Page 5 of Dead Air
"I've got a 10-999! Officer down! Send help immediately!" Her own voice, raw with panic. "Warehouse district, old paper mill. Shots fired, officer down. Need medical help now!"
The sound of her ragged breathing, muffled sobs as she tried to stop Monica's bleeding.
"Stay with me, Mon. Help is coming. Just stay with me!"
Lawson's chest tightened. That call had never been released. It was sealed as part of an active investigation. How did this podcaster get it?
"That was Detective Erin Lawson," the woman continued, "Monica Landry's partner, calling for help that would arrive too late. This recording has never been released to the public until now. Multiple sources within the Savannah PD have confirmed it's real."
The room spun. Lawson's breathing became quick and shallow. Panic squeezed her lungs. She fumbled for the whiskey bottle, her hand shaking as it closed around the smooth glass. Four months, two weeks, three days of sobriety hung in the balance as she unscrewed the cap. The sharp scent of bourbon filled her nose.
She held the bottle inches from her lips. The amber liquid promised to make the memories stop. Monica's blood on her hands. The light fading from her eyes. The sound of her own voice, broken and desperate, begging for help that came too late.
Lawson slammed the cap back on and threw the bottle across the room. It rolled across the hardwood floor and stopped against the wall.
She bent forward, head between her knees, forcing deeper breaths as her heart hammered. Her hands balled into fists, nails digging into her palms until the pain brought her back to reality.
"The official investigation concluded that an unknown attacker shot Detective Landry in the chest and escaped into thenight without being identified. But there are troubling problems with this story."
The podcaster's voice sharpened.
"Why were two detectives meeting at an abandoned warehouse after hours? Why was Detective Lawson, the only witness, unable to identify the shooter? And why, despite an extensive investigation, was no evidence ever found to identify who lured Detective Landry to her death that night?"
Lawson's breathing quickened.
"I'm heading to Savannah next week to investigate these questions and more. Someone knows the truth about what happened to Detective Monica Landry, and I intend to find it. Stay tuned to Dead Air, because this story is just getting started."
The podcast ended. Lawson sat in silence, listening to her harsh breathing. She grabbed her phone and typed "Leah Blackwell Dead Air podcast" into the search bar.
Results flooded her screen. The podcast had over three million subscribers. Blackwell had started it while in law school at Columbia, focusing on cold cases and wrongful convictions. Her investigations had reopened three cases and freed one innocent person. She'd won multiple awards and recently signed a deal with Netflix.
Lawson clicked on an image. Leah Blackwell looked younger than expected. Early thirties, with sharp features and intense eyes that seemed to see through the camera. She looked like someone who wouldn't back down.
Lawson scrolled through previous episodes. Blackwell had covered cases from across the country, but none from Savannah. So why Monica's case? Why now?
She found the answer in a recent interview with Blackwell in a digital media magazine. The reporter had asked why she'd chosen Monica's case.
"I never choose my cases; they choose me," Blackwell had said. "Someone reached out with compelling information suggesting Detective Landry's murder wasn't random violence, but a targeted hit to silence her. When they sent me that radio call, I knew I had to look deeper."
Someone reached out? Someone with access to sealed evidence and a grudge? Someone who wanted the past dug up?
Lawson hurled her phone across the room. It hit the wall with a crack before dropping to the hardwood. She stood and paced like a caged animal, her breathing ragged.
Five years. Five damn years she'd spent trying to find Monica's killer. Hitting wall after wall, dead end after dead end. Running up against the blue line that appeared whenever she got close to something important. Richardson's warnings still echoed in her ears. "Let it go, Lawson. For your own good."
She'd never let it go, not really, but she'd learned to live with the open wound. To function despite it. To do her job while carrying the weight of that failure. The wound festered just under the surface.
Now, this Blackwell woman would rip it all open again, probing and digging. And the worst part? She seemed to be suggesting Lawson had something to do with it.
Lawson picked up her phone. The screen now sported a web of cracks. She pulled up Claire's number and typed a response.
Where did you find this?
The reply came immediately:It's everywhere. Viral on TikTok.
Of course it was. The public loved a juicy conspiracy, especially one involving corrupt cops. They'd eat this up, regardless of the damage it might do to the department or to the people who still mourned Monica.
You need to hear the rest of it,Claire texted.She mentions files that went missing after Monica's death.
