For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then the administrative specialist raised her hand.
"Can I ask a question?"
"Of course."
She looked uncomfortable.
"What happens when the complaint is against a supervisor?"
I studied her.
Then answered.
"It gets evaluated through a process independent enough to examine the supervisor's conduct. If the existing procedure doesn't allow that, we'll change the procedure."
Her eyes widened slightly.
The lieutenant shifted in his chair.
I noticed.
But I didn't comment.
Instead, I placed the first set of workflow diagrams on the table.
We had a department to rebuild.
And I intended to begin with the ordinary decisions that determined whether a complaint ever reached an investigator.
The administrative specialist's name was Teresa Bell.
She was fifty-one, wore glasses on a chain, and had worked for the county for sixteen years. Before joining Professional Standards, she handled records in the courthouse and later moved into the sheriff's office because she believed the position offered more stable hours.
Teresa wasn't an investigator.
She didn't carry a badge.
And she had never intended to become involved in disputes over police conduct.
Her job was to receive forms, enter information, schedule interviews, and maintain administrative records.
But over the years, she'd begun noticing things.
Some complainants called repeatedly asking whether anyone had reviewed their reports.
Others insisted they'd submitted photographs or videos that didn't appear in the case files.
And several complaints involving aggressive traffic stops were closed before Teresa ever saw a formal investigative assignment.
She'd asked questions.
Sometimes the answers were reasonable.
Sometimes they weren't.
Eventually, she'd stopped asking.
The department had taught her that curiosity could make an administrative employee's life difficult.
Two weeks after I took office, Teresa knocked on my door.
She held a folder against her chest.
"Director?"
I looked up.
"Come in."
She closed the door.
Then hesitated.
"Can I ask you something?"
I nodded.
"Of course."
She looked toward the folder.
"What happens if a report is entered under the wrong category?"
I studied her.
"That depends on why and whether the error is corrected."
She swallowed.
"What if it keeps happening?"
I set down my pen.
"Then we need to understand the pattern."
For several seconds, she remained silent.
Finally, she placed the folder on my desk.
Inside were copies of administrative coding instructions and a list of incident numbers she'd compiled from official records available to her in the course of her work.
I began reading.
Several complaints described aggressive roadside encounters.
Some alleged improper searches.
Others involved threats, insults, or unnecessary use of force.