The outcome would depend on his actions.
The meeting began with a presentation from the new civilian oversight director, Dr. Helen Brooks.
She was a former public-administration professor with experience evaluating municipal accountability systems.
She had no connection to my family despite sharing my mother's maiden name.
Helen was practical, direct, and unimpressed by ceremonial promises.
She opened her presentation with a simple statement.
“Public trust cannot be measured by the number of complaints a department avoids receiving.”
I looked up.
She continued.
“A complaint system is functioning when people can report concerns without fear, when those concerns are investigated fairly, and when findings are supported by evidence.”
Several council members shifted in their seats.
Helen displayed the city's historical complaint data.
The numbers showed a sharp decline during Thornton's tenure.
Then she displayed a second chart.
It showed the number of complaints submitted during the first two months after the independent reporting system opened.
The number had increased.
A council member raised his hand.
“Doesn't that suggest relations are getting worse?”
Helen shook her head.
“Not necessarily.”
She explained that an increase in complaints could reflect greater willingness to report concerns.
It could also reflect an increase in actual incidents.
The numbers alone couldn't establish which explanation was correct.
The city needed to examine the substance of complaints, the quality of investigations, and broader measures of community confidence.
I watched the council member consider her answer.
It was a difficult lesson for officials accustomed to treating lower numbers as automatic proof of success.
Helen continued.
“Success will not mean eliminating complaints. It will mean creating a process that people believe is worth using.”
I wrote the sentence in my notebook.
After the meeting, Director Vance asked me to join him for lunch.
We walked to a small restaurant near the courthouse.
He ordered soup.
I ordered a sandwich.
For a while, we discussed staffing, budgets, and the difficulty of recruiting experienced investigators.
Then Vance set down his spoon.
“Aaron, I've been thinking about your assignment.”
I looked at him.
“What about it?”
“You spent months in Ridgemont. You became part of the community. Then your arrest turned the investigation into a national story.”
I nodded.
“That wasn't the plan.”
“I know.”
He studied me.
“Do you regret the undercover work?”
“No.”
“Would you do it again?”
I considered the question.
“Not automatically.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Explain.”
“The assignment gave us important evidence. But it also exposed Nora, Ray, and other witnesses to risks.”
“We planned for those risks.”
“Yes. And the safeguards helped. But we should still examine whether there were less intrusive ways to obtain the same information.”
Vance nodded.
“Agreed.”
I continued.
“Undercover work can be valuable. It can also distort an investigation if we become too focused on what happens to our own people.”
He looked at me.
“Do you think that happened?”
“Not entirely. But there were moments when I worried it might.”
Vance was quiet.
Then he said, “That's why I wanted you on the assignment.”
I looked at him.
“Because I worry?”
“Because you understand that an investigation isn't a contest between powerful men.”
I smiled faintly.
“That's one way to put it.”
He leaned back.
“Thornton thought authority meant never being questioned.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
I considered the question.
“I think authority creates an obligation to answer questions.”
Vance nodded.
“Good.”
That afternoon, I stopped at Common Grounds.
Nora was behind the counter, arguing cheerfully with a supplier about the price of oat milk.
When she saw me, she held up one finger.
“Give me thirty seconds.”
I waited.
She finished the call and turned toward me.
“Aaron Cole. Back in town.”
“Just for the day.”
“Black coffee?”
“Please.”
She poured it.
Then she leaned across the counter.
“You missed the excitement.”
“What happened?”
“We hosted a poetry reading last night.”
I smiled.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Forty people. Three spilled drinks. One argument about whether song lyrics count as poetry.”
“Did you call the police?”
She laughed.
“No. I handled it myself.”
I carried my coffee to the corner table.
A few minutes later, Nora joined me.
She looked healthier than she had during the investigation.
The tension around her eyes had softened.
Business had improved.
But she was careful not to describe the publicity as a blessing.
The arrest had brought attention to Common Grounds, yet it had also made her life difficult.
She'd received angry messages.
A few customers had stopped coming.
Others had accused her of helping investigators target the police.
She had endured weeks of uncertainty.
Now the shop was settling into a new routine.
“How's Isaiah?” I asked.
“Good. He's finishing his semester.”
“Still coming here?”
“Every Thursday.”
I nodded.
Nora smiled.
“He brings friends now.”
“That sounds good.”
“It is.”
She looked toward the front window.
“His mother came in last week.”
“Patrice?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Nora was quiet.
“She thanked me for speaking up.”
I waited.
“I told her I should've done it four years ago.”