The evidence room smelled like old paper and disinfectant.
A lie layered on top of another lie.
Miguel signed the log with a pen that barely worked. The clerk behind the glass didn't look up. Didn't ask questions. Just slid the tray forward like this was any other afternoon.
"Fifteen minutes," the clerk said.
Miguel nodded. Took the box.
It was lighter than he expected.
That bothered him.
Inside: a few photographs, a sealed envelope, a flash drive, and a single plastic bag marked EXHIBIT A. The bullet casing. Brass. Ordinary. Clean.
Too clean.
Miguel set everything out on the steel table. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed louder here, like it was listening.
He picked up the photos first.
Councilman Price's car. Driver-side door open. Interior splashed with blood. Not sprayed—pooled. That mattered. The angle was wrong for a struggle.
Miguel leaned closer.
There was a smear on the steering wheel. Long. Directional.
Someone had leaned in after the shot.
He flipped to the next photo.
A wide shot of the street. Yellow tape. Squad cars. A crowd held back by uniforms.
Miguel scanned faces.
There—half hidden behind a patrol car. A man in a dark jacket, head turned away from the camera.
Miguel zoomed in.
The image blurred.
Of course it did.
He set the photo down and reached for the casing.
The bag crackled softly when he picked it up. Evidence always sounded nervous.
Miguel checked the label.
Time logged: 21:47Collector: Officer L. Park
He frowned.
He remembered Janice's timeline. The call. The meeting. The cops arriving fast.
Too fast.
Miguel flipped the bag over.
No secondary markings. No initials from the lab tech. No transfer notation.
That wasn't a mistake. That was laziness—or confidence.
He slid the bag aside and plugged in the flash drive.
The computer hummed, slow and irritated.
A single folder opened.
BODY CAM – OFFICER PARK
Miguel clicked.
The video started shaky. Night. Streetlights flaring. Voices overlapping.
"Hands where I can see them!"
Janice's voice cut through. Sharp. Panicked.
"I just got here—he was already—"
The footage jerked sideways.
Miguel paused.
Rewound.
Played it again.
Just before the camera tilted, there was a reflection in the side mirror of Price's car.
A silhouette.
Standing behind Officer Park.
Miguel froze the frame.
The reflection was warped, stretched—but the shape was clear enough.
Another person. Close. Watching.
Miguel's jaw tightened.
He played the rest.
Officer Park approached the car. Didn't check for a pulse. Didn't call for medical. Went straight for Janice.
Protocol didn't allow that.
Fear did.
Miguel ejected the drive and sat back.
Fifteen minutes felt generous until it wasn't.
He gathered the materials, returned the box, and signed out.
As he turned to leave, the clerk finally looked up.
"You shouldn't dig too hard," the clerk said quietly.
Miguel stopped.
"Why?" he asked.
The clerk shrugged. "Evidence does not always work in courts, you know"
Miguel smiled once. Thin.
"Well, I will make do." he said.
.....
The street outside the precinct was loud with traffic and impatience.
Miguel stood on the sidewalk, jacket open, letting the city bump into him.
He pulled out his phone and dialed.
"Rina," he said when she answered. "I need a favor."
She didn't ask which kind.
.....
Rina Patel's apartment smelled like cardamom and burnt toast.
She was already at her dining table when Miguel arrived, laptop open, glasses perched on the end of her nose.
"You look like shit," she said.
"Busy day," Miguel replied, dropping the photos on the table.
Rina scanned them. Fast. Precise.
"Is that a reflection?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And they didn't log it?"
"No."
Rina exhaled. "That's… bold."
Miguel leaned against the counter.
"I need you to pull Officer Park's history," he said. "Complaints. Commendations. Transfers."
Rina's fingers moved.
"She's clean," Rina said after a moment. "Too clean."
Miguel nodded. "What about her supervisor?"
Rina clicked again. Paused.
"Huh," she said.
Miguel leaned in. "What?"
"Her sergeant transferred from Internal Affairs six months ago," she said. "Before that, he worked organized crime."
Miguel let that settle.
"And?"
"And his brother sits on the zoning oversight committee," Rina added.
Miguel laughed. Low. Humorless.
"Of course he does."
Rina closed the laptop.
"You think this was staged," she said.
"I think it was curated," Miguel replied.
They stood there for a moment, listening to the hum of the refrigerator.
"What's your move?" Rina asked.
Miguel looked at the photos again. At the smear. The reflection.
"I want the car," he said.
Rina raised an eyebrow. "The victim's car?"
"Yes."
"They already processed it."
"I don't care."
Rina hesitated. Then nodded.
"I'll see what I can do," she said. "But if this goes sideways—"
"It will," Miguel said.
.....
The impound lot sat under an overpass like something forgotten on purpose.
Rows of vehicles lined up, silent and resigned.
Miguel followed the guard to Price's car.
The door was still open.
Miguel slipped on gloves and leaned inside.
The smell hit him first.
Metallic. Old. Wrong.
He examined the dashboard. The steering wheel. The seatbelt.
Then he saw it.
A second smear. Lower. Near the floor.
Barely visible unless you were looking.
Miguel crouched.
Someone had stepped back into the blood.
And walked away.
Miguel straightened slowly.
This wasn't a crime of passion.
It was a handoff.
He took photos. Every angle. Every shadow.
As he stepped back, he noticed something else.
A small indentation on the inside of the door frame.
Impact mark.
Miguel touched it lightly.
Not from a body.
From a weapon.
He stepped away from the car and removed his gloves.
Behind him, traffic roared overhead.
No sirens. No alarms.
Nothing reacting.
Miguel knew the feeling now.
The sense you got when something didn't want to be found.
He pulled out his phone and typed a single note:
SECOND PERSON AT SCENE. NOT JANICE. NOT PRICE.
Then he added another.
ALAN WAS RIGHT. THIS CASE IS DIRTY.
Miguel slid the phone back into his pocket.
They thought evidence was passive.
They were wrong.
It just needed someone stubborn enough to listen.