"I'm going to need everything," she said. "Body camera, dash camera, dispatch recordings, database query logs from every unit on scene, complaint history on the arresting officer, complaint history on the sergeant." She paused. "And I want his prior stops in this district going back two years. Same justification, same road."
"This isn't the first time," the investigator said. It was not a question.
She turned back to the scene, and the expression on her face was the expression of a woman who had spent fifteen years in Internal Affairs watching evidence disappear before she could reach it, and who had just walked into a situation where the evidence was still here, still intact, still being documented in real time by twenty-three people who had no intention of deleting anything. She had not felt this specific kind of clarity in a long time.
Her wrists were photographed. The marks left by the cuffs were photographed. The cuffs were removed.
She stood for a moment with her hands at her sides, looking at the industrial road, the freight yard fence, and the cracked asphalt. Then she looked at the investigator.
"How long?" she asked—not impatiently, a professional question.
The investigator understood it as such. "The documentation will take the rest of the morning. I'll need a full statement from you before you leave."
"I'll give you everything I have," she said. "I want this in the record."
"It will be."
"All of it. Including the question about the money."
The investigator looked at her steadily. "Especially that."