On the top shelf, where Derek usually kept our tax binders, sat a heavy black document case made of reinforced ballistic nylon with aluminum trim.

Two three-digit brass dials held the case shut, both turned to zero, their metal faces polished clean.

A white adhesive label was taped across the handle, marked in Derek’s handwriting with three words: Legal and Custody.

I reached out and touched the cold metal latch, testing the lock with my thumb, but the brass teeth held.

Marcus stepped closer, the tip of his silver pen resting on the top line of his open notebook.

“Captain, do you have the key to this case?”