Chương 5
I looked at the receipt again.
The bat had been entered into evidence at 11:48 p.m.
My mother's arrest had been processed twenty minutes later.
The timing bothered me.
Not because the order was impossible.
Because it raised a question.
If Arthur handled the weapon, why did he tell officers he only witnessed the argument?
"Where is the bat now?" I asked.
Landry looked toward the locked cabinet near the back wall of his office.
"Evidence storage."
"Has it been processed?"
"Not yet."
I frowned.
"Why not?"
He rubbed his forehead.
"Domestic incidents are not always treated as major investigations."
"An alleged assault with a baseball bat is not major?"
He did not answer.
That silence was becoming a pattern.
Not everyone in the department was corrupt.
That was almost always the problem.
Systems rarely failed because every person inside them wanted them to fail.
They failed because some people ignored problems, some people protected themselves, and some people convinced themselves that silence was the same thing as neutrality.
"Who found the bat?" I asked.
"Arthur said he picked it up."
"After what happened?"
"According to the report."
I closed the folder.
"Then I need to speak with him."
Landry nodded.
"I figured."
There was something in his voice that bothered me.
Not surprise.
Expectation.
As if he already knew this conversation was coming.
"Captain."
"Yes?"
"How long have you suspected something was wrong?"
He looked out the window.
The parking lot below was filling with officers arriving for morning shifts.
"I suspected the report was incomplete."
"That is not the same answer."
"No."
He remained quiet.
"Because incomplete reports can be caused by many things."
"Carelessness?"
"Yes."
"Pressure?"
"Sometimes."
"Protecting someone?"
His eyes moved back to mine.
"Sometimes."
I left his office with the folder under my arm.
The hallway felt different from the night before.
The same walls.
The same people.
But now I knew there were missing pieces inside them.
Arthur was waiting outside the building.
I had not called him.
That meant either someone had told him I was coming or he had been waiting.
Neither option made me comfortable.
"You found out about the bat."
It was not a question.
I stopped walking.
"How?"
He looked away.
"I knew you would."
That was not an answer.
"Arthur."
He swallowed.
"I picked it up."
"Why?"
"Because Mom was holding it."
"After Brooke hit her?"
His eyes moved quickly back to mine.
That movement told me more than words.
"Who told you that?"
He hesitated.
"Brooke."
"Interesting."
"What?"
"Nothing."
He looked frustrated.
"Clara, I am not trying to hurt anyone."
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was the kind of sentence people said when they wanted credit for intentions instead of consequences.
"Then tell me what happened."
He rubbed his hands together.
A habit he had when he was nervous.
"I came into the kitchen after I heard yelling."
"From where?"
"The living room."
"How long after the yelling started?"
"I don't know."
"Minutes?"
"Maybe."
"Seconds?"
"I don't know."
I watched him.
Arthur hated uncertainty.
When he did not know an answer, he usually tried to make the conversation move faster.
This time he could not.
"What did you see?"
He looked down.
"Mom had the bat."
"And Brooke?"
"On the floor."
"Was she injured?"
"She was crying."
"That was not my question."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"No."
"No, what?"
"No, I did not see any injuries."
The admission sat between us.
A small thing.
A simple thing.
But important.
"Why did you tell police she attacked Brooke?"
He looked hurt.
"Because she had the bat."
"That does not answer the question."
"Clara."
"No."
My voice rose slightly.
Then I lowered it.
"I need you to understand something."
He looked at me.
"Mom is sitting at home with bruises because someone decided a story before they checked the evidence."
His expression changed.
Not guilt exactly.
Something closer to discomfort.
"I thought I was helping."
I believed him.
That was the worst part.
Arthur was not a person who woke up wanting to destroy someone.
He was a person who panicked and reached for the easiest explanation.
And sometimes those people caused the most damage.
"Did Brooke ask you to tell the police what happened?"
His face went still.
"No."
"Did she tell you what to say?"
"No."
"Did she talk to you before the police arrived?"
A pause.
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
He looked away.
"Arthur."
"She said Mom had lost control."
"Anything else?"
"She said nobody would believe her if I didn't explain what happened."
I felt a cold weight settle in my chest.
There it was.
Not proof.
Not yet.
But pressure.
Influence.
A reason.
"Did Brooke know about the bat before the police arrived?"
He hesitated.
"I don't know."
"Arthur."
"I don't know."
I studied him.
This time I believed he did not know.
That was the problem.
He was not lying about everything.
Only the parts he was too afraid to examine.
"Why did you sign the statement without reading it?"
His face tightened.
"Because I trusted the officer."
"Why?"
"Because he was the officer."
I almost interrupted.
Then I stopped.
That answer was more revealing than a longer explanation.
Arthur had spent his entire life believing authority figures knew what they were doing.
Teachers.
Doctors.
Managers.
Police officers.
Anyone wearing a badge or carrying a title.
He trusted systems because questioning them meant admitting they could fail.
And admitting that scared him.
"Did Officer Price tell you your mother could go to jail?"
Arthur looked uncomfortable.
"Yes."
"Did he tell you what would happen if you did not cooperate?"
Another pause.
"He said things could get worse."
I looked at him.
"For who?"
He did not answer.
The silence was enough.
I returned to my car and drove home with more questions than answers.
That was normal in investigations.
People expected evidence to create certainty.
May you like
Usually it created more uncertainty first.
At home, Mom was asleep on the couch.
