Chapter 12 - The Signature at the Bottom
Beth wouldn't let us copy the disposal sheet in my shop.
"I need to know what happens if they accuse me of taking records," she said.
She had a point. A frightened witness with access to county files deserved independent legal advice, not enthusiastic promises from a dry cleaner and a grieving father.
I called Daniel Price and asked whether he could recommend someone who didn't represent Celia.
By the next afternoon, Beth had met with an attorney of her own. She agreed to provide the records to the county prosecutor under a written request for investigation, preserving their original metadata and explaining how she'd obtained the printouts in the ordinary course of her job.
The prosecutor, Lydia Marsh, received us in a conference room with a clock that ticked too loudly.
Marsh was in her forties and had been elected on a promise to prosecute corruption regardless of party. I had voted for her. That suddenly felt embarrassingly personal.
She listened while Elliot described the missing son, Beth described the altered inventory, and I described the coat and the form Voss had made me sign.
"There's an allegation of evidence tampering here," Marsh said when we finished. "But I need you to understand something. A damaged jacket doesn't prove a homicide, and a canceled dispatch entry can have innocent explanations."
"Then investigate those explanations," Elliot said.
Marsh didn't flinch.
"I intend to. I'm requesting assistance from the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. My office has handled cases with deputies from this department, so we'll also ask for an independent prosecutorial review of any criminal charges."
She would not promise a timeline. She would not tell us whether anyone would be arrested. For the first time, that restraint sounded like a kind of honesty.
Before leaving, Beth gave Marsh the original inventory printout and described the electronic revision. Marsh's assistant documented each item and provided a receipt.
Outside the courthouse, Elliot leaned against a railing.
"Do you think she believes us?"
"I think she heard us."
My phone buzzed with a message from the electrician. The first replacement parts were ready. He could begin work the next morning if I approved the installment plan.
I typed YES.
That night, June and I ate takeout on the folding table behind the register. She told me she'd applied for the workshop anyway, using a scholarship form rather than money she had saved.
"You should've told me," I said.
She smiled a little. "I learned that from you."
Then I saw a new email from Marsh's office.
Attached was the first page of an inventory comparison.
May you like
The jacket had been moved into the sheriff's property system on the morning after Owen disappeared.
The listed reason was one word: DECEASED.
