lock-up had been tightened after the evidence inventory had come up short a few thousand dollars’ worth of marijuana. What used to be a large room full of disorganized metal shelves had become an entire building unto itself, complete with a locked vault for drug evidence and cash. Plus, the department implemented a new organizational system for general evidence in a climate-controlled room with no direct sunlight. There were new procedures for viewing evidence, and the process for checking out boxes required paperwork that would intimidate even the most staid actuary. The whole facility was overseen by one of the most power-mad officers in the MPD: George Guttfield.
Guttfield and I were not on good terms. Before the change in evidence storage procedures, I could come to view my sister’s case file and evidence as often as I wished.
Not that I really needed to see it; I practically had it memorized. But I’d always believed that one day something new would jump out at me and break the case. That day had not yet come.
Now that Guttfield controlled the evidence storage facility, he was suspicious of my every visit. I was almost certain that he had me pegged as one of the marijuana thieves.
But I’d never taken anything from lock-up. Not yet anyway.
Sure, I had copied my sister’s case file and the fingerprints that had been found at the crime scene. But those were only copies.
Today, I needed something original.
I needed a little sliver of the fabric that contained fluids from my sister’s assailant. I couldn’t leave behind that piece of evidence, which could establish someone’s guilt or innocence. I had to have a sample of it, and today might be my last opportunity to obtain it.
Taking a fabric sample was much trickier than making a few photocopies. I would have to defeat the tamper-proofing and then physically alter a piece of evidence in such a way that it could endure scrutiny. Doing this was a huge risk, both to me and to my sister’s case should it ever go to trial.
Of course, for the case to go to trial, the guy had to be identified and arrested first, and for that to happen, I had to have that evidence.
I had to do this.
Parked outside the lock-up, I quickly inventoried my supplies. I stashed a small bottle of acetone nail polish remover and an eye dropper in my shirt pocket, and my multi-tool hung in its proper place on my belt. I pulled two blue nitrile gloves and an evidence bag from their storage places in the cruiser.
Once I was sure I had the proper gear, I had to develop a plan. So many criminals get caught because they do things on a spur of the moment and give no thought to how they are going to commit their crime and get away.
The escape was the critical part. What use was there in stealing something if you got caught?
Mentally, I walked through my crime. I imagined myself getting out of the vehicle and walking casually to the large glass doors of the evidence lockup. I would be on video from this time until I entered the evidence viewing area, so appearing relaxed and natural was essential. The first hurdle was the check-in desk. That’s where I’d encounter Guttfield, whom I’d have to charm as usual.
I laughed at the thought. Guttfield seemed immune to charm. He always suspected that I was up to no good, and today, he’d be right. Worse, with all the new security measures, there would be a clear trail from the evidence to me.
But I couldn’t worry about that now.
Once I had the evidence box in hand, I’d be allowed to view its contents in the large common room where there were no cameras. I hoped to be alone there so I could work my magic on the tamper-resistant tape and then cut a little piece from an unobtrusive section of the fabric. After that, it was just a matter of returning the evidence box to Guttfield and leaving the building in a calm manner for the cameras.
The plan sounded simple and logical. All I had to do was request the evidence, as I’d done a hundred times in the past, but this time I’d just leave with a bit of it.
Nothing could be simpler.
So why was my stomach tying itself into knots?
I checked my watch. It was quarter after eight, which meant enough time had passed for Guttfield to have had his first cup of coffee. Perhaps he would be feeling more cooperative.
It was now or never.
Taking a deep breath, I checked my appearance in the rearview mirror, wondering how I’d gone from Julia Jackson, up-and-coming detective at the MPD, to Julia Jackson, felon, in just a few short minutes.
It felt completely surreal.
Finding that I looked no more like a criminal than I ever had, I stepped from the cruiser. As I approached the large glass doors, I reminded myself to be nonchalant. I was on camera.
Suddenly, I felt as uncoordinated as a newborn giraffe.
