Chapter 7
The precinct downtown was loud, smelling of cheap coffee, damp wool, and the institutional floor wax used to mask decades of urban decay. Officer Vance sat at a metal desk under the harsh glare of a flickering fluorescent tube, spreading out the paperwork he had managed to pull from the coroner's preliminary intake files.
Across the desk, Detective Miller rubbed his tired eyes, tossing a manila folder onto the steel surface. "The medical examiner just called. Dr. Evans changed the cause of death from 'acute cardiac arrest' to 'undetermined pending toxicological review.' He also noted bruising along the victim's left ribcage that didn't match CPR protocols."
Vance leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "I told you. Clara Vance didn't commit suicide. And if Henderson is right about those financial documents, Derek Vance had a five-million-dollar motive to make her disappear before the divorce papers were finalized."
"We still don't have a signed warrant to search the estate," Miller said, shaking his head. "Judge Callahan is a personal acquaintance of Arthur Vance. He won't grant a search warrant for a prominent estate based on a seven-year-old's funeral outburst and a divorce attorney's hearsay."
"What about Marcus?" Vance asked, tapping his pen against the metal tabletop. "The estate manager. We ran his plates through the automated toll cameras. He left the Vance estate at midnight on Tuesday, drove straight to an industrial park on the south side, and stayed there for twenty minutes before returning."
Miller’s expression sharpened. "What's at the south side industrial park?"
"A commercial shredding facility," Vance replied triumphantly. "And an incinerator."
The two officers didn't hesitate. Within twenty minutes, they were in an unmarked cruiser, navigating the rain-slicked streets toward the industrial zone. The rain had picked up again, turning the city into a blur of neon reflections and gray asphalt. They pulled up outside the corrugated metal gates of the Southside Document Destruction facility, its security lights buzzing dully in the damp night air.
An aging night watchman sat behind a grease-stained glass partition, reading a tattered paperback. Miller flashed his badge through the security wicket, and the lock buzzed with a heavy metallic click.
"Detective Miller, SPD," Miller announced as they stepped into the warm, oily warmth of the office. "We're looking into a security log discrepancy from Tuesday night around midnight. A luxury sedan registered to Vance Enterprises entered this facility."
The watchman squinted at them over his reading glasses, chewing slowly on a toothpick. "Vance? Yeah, the tall guy with the scar. Usually sends his manager, Marcus. Tuesday night, Marcus rolled up in a black sedan, dropped off two heavy canvas bags for high-temp thermal destruction. Said it was confidential corporate tax archives."
"Did you inspect the bags?" Vance asked sharply.
"Didn't have to," the watchman shrugged. "Corporate accounts have a permanent waiver. But I remember Marcus being sweating through his suit, acting like the devil was chasing him. Dropped a small plastic case near the conveyor belt before he ran back out to his car."
Vance’s heart skipped a beat. "What kind of case?"
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The watchman reached into his desk drawer, pulling out a clear plastic evidence bag containing a small, black USB flash drive with a cracked casing. "Found it under the sorting bin Wednesday morning. Figured it was just a cheap thumb drive."
Miller reached out, gently taking the bag from the watchman's hand. He turned it over, noticing a tiny strip of silver duct tape sealing the base. "Callahan can't deny a warrant now," Miller said, a grim smile forming on his lips. "We have physical evidence linked directly to the Vance estate."
