“You won’t touch it.”
“Correct.”
She studied him.
“You just got shoved in your backyard and you’re worried about conflict procedure.”
He looked toward the officer.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if he did what this looks like, the case needs to survive me being angry.”
The supervisor stared for a second.
Then nodded.
“Fair.”
The homeowner’s mother, standing nearby, heard.
She walked over.
“You’re bleeding.”
He looked down.
A shallow scrape along his forearm from the table.
He had not noticed.
His mother did.
Of course.
She said:
“You need to sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine.”
She stared.
The homeowner, incoming chief prosecutor, future leader of a city misconduct unit, powerful six-foot-something man with muscles people assumed meant he was never afraid—
sat.
Immediately.
The supervisor almost smiled.
His mother did not.
She cleaned the scrape with bottled water.
Then looked toward the lead officer.
No words.
The officer looked away first.
2
The barbecue ended without anyone officially ending it.
Food remained everywhere.
Guests did not know whether to leave.
Some wanted to stay out of support.
Others felt uncomfortable being part of what had become an active investigation.
The homeowner solved it.
“Everybody take food.”
His aunt stared.
“What?”
“Take it home.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
His cousin looked toward the police supervisor.
“Can we?”
The homeowner looked at her.
She nodded.
“Anything not directly involved in the incident, yes.”
The cooler was photographed first.
The tongs too.
The serving table.
The scrape on his arm.
Then family started packing food.
Strange.
A potential corruption investigation forming while somebody wrapped ribs in aluminum foil.
That was reality.
Disaster rarely stopped ordinary tasks.
Children still needed to eat.
Older relatives needed rides.
Ice melted.
Meat spoiled.
Life kept asking mundane questions during serious moments.
One neighbor approached.
The woman had lived two houses away for six years.
She looked embarrassed.
“I should tell somebody something.”
The supervisor came closer.
“What?”
The neighbor glanced toward the lead officer.
“He was here yesterday.”
The homeowner turned.
“What?”
“I thought maybe traffic enforcement.”
The supervisor asked:
“Where?”
“Parked across from your house.”
The homeowner’s stomach tightened.
“For how long?”
“Maybe twenty minutes.”
“Did he get out?”
“No.”
“Alone?”
“I think.”
The supervisor asked:
“Did you take a picture?”
The neighbor looked apologetic.
“No.”
“Doorbell camera?”
The woman’s eyes widened.
“Yes.”
The supervisor looked toward the homeowner.
He said nothing.
She immediately assigned someone to preserve the recording.
The lead officer, watching from across the yard, could not hear everything.
But he saw people looking toward him.
His jaw tightened.