Chapter 55: Evidence Missing
[Mid-Wilshire Station — August 5, 2019, 2:14 PM]
Lopez cornered me in the break room, expression tight with frustration.
"I need to vent."
"About?"
"My assault case. The Carter prosecution. Evidence is missing."
My danger sense pulsed—not physical threat, but something wrong. The kind of wrong that had been building for two years.
"What kind of evidence?"
"DNA samples from the crime scene. Chain of custody shows they were checked out for processing and never returned." She dropped into a chair, coffee untouched. "Without them, the case dies. The guy walks."
"Who checked them out?"
"That's the problem—the log is unclear. Signature's illegible, timing's inconsistent." She rubbed her temples. "It happens. Evidence goes missing all the time. Bureaucratic failure, misfiling, human error. But this case was solid. Really solid. Now it's gone."
My recall activated automatically, pulling up everything I'd observed over the past weeks. Evidence locker access. Who'd been in the building when. The careful documentation I'd maintained of Armstrong's movements.
Armstrong had been near the evidence locker three days ago. I'd noted it at the time—wondered if it was significant or just coincidence.
Now I knew.
"Has anyone offered to help you find it?" I asked carefully.
"Armstrong, actually. Stopped by my desk this morning, said he'd look into the chain of custody personally." She shook her head. "Nice of him, but I doubt anything turns up."
Every word she spoke confirmed what my powers had already told me. Armstrong was responsible. He'd taken the evidence, destroyed or hidden it, and now he was offering to "help" track it down—cementing his position as ally while ensuring nothing was ever found.
My lie detection screamed through the memory of his offer. Calculated deception. False sympathy. Every word designed to mask intent.
"Something feel off about that to you?" I asked.
"About Armstrong helping? No, he's always been supportive. Good cop, good mentor when I was coming up." Lopez finally sipped her coffee. "Why?"
"I don't know. Just... evidence disappearing, then someone immediately offering to help find it. Timing feels convenient."
"Convenient how?"
I was treading on dangerous ground. Warning Lopez without evidence could backfire—she'd confront Armstrong, he'd deny everything, and my accusation would become ammunition against me.
But I couldn't say nothing. Not when I knew what was coming.
"Maybe I'm paranoid," I said carefully. "But if I were going to make evidence disappear, I'd also volunteer to lead the search. Control the narrative. Make sure nothing gets found."
Lopez stared at me. "You think Armstrong—"
"I don't think anything. I'm just noting patterns." I held her gaze. "You've worked with him longer than I have. Does his help feel genuine or strategic?"
She was quiet for a long moment, processing. I could see her running through memories, evaluating interactions, applying the same analytical mind that made her an excellent detective.
"Genuine," she said finally. "Armstrong's a good cop. He's helped me on dozens of cases."
"Then I'm wrong." I stood, moved toward the door. "Forget I said anything."
"Mercer." Her voice stopped me. "Why would you even suspect him?"
Because I've been watching him for two years. Because I know he's dirty. Because I've seen him accept payments from criminals and heard him lie with practiced ease.
"Bad feeling," I said. "Probably nothing."
I left before she could ask more questions I couldn't answer.
Station Parking Garage — 5:47 PM
The concrete pillar absorbed the impact of my fist better than my knuckles did.
Pain flared across my hand—not serious, but sharp enough to cut through the frustration boiling in my chest.
I knew Armstrong was guilty. My lie detection, my observation, my meta-knowledge—all of it pointed to the same conclusion. And I couldn't do anything about it.
Warning Lopez had been a risk. Planting seeds, hoping they'd grow into suspicion. But she'd dismissed my concerns with the same trust that made her vulnerable to Armstrong's manipulation.
He's a good cop. He's helped me on dozens of cases.
Of course he had. That was how the con worked. Build goodwill, establish trust, position yourself as ally. Then, when you needed to destroy someone, no one would believe they were capable of it.
My recall replayed every Armstrong interaction I'd documented. The meeting with Ramirez. The timing of his presence near evidence lockers. The cases that fell apart under his supervision. The pattern was undeniable—to me. To anyone else, it was circumstantial at best.
I needed more. Real evidence. Something that couldn't be explained away.
But Armstrong was careful. Two years of watching had taught me that much. He didn't make obvious mistakes. He didn't leave clear trails.
Eventually, though, everyone slipped. Everyone got comfortable, overconfident, sloppy.
When Armstrong made his mistake, I'd be ready.
Lopez's Apartment — That Night
I'd kept the key.
The mansion was mine again, but sometimes the smaller space called to me. Tonight was one of those nights.
I sat at Lopez's kitchen table—technically still her kitchen table, even if I wasn't supposed to be here—with my laptop open and the Armstrong file displayed on screen.
August 5, 2019: Evidence from Lopez's Carter case went missing. Chain of custody unclear. Armstrong offered to "help" locate—classic fox guarding the henhouse. Lopez dismissed concerns. Pattern consistent with evidence tampering on at least three other cases.
The file was thick now. Dozens of entries spanning two years. Photos, observations, connections, patterns. Everything I'd gathered pointed to the same conclusion.
But pointing wasn't proving.
I added another entry: Lopez warned. Seed planted but not growing. Need direct evidence of tampering or another witness.
My phone buzzed. Emma: Coming over? Mansion's too big to be alone in.
At Lopez's old place. Needed to think.
In the apartment you don't live in anymore?
Old habits.
Want company? I can bring takeout.
I looked around the small space that had taught me about simplicity, about community, about what home actually meant.
Yeah. Thai from that place on Vermont.
Twenty minutes.
I closed the Armstrong file, encrypted it, backed it up. The investigation would continue tomorrow, and the day after, and every day until I had what I needed.
Lopez's case had died tonight. A guilty man would walk free because evidence had "gone missing" at exactly the right moment.
This was what Armstrong did. This was who he was. And eventually—inevitably—he would try something bigger. Something that would expose him.
When that moment came, I'd be ready with two years of documentation. Two years of patterns. Two years of proof that the good cop everyone trusted was anything but.
Until then, I waited. I watched. I documented.
And I let Emma bring Thai food to an apartment I didn't live in anymore, because even vigilance needed human connection to survive.
The door opened twenty minutes later. Emma entered with bags of food and the particular expression of someone who understood that some nights required presence more than conversation.
"Bad day," she observed.
"Case died because evidence disappeared. I know who did it. Can't prove anything."
"The corruption thing?"
"Yeah."
She set down the food, crossed to where I sat, and wrapped her arms around me from behind.
"You'll get them," she said. "Whatever's happening, you'll figure it out. That's what you do."
"Sometimes figuring it out isn't enough. Sometimes you need evidence, proof, something tangible."
"Then you'll find that too." She kissed the top of my head. "But not tonight. Tonight, you eat Thai food and let someone else carry the weight for a few hours."
She was right. The investigation would continue tomorrow.
Tonight, I let myself be human.
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