connected to the Landry case requires scrutiny. The podcast ensures public attention." Parks leaned back in his chair. "But my focus extends beyond individual officers."
"Department corruption."
"Systemic failures." He corrected gently. "Cases don't bury themselves. Evidence doesn't vanish without assistance."
Lawson considered her next words. Internal Affairs officers specialized in extracting information through false camaraderie. Yet Parks seemed genuinely troubled by what he'd found.
"Ever wonder why Monica's case went cold so fast?" Parks asked when she remained silent.
"Every day for five years."
"Someone wanted it buried." He tapped the folder. "The pattern appears throughout the file. Evidence logged but never processed. Witnesses interviewed but never revisited. Leads documented then abandoned."
Parks paused, consulting his notes. "There's something else that bothers me. Financial records show regular cash deposits into Monica's account in her final months. Each one exactly five thousand dollars. No clear source documented in the investigation."
"You think Richardson directed this?"
"I think Richardson allowed it." Parks watched her closely. "Whether through active participation or deliberate oversight remains unclear."
His theory aligned with her private suspicions. Richardson had always maintained plausible deniability while enforcing department priorities. Budget constraints. Manpower allocation. Administrative necessities that somehow always benefited certain cases over others.
"This podcast creates opportunity." Parks continued when she didn't respond. "Public scrutiny forces thorough review where internal questions failed."
"You sound almost grateful to Blackwell."
"I appreciate catalysts regardless of motivation." He sipped his coffee. "This Blackwell woman serves her own agenda, but her spotlight might illuminate departmental shadows."
Lawson studied him with renewed interest. "Most Internal Affairs officers protect the department image above all else."
"Most Internal Affairs officers never worked military investigations." Parks smiled tightly. "Pentagon politics make police departments look transparent. I learned to follow evidence regardless of rank or consequence."
"That approach creates enemies."
"Already collected plenty." He shrugged. "Career advancement stopped mattering after my second tour in Afghanistan."
The comment landed differently than standard police bravado. Something genuine resided in his dismissal of politics. Maybe a man who'd faced actual war viewed departmental threats differently.
"What happens next?" She gestured toward his folder.
"I continue reviewing the original investigation. Interview all officers involved. Examine chain of custody for evidence." Parks recited procedures like someone who found comfort in protocol. "You continue your current duties while cooperating with my inquiries."
"And the podcast?"
"Remains problematic but potentially useful." He closed his messenger bag. "Blackwell possesses information someone leaked. That someone concerns me more than her journalistic methods."
Lawson nodded, still uncertain where Parks ultimately stood. Ally or adversary remained unclear, but his presence shifted the landscape. Someone besides her now questioned the official narrative.
"I need access to your notes from the original investigation." Parks stood, gathering his materials. "Your perspective as Landry's partner provides context the official file lacks."
"My notes became part of the case file." This lie flowed easily after years of repetition.
"Your official notes, yes." Parks slung his bag over his shoulder. "But detectives maintain personal observations. Theories. Connections that might seem insignificant until later."
Her unofficial case file flashed through her mind. Five years of private investigation compiled in notebooks and digital files. Revealing those materials could end her career—or provide the breakthrough Monica's case needed.
"I'll review what I have." This compromise bought time while she assessed Parks' trustworthiness.
"I appreciate your cooperation." He handed her a business card. "My direct line. Available anytime."
The card stock felt heavy between her fingers. Old school, like his paper files and precise handwriting. A man who left minimal digital footprints in a world of electronic surveillance.
"We'll speak again soon, Detective."
He departed with military efficiency, leaving Lawson alone with cooling coffee and unsettling revelations. The case file differences troubled her most. Someone had provided her with altered evidence logs after Monica's death. A deliberate attempt to conceal the incomplete processing.
Richardson's warnings echoed in her memory. Be careful who you trust. Even people who seem like allies might have their own agendas.
Did that warning now apply to Eli Parks? His forthright approach might represent genuine dedication to truth, or sophisticated manipulation designed to expose her unauthorized investigation.
Lawson gathered her materials and left the coffee shop. For the first time in five years, someone else questioned the official narrative surrounding Monica's death. The relief almost overwhelmed her suspicion.
Almost, but not quite.