Page 80 of Dead Air
"He was selling evidence back to his clients." The scheme crystallized in Lawson's mind as she examined more containers. "Using his brother's departmental access to recover seizedassets after cases closed. Returning them for additional payment beyond legal fees."
"Perfect system." Parks photographed evidence labels with his phone, documenting the discovery methodically despite the overwhelming volume. "Legal fees plus recovery fees. Double profit from the same criminal enterprise. The department thinks the evidence has been destroyed, clients recover valuable assets, and Hutchinson profits twice from the same case."
They worked through the storage area systematically, documenting contents that represented years of methodical evidence theft and resale. Each container held proof of corruption extending beyond individual cases into wholesale manipulation of the justice system. The basement had been converted into unofficial evidence storage—a shadow archive where seized materials disappeared before official destruction.
"Over here." Parks called from the basement's far corner, voice echoing against concrete walls. "Something embedded in the wall. Different from the shelving system."
Lawson joined him beside a section where concrete showed fresh repair work. A square foot of wall displayed newer material than surrounding areas, slightly different color indicating recent application. Parks worked his fingertips around the edges until mortar crumbled away, revealing a small cavity containing a plastic bag.
"Deliberate hiding spot." He extracted the bag carefully, preserving potential fingerprint evidence.
Inside the protective plastic, a micro SD card lay wrapped in additional protective material.
"Hidden recently." Parks examined the hiding spot more carefully, professional assessment evident in his methodical approach. "Concrete work maybe two weeks old. Someone knew something worth preserving was here."
Lawson pocketed the memory card, mind already processing possibilities. "Blackwell must have found this place. Hidden the card during her investigation."
"Or someone else entirely." Parks sealed the cavity with an evidence marker. "Someone who knew what was down here and wanted the record preserved."
They climbed back to the main floor, both processing the implications of the basement discovery. Evidence theft on a massive scale. Systematic corruption involving multiple department members. The complete subversion of the justice system procedures for profit.
"We need to secure this location." Parks sealed the basement door with tape from his equipment kit. "Document everything properly before someone realizes we've been here. This represents years of criminal activity."
"The memory card first." Lawson gestured toward the exit, suddenly eager to examine its contents. "Let's see what someone wanted us to find."
They returned to the parking lot, where Lawson retrieved her laptop from the car. The computer booted quickly as she connected the SD card. A single video file appeared on the screen, dated three days before Monica's death. She clicked play, and Monica's voice filled the car's interior through tinny speakers.
"I know what you've been doing." Monica stood in what appeared to be the same basement they'd just explored, facing someone outside the camera's frame. She looked determined but cautious, posture suggesting she conversed with a potential threat. "Selling evidence back to criminals. Using department resources to protect Thomas Hutchinson's clients."
The camera remained focused on Monica, but a male voice responded from off-screen. Lawson found the cadence familiar, but the speaker's identity remained elusive.
"You don't understand the bigger picture, Monica. This system protects more than it harms."
"Protects criminals. Harms victims. That's not justice." Monica's expression hardened, the determination Lawson remembered so well evident in her stance.
"Justice is complicated. Sometimes wrong methods serve right purposes."
Monica shook her head, rejection clear in her body language. "I have documentation. Financial records. Communications between you and Thomas Hutchinson. Everything needed to expose the entire operation."
The off-screen voice hardened, professional polish giving way to underlying threat. "Where's this documentation?"
"Secure location. Multiple copies. Insurance against exactly this situation." Monica's confidence suggested preparation against potential consequences.
"You're making a mistake, Monica. This can't continue."
"It won't. I'm taking everything to federal authorities. The corruption ends now."
The video cut to black. Lawson stared at the empty screen, Monica's final declaration hanging in the sudden silence. But Monica never got her chance to deliver the evidence to federal authorities. And the corruption continued for five more years.
Her phone chimed with another Dead Air podcast notification. A live broadcast, starting immediately.
"That's Blackwell." Parks leaned closer to read the alert, professional interest overcoming his earlier procedural concerns. "Thought she was in Belize with Thomas Hutchinson."
Lawson tapped the notification, opening the podcast website. But instead of Blackwell's voice, Leah Blackwell's face appeared on screen—bruised, exhausted, but undeniably alive. She sat in what appeared to be an empty room, speaking directly into a camera with desperate urgency.
"If you're watching this, I'm still alive. For now."
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