Andre had returned to his apartment by late afternoon, but the incident followed him home.
He sat at his kitchen table with an ice pack against his cheek and his damaged uniform folded inside a sealed property bag. His phone vibrated repeatedly. Some messages came from colleagues asking whether he was all right. Others contained vague warnings about staying quiet until the investigation was complete.
One message came from a number he did not recognize.
You should have left the timeline alone.
Andre read it twice.
He did not reply.
Instead, he photographed the message and forwarded it to Lieutenant Price through the department's official reporting system. He included the time it arrived and explained that he did not know who had sent it.
Then he opened his laptop and reviewed the case documents he had lawfully retained from the briefing. The report concerned a suspected distribution network operating through several small storage facilities on the edge of the city. The original arrest had been based on a search warrant, witness interviews, and evidence collected during a traffic stop.
Nothing in the available material suggested that the case depended on a single officer's memory.
That was precisely why the altered time bothered him.
The difference between 9:14 and 9:47 could affect the sequence of events. It might change whether a witness had been present, whether a search occurred before or after a legal authorization, or whether the report accurately described the suspect's movements.
Andre had no proof that Daniel had deliberately changed anything. He refused to confuse suspicion with evidence.
But the discrepancy had existed before the restroom confrontation.
He remembered reviewing the dispatch record the previous evening. The system showed that the first radio contact had occurred at 9:47 p.m. The written report listed 9:14 p.m. When Andre raised the issue, Daniel had dismissed it as a harmless entry error.
Andre had suggested checking the original timestamp rather than relying on a printed summary.
Daniel had not welcomed that suggestion.
At 6:18 p.m., Andre received a call from Lieutenant Price.
“We have your message,” Price said. “We're tracing the number through authorized channels. Don't contact anyone you think may be involved.”
“I won't.”
“There's something else. The initial review suggests the discrepancy appears in more than one document.”
Andre sat upright.
“More than one?”
“The incident report and the supplemental evidence log. We haven't determined whether the entries share the same origin.”
Andre looked at the documents on his screen.
“Was the evidence log completed by Mercer?”
“Parts of it were. Other sections were entered by a records technician.”
“Then the audit history should show who changed the entries.”
“That is what we're examining.”
Price sounded cautious, but Andre could hear the seriousness beneath his words.
“Lieutenant, I want to be clear about something. I didn't bring this up to get Mercer in trouble. If it's an innocent mistake, I want it corrected. If it's deliberate, we need to know before the case goes any further.”
“I understand.”
“I'm not asking you to take my word for anything.”
“Good,” Price replied. “Because we're not going to.”
After the call ended, Andre leaned back in his chair.
He had spent much of his career believing that accurate paperwork was the quiet foundation of fair policing. The public rarely saw the hours officers spent checking timestamps, documenting property, confirming identities, and recording the reasons for decisions. Yet those details could determine whether evidence was reliable and whether a person's rights had been respected.
A small alteration could create a large injustice.
His phone vibrated again.
This time, the message contained no words, only a photograph of the precinct's rear parking area. A dark sedan stood beside the building. The image appeared to have been taken from a distance.
Andre felt his stomach tighten.
He did not recognize the vehicle.
He immediately saved the photograph and reported it. Then he checked the locks on his apartment door, not because he intended to panic, but because the message had transformed a professional disagreement into something more threatening.
Across the city, Daniel Mercer was sitting in his own living room, speaking with a man named Victor Sloane.
Sloane was not a police officer. He was a private security consultant who had previously assisted the department with technical reviews. He knew several officers, understood internal reporting procedures, and had a reputation for solving problems discreetly.
“You told me the discrepancy was contained,” Sloane said.
“It was.”
“Then why is Mitchell asking questions?”
Daniel rubbed his forehead.
“He noticed the time.”
“People notice things. The problem is whether they can prove anything.”
Daniel stared at the floor.
“The fight wasn't supposed to happen.”
“No,” Sloane replied. “But now we have a separate problem.”
Daniel looked up.
“What do you suggest?”
Sloane's expression remained unreadable.
“Stop talking about the case. Stop contacting anyone from the precinct. And don't make another mistake trying to fix the first one.”
Daniel nodded, though he looked unconvinced.
After Sloane left, Daniel stood alone beside the window.
He had convinced himself that the altered time was insignificant. He had convinced himself that Andre was meddling in matters he did not understand. He had even convinced himself that the assault could be explained as a moment of mutual aggression.
But the investigation was expanding.
And the person Daniel feared most was not Andre Mitchell.
It was whoever had the original record.