Chapter 82: The File
[Ethan's Mansion — August 24, 2020, 9:15 PM]
Two years of documentation spread across my home office.
Photographs. Timestamps. Observation logs. Evidence of patterns that should have been impossible to miss but somehow never triggered official investigation.
Detective Nick Armstrong. Corrupt cop. Evidence tamperer. Career saboteur.
And I'd been watching him for twenty-six months.
My recall cross-referenced every data point, building connections between incidents that spanned my entire time at Mid-Wilshire. The pattern was damning:
Lopez's first case with evidence irregularities—Armstrong had been in the evidence room the day before.
The witness who recanted testimony—Armstrong had been seen near her home the previous week.
The prosecution that fell apart due to chain of custody problems—Armstrong had logged the evidence in question.
Three cases. Six cases. Twelve cases. The numbers grew as I expanded the analysis. Not all of them were Lopez's, but she was clearly his primary target. Whatever she'd done to earn his attention, he was systematically destroying her career one compromised case at a time.
The eight months of my recovery had given him room to accelerate. While I'd been healing, he'd moved more openly. The serial killer distraction had been cover; my absence had been opportunity.
Now I was back. And the pattern was clearer than ever.
"Ethan?"
Emma's voice from the doorway. I'd been so absorbed in the files that I hadn't heard her approach.
"Hey."
"You've been in here for three hours." She surveyed the papers covering every surface. "Can you tell me what this is about?"
"I wish I could."
"But you can't."
"Not yet. Soon." I met her eyes. "It's something I've been working on for a long time. Something that affects someone I care about. But I can't move forward without help, and getting help means explaining things I'm not sure I can explain."
Emma crossed the room, found a clear spot on the arm of my chair, and settled there. "You've been carrying this alone for two years?"
"Since shortly after I started at the station."
"That's a long time to keep a secret."
"I know."
She was quiet for a moment, studying the papers without really reading them. "Is this dangerous? The thing you're investigating?"
"The person I'm investigating is dangerous. Exposing them could be dangerous. But leaving them alone is more dangerous—for the person they're targeting."
"And you can't go to your supervisors because...?"
"Because I can't explain how I know what I know. 'I've been watching this person for two years based on instincts' sounds obsessive. Possibly delusional. I need to frame it as recent observations that raised legitimate concerns."
"Can you do that?"
I looked at the files. The carefully documented evidence, the timestamped photographs, the observation logs that tracked patterns across months and years.
"I can present the recent evidence as the basis for investigation. Once official surveillance is in place, they'll catch him in the act. They'll see what I've seen."
"And if they don't believe you?"
"Then someone I care about gets destroyed, and a corrupt cop continues operating with impunity."
Emma reached out, took my hand. "Who are you going to tell?"
"Grey. My sergeant. He's fair, he's thorough, and he has the authority to initiate investigation." I squeezed her hand. "But I have to approach it carefully. One chance to get this right."
"When?"
"Soon. Maybe this week. I need to organize the presentation, figure out which evidence to show and which to hold back."
"Hold back?"
"If I show everything, it looks like a two-year obsession. If I show recent concerns with supporting documentation, it looks like a concerned officer bringing legitimate issues to his supervisor." I'd thought about this extensively during recovery. "The goal is to get official investigation started. Once that happens, they'll find everything I've found—and more."
Emma nodded slowly. "You've really thought this through."
"I've had eight months with nothing else to do."
She smiled at that—the small, sad smile she wore when she was proud of me but worried about the cost.
"I can't help with this," she said. "I don't know enough about police procedure or evidence handling. But I can be here when you need to talk. Or not talk. Or just have someone nearby who knows you're carrying something heavy."
"That's more than enough."
"Good." She stood, pulled me to my feet. "Now come eat dinner. You've been staring at these files for hours, and I made pasta."
"You made pasta?"
"I watched you make pasta eight times during recovery. I think I absorbed something."
I let her lead me out of the office, leaving the Armstrong files behind. They'd still be there tomorrow. The investigation would still be there tomorrow.
Tonight, I'd eat dinner with the woman I loved and pretend, for a few hours, that I wasn't planning to expose a corrupt colleague who might destroy my career in retaliation.
Later That Night
Emma had gone to bed. The pasta had been surprisingly good—she really had learned from watching me cook. The evening had been normal, domestic, the kind of quiet comfort that made everything else bearable.
Now I sat alone in my office, organizing the presentation I'd give Grey.
The key was framing. Recent concerns, not long-term surveillance. Patterns noticed over the past few months, not documentation spanning years. Questions raised by careful observation, not accusations based on impossible instincts.
I selected the evidence carefully. The most recent incidents. The clearest patterns. The connections that even a skeptical observer couldn't dismiss.
I rehearsed the conversation in my head:
"Sergeant, I've noticed some irregularities in case handling that concern me. Over the past several months, I've observed a pattern that suggests possible evidence tampering. I'd like to bring this to your attention before the damage becomes irreparable."
Reasonable. Professional. The kind of concern a conscientious officer would bring to a trusted supervisor.
Not: "I've been watching this person for two years because my supernatural lie detection told me he was corrupt within days of meeting him."
The truth would wait. If it ever came out at all.
For now, the goal was simple: get Grey to look. Once official investigation began, Armstrong's pattern would become undeniable. The evidence would speak for itself.
I just had to start the conversation.
Tomorrow. I'd approach Grey tomorrow.
Tonight, I'd finish preparing. Make sure every document was in order. Make sure every argument was airtight.
One chance. I couldn't afford to waste it.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1