One call and they'll be here. Isaiah stared at the burned building for a long moment. I thought running would protect them. But that's what the people who did this want, isn't it? For all of us to run, to hide, to stay quiet.
It's your choice, Price said. But remember, you're not just a victim in this story. You're a witness. And witnesses don't run from the truth. They stand in it.
Isaiah took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. The morning sun caught his face, highlighting a determination that had been buried but never truly lost. "Make the call," he said. Maya's office felt cramped with four people squeezed around her desk, but no one complained. The morning light streamed through dusty blinds as they listened to the retired clerk, Sarah Martinez, explain in a trembling voice.
I kept copies, she said, placing a thick manila envelope on the desk. Not the originals. Those disappeared years ago. But I had this feeling. She wrung her hands, glancing at Isaiah, who sat quietly in the corner.
After what they did to Mr. Boon, I just couldn't couldn't let it all vanish. Maya carefully opened the envelope, spreading out yellowed papers and old computer printouts. Her eyes widened as she scanned the documents. These are system logs from the building department's database.
Isaiah leaned forward slightly, his weathered face tightening. The inspection reports. More than that, Maya said, organizing papers into neat piles. These logs show exactly when files were accessed, modified, and deleted. Look at these timestamps.
Judge Price adjusted his glasses, examining the printouts. Three days after the Riverside fire, multiple entries were altered. I was just a clerk back then, Sarah said, her voice steadying as she spoke. I noticed the changes because I had processed Mr. Boon's original reports when I mentioned it to my supervisor.
She swallowed hard. He told me to forget about it if I wanted to keep my job. Maya pulled out her laptop, typing rapidly. These modification dates match perfectly with the timeline Isaiah gave us. And look, she pointed to a series of user IDs.
These administrative access codes, they trace back to terminals in the mayor's office, not the building department. Isaiah stood slowly, moving closer to the desk. His hands trembled slightly as he touched one of the papers. All these years, I thought everything was gone. They were thorough, Sarah admitted, but they didn't know about the backup server logs.
Those were automatically archived offsite every night. By the time they realized, it was too late to erase them without leaving even more evidence. Judge Price studied another document intently. These access logs show Lieutenant Sloan's credentials being used to pull security footage from last week. The same pattern of covering tracks.