A muscle in his jaw ticks.Frustration.It’s written all over his face. “Paul Jameson’s plane went down in a tragic accident.We took over the investigation from the National Park Service and worked closely with both the National Transportation Safety Board and the FAA. There were no signs of foul play or tampering with his plane. The guy missed something, and his lack of attention to detail is what killed him. Nothing else.”
Beside me, Beckett stiffens. “That man you speak so candidly about? He was my husband.” She takes a step closer, her own anger surging. “And he didnotmake a mistake. You all did.”
Captain Seymore’s face reddens. “Excuse me, miss, but?—”
“No.” I set my phone down on his desk with the photo of the trees I took only a few hours ago.
“What am I looking at?” Seymore slips his glasses onto his face and leans down. “Broken trees?”
“That’s the crash site for Paul Jameson’s plane,” I say, keeping my voice as calm as possible. “If you notice the trees, I think you’ll find them bent at a very peculiar angle.” Leaning forward, I swipe to the next photograph, which is a picture I took of the image in the original case file. “And this is the image filed with the case when it was deemed an accident as he was coming into Seattle. The angles in that photograph are wrong.”
Seymore studies the image, then shoves my phone back to me. “Just what are you suggesting, Detective?”
“That, at the very least, someone made a mistake on the report.” Though we both know that’s not possible. Not of this magnitude. Anyone there would have seen the trees and corrected the error before it ever got filed.
“And at the worst?”
“You have someone here who wanted to cover it up. Make it look like Paul was flying into Seattle versus heading home. I would like to talk to the officers who were assigned this case. Oliver Wilson and Bradley Caraway. Do they still work here?”
Seymore eyes me, his own anger simmering. “Detective Wilson died in a car accident a few months after that case wasclosed, and Detective Caraway drowned in a boating accident two months later. It was a tragic time for this office, and I will ask that you don’t throw around baseless accusations and taint the names of two good men.”
The warning is there, but all I can see is another red flag.
Officers die in the line of duty, but both partners taken out in separate ‘accidents’ within a year?
No. It doesn’t add up.
“And you mean to tell me you have no suspicions at all?” I gesture toward my phone. “I literally handed you proof that something is off.”
“You handed me a photograph that could have been from anywhere. Not to mention the fact that it very well could have been flipped, distorting the angle. Whether by you or by the original photographer. Accidents do happen.”
“A mirrored image? That’s your big explanation?” I snap.
Seymore’s face reddens even further, and he stands, planting both palms on the desk. “Did you just walk into my office and accuse me of having dirty cops?”
“You can’t tell me this doesn’t stink.” I cross my arms.
Seymore straightens and shakes his head angrily. “Then tell me, Detective Sampson, what was their motive? What could the officers who worked this case have to gain by covering up the death of a non-essential private pilot? If that is what you are accusing them of.”
“Non-essential?” Beckett growls. “Non-essential?” She charges forward, and I grip her arm to pull her back. Assaulting a police captain would have her in a cell before I could intervene. And, if my gut is right and someone here is dirty, she won’t last long enough for me to get her out.
Seymore pinches the bridge of his nose. “I only meant that he has no ties to this precinct.”
“Choose your words more carefully next time, Captain,” Beckett warns. “Or do you always talk to the family members of victims with such callous disregard?”
“When they storm in here, accusing my officers of being dirty with no proof?—”
“This is proof,” I say, pointing back to my phone. “The fact that the records are wrong is proof that something is going on.”
“You have no motive.”
“Does that mean it doesn’t warrant looking into it? If that were the case, no murder would ever get solved. You investigate; that’s where you find motive.”
“They’re dead, Detective,” Seymore growls. “And I won’t go tarnishing their good names on the assumption of a widow and a cop who clearly overestimates his value. Now. I will ask you this one time. Get out of my office before I have you both arrested for harassment.”
I want to yell.
To hit something.
