When the clip ended, Radford returned the phone.
“Thank you,” he said. “Please preserve the whole file. We’ll need a copy through the proper process.”
Candace scoffed. “A camera doesn’t record tone.”
“It records words and sounds,” Radford replied. “And your own livestream recorded your statements afterward.”
Casey produced his notebook. He had time-stamped the earlier dispatch record, the case inspection, and Burnham’s statement ordering the pavilion cleared. He showed Radford the screenshot of the chief’s department directory photograph and admitted that he had not pushed the verification as hard as he should have.
“You will tell me that in your formal statement,” Radford said. “Don’t improve the story. Don’t make yourself look better. Just tell me what happened.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bethany stood a short distance away with Rowan. She was both the affected party and the department’s chief. Her presence gave everyone an obvious reason to worry that a decision might be made to please her. She recognized the problem before anyone named it.
“Lieutenant,” she said, “I am a complainant and a witness here. You will handle the investigation without my direction on charging decisions. Preserve everything. Ask for outside review if appropriate.”
“Understood, Chief.”
Candace seized on the word. “You see? She’s using the badge to win a picnic. Exactly what I warned the council about.”
Bethany looked at the woman who had spent hours making the wedding impossible.
“I sat on a bench in my wedding dress rather than use it,” she said. “You still called me the help. There was no badge for you to misunderstand.”
Candace opened her mouth, then closed it. The cameras were still running. This time she had no better story to tell.
Chapter 26: The Foundation’s Checkbook
Candace had one argument left, and it was the one that had worked most reliably for years.
“Perhaps you should all remember,” she said, raising her voice so the people near the pavilion could hear, “that the Police Foundation bought two of this town’s patrol cars. We pay for the canine program. We helped pay for the radios on your belts. Without our support, your budget would look very different.”
The silence that followed was not respect. It was the shared discomfort of people hearing a donation described as a debt to be collected.
Radford stood with his hands at his sides. “I’m aware of the Foundation’s contributions.”
“Then you understand what happens Monday. One phone call and those contributions stop. The next cars won’t be purchased. The equipment grants will disappear. That’s going to be a difficult conversation for a chief two weeks into the job.”
Bethany listened without moving. She had read the Foundation’s documents during her first week. She knew the municipal ownership records, the grant conditions, and the board membership. The cars belonged to the town. The Foundation could decide not to raise future money, but it did not possess a private police force merely because it had bought equipment.
“Those cars are owned by Harrow Lake,” she said. “They were donated. The titles are in the town’s name.”
“Then we won’t buy the next ones.”
“That is your board’s decision to make,” Bethany replied. “Not a reason to overlook a false emergency report.”
Candace’s face flushed. “I am the board.”
“The board has nine directors. Your vote is one.”
Lorna looked down at her phone. The Foundation’s group chat was exploding. A director had shared a link to the livestream. Another wanted to know why the chairwoman had threatened to cut off public safety funding during a police investigation. A third asked for an emergency meeting.
“Candace,” Lorna said softly, “the directors are watching.”
“They’ll see what I tell them to see.”
“They saw what you showed them.”
