Then toward the incomplete lower portion.
There was still something we could not see.
The actual transfer recipient.
The time.
And the reason the device had been held for command review.
But now we had something the officers who removed the ledger apparently believed no longer existed.
A record of what the original page said.
And the evidence that the missing item was not merely an accounting error.
By late afternoon, the investigation had attracted attention far beyond the Fourteenth Precinct.
The city's police commissioner contacted our agency leadership.
The district attorney's office requested an update.
Several senior officials asked whether the inquiry would interfere with ongoing criminal cases.
Those concerns were legitimate.
If evidence handling was compromised, prosecutors needed to evaluate the cases affected.
Defendants and their attorneys could have rights to disclosure and review.
Property owners might be entitled to the return of seized items.
And innocent officers who handled evidence properly deserved a process that distinguished their work from misconduct.
But some calls had a different tone.
One official asked whether we could delay the evidence-room audit until after the city's annual public-safety announcement.
Another suggested we should avoid making the case "racial."
A third warned that investigating senior police officials might undermine public confidence.
I listened.
Then explained the same thing each time.
Public confidence did not depend on hiding misconduct.
It depended on responding honestly when credible evidence appeared.
Near sunset, Dana entered the temporary workspace we had established in a municipal building several blocks from the precinct.
She carried a folder.
Her expression was serious.
"Marcus."
I looked up.
"What?"
"We have the weekend access logs."
I set down my pen.
She opened the folder.
"The archive room was entered Saturday morning at 2:14."
"By whom?"
"Sergeant Keller."
I nodded slowly.
"Authorized access?"
"Emergency supervisor override."
"Reason?"
She showed me the entry.
Records maintenance.
I looked toward her.
"On Saturday at two in the morning?"
Dana raised an eyebrow.
"Apparently."
"Any other entries?"
"Lieutenant Whitaker authorized the override remotely."
I leaned back.
For a moment, I considered the sequence.
Friday afternoon, Evelyn confirmed the ledger was in storage.
Saturday morning, Keller entered the archive using emergency access authorized by Whitaker.
Monday morning, the ledger was missing.
I looked toward Dana.
"What does the camera show?"
Her expression darkened.
"That's the problem."
I felt a familiar tension.
"Go on."
"The archive-room camera was offline."
"Maintenance?"
"According to the record."
I waited.
Dana continued.
"The maintenance window began at 2:10 and ended at 2:31."