My legs wobbled, and I kept touching my hair. It was amazingly difficult to do something as simple as acting calm when you know you’re being observed doing something illegal.
No wonder criminals were so easy to spot.
Still, I managed to make it to the door. I did not pause even to take a deep, bracing breath before entering the building and encountering Guttfield. No, instead, I gripped the door handle and gave it a shove.
Unfortunately, the door was designed to be pulled, and I ended up with my face mashed against the glass.
What the hell was wrong with me? How many times had I gone through that door?
Yeah, nonchalant. That’s me.
I looked around. No one but the camera had seen me, so I supposed that was okay. I pulled the door open and walked to the front desk.
Guttfield was nowhere to be seen, but I could smell coffee brewing. Maybe he had gone to the back room to get a refill. I took the opportunity to fill out the evidence request forms that I’d completed a hundred times. I was quick about it, and when Guttfield emerged from the back room, I was done and waiting for him.
He limped into the room carrying an oversized coffee mug, and when he saw me, his iron grey eyebrows lowered. “You here for your sister again?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to sound innocent.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Haven’t you seen that file enough by now?”
I smiled at him to cover the fact that I really wanted to grit my teeth. “Obviously not.”
“You know,” he said, pausing to take a sip of coffee, “you really need to learn to let this go, Jackson. It ain’t healthy.”
“Thanks for the advice and for your concern over my health, but I doubt looking at the file is going to make me ill.”
Guttfield frowned at my response. The gesture caused even more wrinkles to accumulate in his saggy skin, giving him the appearance of a grey Shar-Pei. “Now, you know that ain’t what I meant. I was referring to your mental health.”
The expression on his face issued a challenge, one that I usually ignored or glossed over with a bit of innocent flirtation, but today, I just didn’t have it in me. I was tired, cranky, and almost unemployed.
“Look,” I said, leaning forward across the counter and into his space just a bit. “I’m here to look at a case file for Tricia Jackson. I’ve filled out the paperwork. I’ve signed the registry. I don’t need any commentary on my health—mental or otherwise. Just get me the box.”
Guttfield’s lip curled up in a snarl, but his eyes lit with amusement. Then, he turned and disappeared into the lockup.
I watched him go with a bemused smile. Apparently, I’d been handling him wrong all these years. I’d been sweet and Southern, but he seemed to appreciate direct and bitchy.
I could do direct and bitchy.
He returned and handed me the box. “The room is empty. Take all the time you need.”
Squelching a sigh of relief, I gave him a stiff nod of thanks, took the box, and went into the common room. It held several beat-up old tables, which were equipped with old desk lamps. It wasn’t luxury, but it would do.
I selected a table in the far corner, pulled out a chair, and sat down with the box directly in front of me.
I flipped on the desk lamp, and the glow o
f the bulb brightened the dark corner of the room.
This was it.
I was really going to steal evidence.
With one last glance over my shoulder at the door, I opened the lid.
I pulled out each item slowly. I’d seen and touched every piece of paper hundreds of times over the years. I practically memorized each swirl and crest of the fingerprints and each bump and divot in the tire tread impression.
I pulled out the large file folder but didn’t open it. Instead, I went straight for the sealed plastic bag that contained the fabric: white cotton underwear with blue flowers that my sister had been wearing the day she’d been raped.
Though I knew the rest of the evidence by heart, I rarely looked at this piece. The terror of the attack seemed encapsulated in that one damaged article of clothing, and if I allowed myself to think about it, I wouldn’t be able to function correctly for a week.
Before that day, Tricia had been an innocent girl, and one brutal moment had ruined her entire life and changed three others.
I shook my head. I couldn’t think about that now. I had to think about how to get into the bag without leaving behind any trace that I’d done it.
I studied the tape that had been used to seal the bag.
I could do this.
I snapped on my gloves and set my empty evidence bag in my lap. Carefully, I began to unseal the evidence bag. A drop of acetone, a little wiggle of my knife…. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Soon, the bag was open just enough for me to use two fingers to manipulate the piece of cloth.
The lab had determined and marked the