Chapter 12 - Exhibit C-17
The Mercer case was the kind of investigation that had been reduced over the years to a single paragraph in newspaper archives.
A state contractor had manipulated infrastructure bids, money disappeared through nonprofit organizations, and a young investigator died in a highway collision before he could testify.
The death had been ruled accidental.
My father had never agreed that every question was answered.
But disagreement was not evidence, and he had refused to turn suspicion into an allegation against people he could not prove responsible.
Exhibit C-17 was described as a portable storage device containing a contact list and transaction references.
It had been signed out for review and never returned to the archive.
Victor Sloane's signature appeared on the transfer slip because he was serving as liaison between the county and the investigative team.
“How did he get access?” I asked.
“The procedures were weaker back then,” Dad answered.
“Someone trusted him.”
“And someone was wrong.”
“Yes.”
Gabriel reminded us that a missing exhibit from decades earlier did not automatically explain the Callahans' current conduct.
That distinction irritated me until Nora supplied a piece that connected the past to the present.
She remembered Andrew once referring to a folder titled C-SEVENTEEN while discussing what he called legacy obligations.
An archived payroll system showed that money had been sent each year to the family of a deceased county accountant.
The accountant had handled payments in the original contracting scandal.
Investigators sought records and interviewed surviving witnesses.
One witness, now an elderly man in assisted living, remembered Sloane collecting a small black case from the county office on a rainy Friday.
The date matched the removal receipt.
The man had no proof of what the case contained.
His memory, combined with the contemporaneous log, gave investigators a reason to examine the chain of custody more closely.
Andrew learned about the interviews from someone connected to the county.
He drove to Eleanor's estate and accused her of lying to him for years.
“You said the old records were destroyed.”
Eleanor stared out the window.
“I said they couldn't hurt us.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No,” she replied.
“It isn't.”
In my father's living room, a different mystery finally moved within reach.
The family-court judge authorized expanded review of documents concerning the allegedly fraudulent consultancy invoices.
Among them was an insurance application listing me as the beneficiary of a policy I had never requested.
The amount was seven million dollars.
Andrew had bought it three months before pushing me down the stairs.
The policy alone did not establish what he intended.
But my blood went cold when I saw the supporting paperwork.
He had described me as suffering from a progressive neurological illness.
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The physician's signature was the same one used on the fabricated custody affidavit.
