Chapter 2 - What Was Under the Grass
The first thing my lieutenant did was order me away from the box.
“Conflict.”
Lieutenant Sarah Kim did not raise her voice.
She did not need to.
“Marcus, your father’s name is on it.”
“I understand.”
“Then you do not touch.”
I stepped back.
That hurt more than expected.
For eight years, Titan and I had entered rooms nobody else wanted to enter.
Now evidence connected to my own father sat six feet away, and I was legally no different from any curious bystander.
Internal Affairs was notified.
So was the department’s evidence integrity unit.
Titan and I were officially removed from the scene.
Then came the second problem.
Phones.
Half the park had recorded Titan pinning Ava.
Most videos ended before the ground collapsed.
Within forty minutes, one clip was already online.
POLICE DOG ATTACKS LITTLE GIRL AT SEATTLE PARK.
The video showed Ava screaming.
Titan above her.
Me shouting commands he appeared to ignore.
It did not show the collapsing hatch.
By the time I reached my patrol SUV, my phone had thirty-seven notifications.
Lieutenant Kim looked at the screen.
“Turn it off.”
“My family will see this.”
“Then call your family, then turn it off.”
I called my mother.
Margaret Reed answered on the third ring.
“Marcus?”
“Mom, I’m okay.”
She inhaled sharply.
“So Titan didn’t bite her?”
“No.”
“How did you—”
“News.”
Of course.
“Mom, there’s something else.”
I looked toward the evidence tent investigators were erecting over the hole.
“We found an old police evidence box.”
Silence.
“Under the park.”
Still silence.
“Case number 19-44721.”
My mother stopped breathing.
I knew immediately.
“You know that number.”
“Marcus…”
“Mom.”
“I can’t do this over the phone.”
“Do what?”
“Come home.”
That answer frightened me more than the case number.
Before I could push, Lieutenant Kim approached.
“We need Titan.”
“For what?”
“Behavioral hold.”
My stomach dropped.
“He saved that girl.”
“He disobeyed commands and physically restrained a child.”
“Because the ground was collapsing.”
“I know what I saw.”
“So?”
“Policy requires review after any physical contact with civilian.”
“What happens?”
“Veterinary evaluation.”
“Training review.”
“Temporary removal from patrol.”
I stared at Titan.
He sat beside the SUV, perfectly calm.
“You’re suspending him.”
“Administrative hold.”
“Sarah.”
“I’m protecting him too.”
She was right.
I hated it.
Titan was transported to the department kennel with a trainer I trusted.
Before the door closed, he looked at me.
No anxiety.
No guilt.
Just expectation.
He thought this was another assignment.
I pressed my hand against the kennel gate.
“Good boy.”
Then he was gone.
Ava and her mother were transported to the hospital for examination.
No serious injuries.
I learned her mother’s name from the incident report.
Julia Monroe.
At 6:40 P.M., Julia called the precinct.
She asked for me.
“I want this recorded,” she said when I answered.
“What?”
“Titan did not attack my daughter.”
I sat straighter.
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.”
“I saw the ground collapse.”
“I felt it move when I reached Ava.”
“That dog knew something before we did.”
Her voice shook.
“If your department tries to punish him because people filmed thirty seconds instead of sixty, tell them I will testify.”
For the first time that afternoon, I smiled.
“Thank you.”
Then Ava’s voice appeared faintly in background.
“Can I talk?”
Julia hesitated.
Then handed phone over.
“Officer?”
“Hi, Ava.”
“Is Titan in trouble?”
I swallowed.
“He’s being checked.”
“Because he sat on me?”
Despite everything, I nearly laughed.
“Sort of.”
“He was heavy.”
“I know.”
“But he didn’t bite.”
“I know.”
“Tell them.”
“I will.”
Then she asked:
“Can I see him again?”
“Maybe after review.”
“Okay.”
A pause.
“Tell him I’m not mad.”
My throat tightened.
“I’ll tell him.”
After call, I sat alone at desk.
My father’s face stared at me from memory.
Captain Samuel Reed.
Thirty-one years in law enforcement.
Decorated.
Strict.
The reason I joined.
Two years earlier, cancer had taken him after only six months.
At his funeral, Deputy Chief Evan Reed—my older brother—stood beside me and said:
“Dad left us a clean name. Don’t waste it.”
Evan.
My brother.
Another person attached to Operation Northstar.
He had been a narcotics sergeant in 2019.
I opened archived public case summary.
Case 19-44721.
Multi-agency narcotics seizure.
Three arrests.
Cash seized: $2.86 million.
Final evidence intake: $2.12 million.
Difference: $740,000.
The department’s investigation concluded evidence officer Luis Ortega had falsified transfer records.
Ortega resigned.
No criminal charges filed because missing money was never recovered and chain of custody was compromised.
My father supervised the internal review.
Evan testified.
I remembered family dinner when I asked what happened.
Dad slammed his fork down.
“Luis made mistakes.”
Evan said:
“Drop it.”
I did.
Six years later, Titan uncovered a box under a public park.
My phone rang.
Evan.
I answered.
His voice was controlled.
“I heard.”
“About Titan?”
“About the box.”
Of course.
“How?”
“I’m deputy chief, Marcus.”
Then:
“Stay out of it.”
I stared at the wall.
“Why?”
“Because Dad’s name is attached.”
“That’s exactly why I can’t pretend it isn’t happening.”
“You’re a witness, not investigator.”
“Did you know evidence was missing?”
Silence.
Then Evan said:
“Operation Northstar destroyed enough people.”
“Don’t let it destroy this family too.”
The line went dead.
I sat staring at my phone.
He had not answered.
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And for the first time in my life, my brother sounded less like a police commander protecting procedure—
and more like a man protecting something buried beneath the grass.
