Chapter 2 - The Theatre of Lies
The silence that followed my statement was absolute. The only sound in the entire precinct was the rhythmic, metallic ticking of the black clock mounted on the wall above the holding cells. It was 2:54 a.m.
My brother Colton finally stood up from the visitor’s chair. He looked older than thirty-two, his face pale and drawn, his eyes rimmed with red. He was a weak man who had spent his entire life seeking the path of least resistance, and marrying Dana had been the ultimate expression of that weakness. Her family’s money had bought him his car, his house, and his partnership at a local real estate firm. Tonight, that money had bought his silence while his own mother’s bones were broken.
“Casey, please,” Colton said, stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Don’t make this worse than it already is. You don’t live here anymore. You don’t know what Mom has been like lately. She’s been having these... these episodes. She’s paranoid. She came over to our house tonight out of nowhere, screaming at Dana, throwing things. Dana was just trying to defend herself. We’re only trying to keep everyone safe, including Mom. We’re going to get her some professional help.”
My mother let out a small, broken sound from the steel bench—a sound of pure, unadulterated betrayal. She looked at her only son, the boy she had raised, cooked for, and protected, as though he had struck her with the bat himself.
I didn't look at Colton. I didn't acknowledge his existence. To me, he was no longer my brother; he was simply a witness to a felony who had chosen to become an accessory after the fact.
I pulled my personal phone from my pocket. It was a secure, encrypted state-issue device.
I stepped closer to my mother. I held the camera up and began taking high-resolution, flash-assisted photographs. I photographed the deep purple swelling around her left eye. I photographed the jagged, three-inch laceration along her temple where the dried blood had caked in her silver hair. I photographed her swollen, distorted left wrist, which was already beginning to turn a sickly, mottled blue.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Chief Enzo roared, stepping into my line of sight. “You can’t take photos in a secure police facility! Put that phone away immediately, or I will have you cited for obstruction of justice!”
I didn't lower the phone. I took a photo of the heavy steel handcuffs binding my mother’s right wrist to the bench. I took a photo of the wall clock, establishing the exact timestamp of her injuries being left untreated.
Then, I turned the camera on Chief Enzo. I took a clear, direct photo of his flushed, angry face, his loose tie, and his untucked shirt. I turned and took photos of Officer Ross and Officer Miller, who both instinctively raised their hands to block their faces.
Finally, I pointed the camera at Dana.
She was still sitting on the visitor's chair, but her dramatic tears had completely dried. Her eyes were wide, her lips pressed into a thin, tight line of pure fury. The tiny white bandage on her cheek looked absurd against her expensive, immaculate makeup.
“You’re crazy, just like your mother,” Dana hissed, her voice dropping all pretense of the victim. “You think you can intimidate us? My uncle is the chief of police in this town. We own this county, Casey. Your mother is going to a psychiatric ward, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.”
“Officer Miller,” I said, my voice cutting through Dana’s venom like a scalpel. “Your body camera was active when I entered this room. It is currently turned off. I want the record to reflect that at exactly 2:48 a.m., you manually deactivated your recording device in the presence of a suspect with visible, severe physical trauma.”
Miller’s face went from pale to completely gray. He reached up toward his collar, his fingers fumbling with the switch, but it was too late. The act had already been witnessed and noted.
“This is my station!” Enzo bellowed, stepping directly into my personal space, his chest pressed against mine in a classic display of police intimidation. “I make the rules here. You have exactly thirty seconds to walk out of those doors, or I will have you locked in a cell next to your mother. I don't care who you work for in the capital. Out here, you are nobody.”
I looked up into his bloodshot eyes. I felt no fear, no hesitation. I had spent the last ten years of my life prosecuting men exactly like him—petty tyrants who believed a tin badge made them gods.
“Every one of you,” I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper, yet it carried to every corner of the silent room, “mistook my family's silence for weakness.”
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I tapped my screen, opening an encrypted messaging application. I selected my chief investigator, a retired state police captain named Marcus Vance, and typed three words:
Preserve everything. Now.
