“Did you know the homeowner’s identity?”
“No.”
The supervisor answered immediately.
Too immediately.
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
“You’re the reviewer?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Seven years.”
He frowned.
“Why is your residential address in an active file?”
“It isn’t.”
The female investigator’s eyes shifted toward him.
“What makes you think it is?”
The supervisor realized the mistake.
“I don’t.”
“You just asked why his residential address was in the file.”
“I assumed.”
“Based on what?”
The supervisor became irritated.
“This conversation is over.”
The officer took one small step toward him.
The supervisor said:
“Get in your unit.”
The female investigator raised a hand.
“No.”
The supervisor stared.
“Excuse me?”
“We need his body camera secured.”
“It’s department equipment.”
“Correct.”
“And it may contain evidence relevant to an independent investigation.”
“It’s off.”
“So he says.”
The supervisor looked at the officer.
The officer looked down.
That interaction told me more than words.
The male investigator said:
“We also need the cruiser’s MDT session preserved, GPS logs, dispatch routing, unit status history, and any pre-arrival messages.”
The supervisor laughed.
“You’re not taking our car.”
“We don’t need the car.”
“We need preservation.”
“You can send a request.”
“We are.”
The investigator raised his phone.
“It’s already being drafted.”
The supervisor turned toward me.
“This is ridiculous.”
I kept my voice calm.
“What part?”
“A routine call turning into some kind of conspiracy because you happen to work oversight.”
“I haven’t called it a conspiracy.”
“You’re standing here with investigators.”
“They were coming to my house before your officer arrived.”
His expression changed.
That detail bothered him.
I continued:
“They were bringing records connected to his pending review.”
Silence.
The supervisor looked toward the sealed evidence pouch.
The officer did too.
The woman across the street kept recording.
The supervisor finally noticed her.
“Ma’am, stop recording department personnel.”
She laughed.
Not mockingly.
Almost in disbelief.
“You’re standing in public.”
The supervisor looked like he wanted to argue.
The female investigator said quietly:
“She’s correct.”
The supervisor’s face reddened.
Then he ordered the officer into the SUV rather than the cruiser.
The officer walked down my porch steps.
Before getting in, he looked back at me.
There was anger in his face.
But something else now.
Fear.
Not fear of me physically.
Fear of what was inside my house.
He did not know exactly what I had read.
That uncertainty was hurting him more than accusation would have.
The investigators stayed.
So did several neighbors.
The woman across the street crossed over only after the police SUV disappeared.
“Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
She looked at my porch.
The spilled coffee.
Scattered newspaper.