Brooks's voice was tight with controlled anger. The third case is from last year. She opened the final file.
Marcus read the name at the top. James Wilson, 41, Black male. Wilson's complaint describes exactly what happened to you.
Brooks continued, "False intelligence claim, destructive search, damaged vehicle, missing property." But Wilson reported something else. He said Mercer seemed to know exactly where to look in his car, like he'd done it before.
Marcus stared at the files spread across Brooks's desk. Three complaints, three different years. Same officer, same supervisor, same pattern of dismissal.
Elena, if Mercer's been running systematic illegal searches, and Hollis has been covering for him, this isn't about one racist cop anymore. Marcus rubbed his temples. This could be organized theft under color of authority.
"That's exactly what I'm thinking," Brooks said. And if that's true, Mercer has a lot more to lose than his job. We're talking federal charges, prison time, complete destruction of everything he's built.
She closed the files and stacked them neatly. Which means Hollis wasn't just protecting a problem officer today. He was protecting a potential criminal conspiracy that he's been enabling for years.
Marcus felt the weight of the situation settling around him. "If they've been stealing from motorists and covering it up through false reports and intimidation tactics, "Then your SUV isn't just evidence of police misconduct," Brooks finished. "It's evidence of a federal crime, and they know it."
She leaned back in her chair, studying Marcus carefully. "I need to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest. Is there anything in that vehicle, anything at all, that could compromise your position if they've tampered with it?
Marcus thought about the federal case materials he kept secured in the locked compartment. There are sensitive documents related to an ongoing investigation. Nothing classified, but materials that could be problematic if they're mishandled or go missing.
Brooks's expression darkened. "Marcus, I need you to request immediate federal preservation of that SUV right now." If Hollis has been covering up thefts and evidence tampering, he might Her phone rang, cutting off the sentence.
She glanced at the caller ID and frowned. Special Agent Brooks, she answered. Marcus watched her face change as she listened.
Her professional composure cracked slightly, revealing genuine concern underneath. When? she asked.
How many times? A long pause. I see.
Thank you for the notification. She hung up and looked directly at Marcus. "That was the impound lot supervisor," she said quietly.
"Your SUV has been accessed twice since it was towed yesterday. Both times by officers from Hollis's department." The room fell silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
"They're already inside it." The municipal impound facility sat behind a chain-link fence topped with razor wire, its floodlights casting harsh shadows across rows of damaged vehicles. Marcus stepped out of Brooks's sedan and surveyed the concrete fortress where his SUV had been held for nearly 24 hours.
"There," Brooks pointed toward the back corner of the lot, bay 7. Marcus could see his black SUV even from the entrance. It looked wrong somehow, like a familiar room with the furniture moved.