Chapter Eight #2
History surrounded us in framed photos and flags. Brotherhood lived in every inch of this room.
I guided Marci to a chair and took the seat next to her, shoulders touching. The auxiliary jacket stayed on her, a physical reminder of belonging.
“Thanks for coming fast.” Spade’s attention shifted between us. “We have information you need to see.”
He slid a folder closer and flipped it open to reveal what looked like personnel files from the Oakridge Police Department. Photographs, dates, internal notes. I didn’t ask how he obtained them.
“Detective James Mercer. Multiple commendations. Strong arrest record. Textbook reputation on paper.” He moved to the next document.
“Internal complaints tell a different story. Three formal grievances filed by women he dated or pursued before Marci, and from what I’ve gathered, I think he had some altercations with women during the time he’s been tracking Marci.
The charges were always dropped, though. ”
Marci went still.
“What kind of complaints?” she asked softly.
“Harassment and stalking. A few assault reports, withdrawn before anything progressed.” Spade’s jaw tightened. “None of the grievances entered his official record because his uncle, Captain Robert Mercer, runs the detective bureau. Women faced pressure to stay quiet or accept settlements.”
“His uncle protected him,” I said.
“More than protection,” General replied. “The uncle made everything disappear. Patterns emerged and no consequences followed. Mercer learned nothing except complete immunity.”
Marci trembled beside me.
“Additional details.” Spade spread out several copies of statements. “Tracking victims using police databases. Showing up at workplaces. Threatening new partners. Fabricating probable cause for arrests. A pattern of control and obsession.”
The room absorbed each word like fuel poured on dry ground.
A knock cut into the silence. Ravager opened the door. Madison stood in the hall with a leather portfolio clutched to her chest. She stepped inside, beauty striking even in harsh light. Her melodic voice carried the softened rhythm of someone unable to hear herself speak.
“I brought the public records request.” She approached the table and removed several documents before spreading them out carefully.
“These records belong to three women who filed complaints against Mercer. Two moved out of state. One died last year in a car accident. The officer noted suspicious circumstances but lacked proof.”
The words froze the air. Marci’s small sound beside me held horror and vindication. She understood Mercer’s cruelty from experience. Evidence of other women suffering and someone possibly dying shifted understanding into a reality she could feel in her bones.
“Restraining orders?” General asked.
Madison shook her head. “All three attempted to file. Judges denied each request after Mercer argued his job required weapons and unrestricted movement. Courts favored him immediately.”
Knuckles returned then, guiding two nervous women into the room. Both looked frightened but determined. They introduced themselves as Sarah and Nicole.
Sarah spoke first, voice trembling. “I dated James three years ago. He tracked my phone and monitored my movements. Breaking up triggered threats against my brother. He claimed he would plant evidence if needed. I believed him.”
“What finally pushed you to leave?” I asked.
“He put me in the hospital. Three broken ribs and a broken wrist. He told ER staff I fell down stairs. They believed him.”
Nicole spoke next, older and angrier. “We were engaged. He controlled every part of my life. When I left, he destroyed my teaching career using fabricated accusations. Then he showed up at my apartment months later, assaulted me, and left me bleeding. The captain convinced me filing another complaint would ruin my own reputation.”
The stories settled over the room like a storm cloud. Marci cried silently, tears running down her cheeks. She saw herself in every detail.
“How many women exist beyond these?” Atilla asked.
“At least seven documented attempts to report him,” Spade answered. “Only these two feel safe enough to testify. The others disappeared, live under new names, or remain too terrified.”
Evidence covered the table. Grievances, statements, photos of injuries and damaged furniture, records of unanswered calls to internal affairs. Enough to destroy Mercer’s career permanently.
“This ends him,” Marci said quietly. “Everything here proves who he is.”
Spade nodded. “The evidence holds up. If we want justice through official channels, we need months. Possibly longer.”
“So what do we do?” I asked.
General answered. “We show Mercer the evidence exists. We give him a choice. Step back or face public exposure.”
“And if he refuses to step back?” Marci whispered.
Silence followed. Everyone knew the answer. Atilla’s blank expression confirmed the decision.
“Then we handle the problem a different way,” Spade said.
One of the women snorted. “I hope you put the asshole six feet under.”
Marci settled against me, worn down yet blazing from resolve. Running no longer ruled her thoughts. Fear still shimmered in her eyes, though determination had taken a seat beside fear and refused to move.
“How long do we have?” I asked.
“Not long,” Spade said. “Mercer knows we’re building a response. The distributor cancellation, the cops showing up, and the health inspection were opening moves. He’s preparing for whatever we bring next. He has legal authority and resources. We cannot afford even one mistake.”
The meeting turned into strategy. Brothers talked through every step. General took structured notes. Knuckles crafted security plans to protect Marci. Sarah and Nicole revealed Mercer’s patterns.
Eventually the table held a complete strategy on paper. Enough proof to bury Mercer, but not enough time to run everything through official systems before he struck again.
I looked across the table at Marci, saw her studying the evidence with fierce focus, and understood her thoughts even without words.
The war had started.
The only question remaining was how many people would fall before Mercer went down.