Chapter 2 - The Boy Who Recorded the Wrong Conversation
At 11:26 p.m., I called Marcus back.
"Start from the beginning."
"Barnes requested surveillance on Tyler forty-three days ago."
"For what?"
"Officially, nothing."
"What does that mean?"
"It means his office used a public-safety information request without opening a corresponding criminal case."
"Can he do that?"
"He can submit a request."
Marcus paused.
"Whether he had a lawful reason is another question."
I stared at the vending machine across the waiting room.
A candy bar hung halfway out of its slot.
I remember noticing that ridiculous detail because I needed something in the world to make sense.
"How did you find the request?"
"A retired analyst pointed me toward the county's public spending records and a records-retention notice."
"Marcus."
"I haven't broken into anything."
"Good."
"And neither will you."
I leaned against the wall.
"What do we know?"
"Barnes signed off on an expenditure for surveillance services."
"Surveillance of a minor?"
"That's what we have to verify."
I glanced toward Sarah.
She was asleep in a plastic chair, her hands still wrapped around Tyler's hoodie.
"Why Tyler?"
"That's the question."
At 12:03 a.m., Sarah woke.
I showed her the photograph.
She recognized the third man immediately.
"That's Victor Hale."
"Who's Victor Hale?"
"He owns half the construction projects around here."
"How do you know him?"
"He came to the school fundraiser last month."
Sarah frowned.
"Tyler argued with him."
My stomach tightened.
"About what?"
"An empty warehouse near the basketball courts."
"Why would Tyler care about a warehouse?"
"He said trucks were coming through after midnight."
I remembered the warehouse.
An old packaging facility on Mercer Street.
Tyler and his friends sometimes practiced at the outdoor court behind it.
"He thought somebody was dumping chemicals," Sarah continued.
"Did he tell you?"
"He mentioned a bad smell."
She looked down.
"I told him to report it to the city."
The memory hit me.
Two weeks earlier, Tyler had asked whether county officials could delete security footage.
I'd been fixing the kitchen faucet.
He'd stood in the doorway with his basketball under one arm.
"Dad, can somebody just erase a camera recording?"
"Depends on the system."
"What if it's a government camera?"
"Why?"
He'd shrugged.
"Just wondering."
I'd accepted that answer.
Now I hated myself for it.
At 1:18 a.m., Harold came out of surgery.
His scrubs were marked with blood.
Sarah shot to her feet.
"Is he alive?"
"Yes."
She pressed a hand over her mouth.
Harold sat with us.
Both patellas had suffered catastrophic damage.
There were fractures extending into the surrounding joint structures.
The surgical team had stabilized the injuries and removed dangerous fragments.
Further procedures would be necessary.
Infection, stiffness, chronic pain, and permanent mobility limitations were all serious possibilities.
"Will he walk?" Sarah whispered.
Harold took her hand.
"I believe we have a chance to help him walk with rehabilitation and additional treatment."
"Without crutches?"
"I can't promise that."
"Basketball?"
Harold shook his head slowly.
"I wouldn't make competitive basketball our goal right now."
Sarah began crying again.
I watched the doctor.
There was something else.
"Harold."
He met my eyes.
"Tell me."
He hesitated.
"One projectile passed through tissue before fragmenting against the bone."
"And?"
"I documented everything recovered during surgery."
"Good."
"Dennis, there are questions about the shooting that only an independent investigation can answer."
"I know."
He lowered his voice.
"An officer was waiting outside the operating room."
"Who?"
"Deputy Nolan Price."
"Why?"
"He wanted to know whether Tyler had said anything before anesthesia."
A cold feeling spread through my chest.
"What did you tell him?"
"That medical conversations are private."
"Did he leave?"
"Eventually."
Harold looked toward the hallway.
"Then he asked whether we'd recovered a phone."
I stood.
"Tyler's phone?"
Harold nodded.
"Apparently, no one can find it."
I knew Tyler.
He took his phone everywhere.
He even slept with it beneath his pillow.
If he had recorded something at Mercer Street, that phone might explain everything.
At 2:06 a.m., Marcus sent me a copy of a public incident summary.
The document said Tyler had approached Barnes aggressively and reached toward his waistband.
It also said two deputies witnessed the confrontation.
Their names were Nolan Price and Evan Mercer.
But one line caught my attention.
Subject was observed holding an unidentified black object.
The report never stated that Tyler possessed a weapon.
Yet someone had already told reporters he'd reached for one.
At 2:19 a.m., my phone rang from an unknown number.
I answered.
A young man spoke so quietly I could barely hear him.
"Mr. Irwin?"
"Yes."
"My name is Caleb Ross."
I knew the name.
Tyler's teammate.
A skinny kid with a good jump shot and terrible taste in music.
"Caleb, are you okay?"
"No."
His voice broke.
"I was there."
I straightened.
"Where?"
"When the sheriff shot Tyler."
I looked at Sarah.
She was watching me.
"Caleb, where are you now?"
"At home."
"Are your parents there?"
"Yeah."
"Put one of them on."
"No, listen."
He began breathing rapidly.
"I have a video."
I closed my eyes.
"Okay."
"But that's not the worst part."
"Tell me."
"The sheriff knew Tyler's name before Tyler even turned around."
A muffled sound came through the phone.
A door opening.
Caleb stopped speaking.
"Caleb?"
Someone shouted in the background.
A man.
Loud and angry.
"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING TO?"
The call ended.
May you like
Thirty seconds later, Caleb sent one final message.
They found me.
