For a moment, I thought we had arrived too late.
Then our digital examiner discovered that the recorder contained a second memory component used for system metadata and selected recording segments.
The contents were incomplete.
Some had been overwritten.
Some could not be recovered.
But not everything was gone.
The examiner preserved the device, documented the recovery procedures, and began a painstaking reconstruction.
The process took days.
Then weeks.
I tried not to call for updates too often.
Evidence work required patience.
A rushed conclusion could damage the case more thoroughly than a delayed one.
Meanwhile, investigators examined the storage suite's access records.
They identified employees who entered the room.
Reviewed rental documents.
And traced communications involving the recovered device.
One message from Sloane's office referred to a "property-control unit" that needed to remain "off-site until the issue settles."
Another discussed removing storage media.
Those messages required contextual analysis.
But together with the physical evidence, they supported the conclusion that the recorder had been deliberately separated from its lawful evidence trail.
The missing hard drive remained a problem.
We did not know where it went.
We did not know whether it had been destroyed.
And we could not assume the incomplete recorder would reveal anything useful.
Then, one evening, Dana called me.
It was nearly nine.
I was at home eating reheated chicken over the kitchen sink.
My phone rang.
I answered.
"Dana?"
Her voice sounded different.
"Marcus, you need to come in."
I set down the plate.
"What happened?"
"The examiner recovered an audio segment."
I froze.
"From the recorder?"
"Yes."
"From the raid?"
"No."
I felt my pulse quicken.
"When?"
She paused.
"Nine days before the raid."
I stared toward the dark kitchen window.
Then asked, "What's on it?"
Dana took a breath.
"Mercer. Sloane. And Isaac Brooks."
For several seconds, I could not speak.
Then she continued.
"They're discussing the property."
I looked toward the clock.
"How soon can I get there?"
"Now."
I reached for my jacket.
And twenty minutes later, I was driving through the city toward the laboratory, knowing that a few recovered minutes might explain why an entire police precinct had been willing to make evidence disappear.
The recording began with the sound of a door opening.
Then footsteps.
A chair scraping against the floor.
And a voice I recognized immediately from my interviews.
Isaac Brooks.
"What exactly do you want from me?"
The quality was imperfect.
There was background noise from the garage.
A compressor running somewhere nearby.
A telephone ringing.
But the words were clear enough to understand.