Chapter 5 - The Web of Collusion
The Sawyer County Sheriff’s Substation smelled of stale damp coats and scorched drip coffee.
It was seven in the morning. The shift change was underway; three deputies in tan uniforms stood around the front desk, their utility belts creaking as they shifted their weight, laughing over paper cups of coffee.
When I pushed the glass door open, the laughter died.
They knew who I was. In a county of twelve thousand people, blood travels fast, but bad blood travels faster.
Behind the desk sat Deputy Thomas Vance.
He was thirty, with Jonah’s square jaw and small, recessed eyes that held the stubborn, lazy insolence of a man who had never faced a consequence he couldn't drink his way out of. His uniform shirt was tight across his gut; his brass badge was slightly crooked.
He looked up, resting his forearms on the counter, a toothpick rolling between his molars.
"Well, well," Thomas said, smirking at the two deputies beside him. "The prodigal daughter returns. Hear you had yourself a busy night, Karina. Dragging state troopers into our county, throwing your weight around St. Jude’s."
I walked directly to the counter. I didn't stop until I was eighteen inches from him.
"The incident report, Thomas," I said. "Now."
Thomas chuckled, shaking his head. "Look at you. Still playing the fed. You don't have jurisdiction here, cousin. This is a county matter. And as far as the county is concerned, the report is already submitted and approved by the shift lieutenant. Accidental slip-and-fall. No crime committed."
"Where is the physical evidence?"
"What evidence?"
"The broken crutch," I said. "The fractured tip I saw wedged beneath the kitchen cabinet. The bloody paper towels Jonah used to mop the floor before the ambulance arrived. The photographs of the impact zone on the refrigerator."
Thomas leaned forward, his smile dropping into an ugly, confident sneer. "There wasn't any evidence to collect, Karina. Because there wasn't a crime. Your sister’s a cripple. She fell. Happens twice a month. Jonah was a good Samaritan who tried to keep her from breaking her neck, and you’re turning it into a family vendetta because you hate your mother."
"Did you interview Chloe?"
"She was hysterical. Incoherent."
"Did you administer a breathalyzer to Jonah?"
"Why the hell would I do that in his own home?"
"Because he was operating as an authorized, paid Medicaid caregiver at the time of the incident," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet of the station like a razor. "Under Wisconsin Administrative Code DHS 105.17, any certified personal care provider who renders care while impaired by controlled substances or alcohol is guilty of reckless endangerment of a vulnerable adult. It's a mandatory blood draw, Thomas. You know that. It’s on the laminated card in your shirt pocket."
Thomas's face flushed a deep, dull red. His hand moved down to rest on his duty belt. "You don't come in here and lecture me on my job."
"You don't have a job," I said.
The room went completely still. The other two deputies stepped back, their hands drifting away from their coffee cups, sensing the shift in the air.
"What did you say?" Thomas hissed.
I reached into my leather portfolio and pulled out a single sheet of paper, slapping it flat against the high counter.
"This is a preservation order issued two hours ago by the Wisconsin Department of Justice," I said. "It commands the Sawyer County Sheriff’s Department to impound and preserve all body camera footage, dashcam footage, radio dispatch recordings, and original field notes relating to the 911 call from 1148 Blackwood Ridge Road."
Thomas didn't look at the paper. "You can't serve me."
"I'm not serving you, Thomas," I said, pulling a second sheet from the folder and laying it down. "I'm serving this. This is an administrative subpoena for your personal cell phone records, your bank accounts at the Sawyer County Credit Union, and all communications between your private device and Jonah Vance between the hours of 10:00 PM and 4:00 AM."
Thomas’s jaw twitched. The toothpick stopped moving.
"You're out of your mind," he muttered, but his voice lacked its previous swagger. A bead of sweat had formed at his temple, sliding down toward his ear.
"You entered a trauma bay without authorization," I whispered, leaning in so close he could smell the rain on my coat. "You intimidated a victim of a Class B felony while she was awaiting maxillofacial surgery. You attempted to coerce her into recanting her statement under threat of institutionalization and homelessness. That’s Wisconsin Statute 940.44—Intimidation of a Witness. It carries ten years."
"I was checking on family!"
"Jonah isn't your family anymore, Thomas," I said. "He’s an anchor. And you’re tied to his neck. If you think Sheriff Larson is going to sacrifice his pension to protect a third-tier deputy who covers up the beating of a disabled girl, you don't know your boss as well as you think you do."
I picked up my portfolio, tucked it beneath my arm, and turned toward the door.
"Karina!" Thomas barked, his voice cracking with sudden, uncontrolled panic.
I stopped at the glass door, looking back over my shoulder.
May you like
"Tell Jonah to stay at the house," I said. "Tell him to enjoy the bourbon. Because it’s the last bottle he’s ever going to drink without a guard watching him."
***
