“It is if you do it.”
The mayor promised.
She made her niece write it down.
“You don’t trust the mayor?”
“I trust records more.”
The mayor heard and laughed.
After her death, the office remained unnamed.
The annual audit became formal policy.
That would have pleased her more than a plaque.
Her final evening was quiet.
No dramatic gathering.
The niece slept in a chair nearby.
A hospice nurse adjusted medication.
Rain tapped against the windows.
The investigator woke around midnight.
“Niece.”
The younger woman opened her eyes.
“I’m here.”
“I know.”
“What do you need?”
“Water.”
She drank.
Then looked toward the dark window.
“Is it raining?”
“Yes.”
“Garden?”
“It’ll survive.”
The investigator smiled.
“Good.”
Her niece took her hand.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then the niece asked:
“Are you scared?”
The investigator thought.
“Yes.”
The answer relieved both of them.
“What part?”
“Not existing.”
The niece’s eyes filled.
“Anything else?”
“People saying stupid things at my funeral.”
The niece laughed through tears.
“I can control some of that.”
“Good.”
The investigator tightened her fingers weakly.
“Do not let them play the hose video.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not let anybody say that incident defined my career.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not put my quote on merchandise.”
“I can’t control the internet.”
“Try.”
“I’ll try.”
The investigator closed her eyes.
Then opened them again.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“If anyone calls me fearless, correct them.”
Her niece smiled.
“What should I say?”
“She was afraid often.”
“What did she do?”
The investigator looked toward her.
“Checked the facts anyway.”
Her niece nodded.
“I can say that.”
“Good.”
The investigator slept.
She died before sunrise.
Eighty-one years old.
No cameras.
No uniformed officers.
No city officials.
Only her niece, the hospice nurse, and rain.
The funeral was held in a modest church.
Too many people attended.
The niece complained privately.
Her mother would have.
Her aunt definitely would have.
Former police officers sat beside activists who had argued with the investigator for years.
Students sat beside city attorneys.
Residents whose complaints she had sustained.
Residents whose complaints she had rejected.
Officers she had criticized.
Officers she had cleared.
Her former civilian review director.
The retired lieutenant.
The mayor.
The former police chief.
The niece kept the program simple.
No photograph from the backyard.
Instead, the cover showed the investigator sitting at a table covered in files, glasses low on her nose, one hand pointing toward a document while someone outside the frame apparently argued with her.