4. The Prosecutor's Amnesia

Anya Krieger's office occupied the southeast corner of the Vestonian Department of Justice building, a Brutalist concrete tower that had been constructed in the 1960s and never renovated. The walls were thick, the windows narrow, the corridors designed to intimidate rather than welcome. She had worked here for sixteen years, rising from junior prosecutor to the head of the Special Investigations Division, and in all that time she had never once felt comfortable within its walls.

The morning after Elena Vance's death, Anya arrived at her office before dawn. The transfer order for Detective Dreyer's investigation had been drafted, signed, and dispatched. Commissioner Varik had confirmed Dreyer's suspension. The case files would arrive at her division by noon, at which point she would assign them to a junior prosecutor who understood the importance of discretion.

It was, she told herself, standard procedure. The investigation of Elena Vance's death would proceed, but it would proceed under controlled conditions, with appropriate oversight, free from the grandstanding and leaks that inevitably accompanied high-profile homicide investigations in the Ardent District police department.

She did not let herself think about the alternative explanation for her actions. She had learned, over sixteen years, to compartmentalize. It was the only way to survive in a system that required constant compromise between justice and power.

Her secretary, a gaunt man named Toomas who had been with the department longer than she had, appeared in her doorway at precisely seven o'clock. He was holding a slim folder bound with a red classified-stamp seal.

"Prosecutor Krieger," he said, his voice carrying the practiced neutrality of someone who had learned to ask no questions. "This arrived by courier at five this morning. It's addressed to you personally."

Anya took the folder. It was unmarked except for the seal, which bore the insignia of the Special Oversight Court. She broke the seal and opened it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, a printout of an email exchange. The date stamp was February 11, 2022—six days before Jaan Rebane's death. The sender was a StreamVault email address she recognized. The recipient was her own DOJ address.

The email read: "Re: Rebane referral. Confirming that the attached evidence has been reviewed per our discussion. Recommend declination. Please advise if further materials required."

The reply, from her own address, was a single sentence: "Received. The matter will be handled internally. No further action required at this time."

Anya stared at the printout. She did not remember this email. She did not remember any discussion with StreamVault about Jaan Rebane. In her memory, the Rebane case had never crossed her desk. She had been vaguely aware of his death, a skiing accident in the Salken Mountains, but she had never been involved in any investigation or referral.

And yet the email was there, printed on official DOJ letterhead, the metadata confirming the originating IP addresses on both ends. Someone had sent it. Someone had replied to it. And she could not remember either event.

She closed the folder and set it on her desk, her hands perfectly steady. Sixteen years of compartmentalization had taught her that panic was a luxury she could not afford. Whatever this email represented, it had been sent to her for a reason, and the reason was almost certainly connected to Elena Vance's death.

She needed to understand why someone wanted her to see it, and what they expected her to do with it.

At eight o'clock, she called her deputy, a young prosecutor named Rasmus Kull who had been with the division for three years and had not yet learned to hide his ambition. She tasked him with retrieving the original Rebane case file from the department archives.

"The file has been sealed," Rasmus reported thirty minutes later, his face flushed with confusion. "Under national security protocols. The sealing order was signed by your office."

"By me personally?"

"By your authorization code. The digital seal bears your signature key."

Anya absorbed this information without visible reaction. She thanked Rasmus and dismissed him, then sat alone in her office, staring at the concrete wall opposite her desk.

She did not remember sealing the Rebane file. She did not remember the email exchange with StreamVault. She did not remember anything about Jaan Rebane's death, except the newspaper obituary that had noted his contributions to StreamVault's platform architecture and the tragic accident that had cut his life short at thirty-four.

Two possibilities presented themselves. The first was that someone had forged her authorization codes and signature keys, which would require access to DOJ systems that only a handful of people possessed. The second was that she had done these things and then forgotten them, which raised questions about her own mind that she was not prepared to answer.

She chose to focus on the first possibility. It was safer.

At nine o'clock, she received a call from Viktor Hald's office, or rather, from the StreamVault security division. The voice on the line was female, crisp, professional.

"Prosecutor Krieger, this is Aldis Kask, VP of Legal Compliance at StreamVault. I'm calling regarding the Vance investigation. There have been some developments I think you should be aware of."

"I'm listening."

"Last night, Viktor Hald accessed the restricted data archive without authorization. He downloaded sensitive company materials and then disappeared. His phone is offline. His vehicle is still in the parking garage. Security footage shows him leaving the building around two a.m. with an unidentified woman who was not a StreamVault employee."

"Have you reported this to the police?"

"We're reporting it to you. Viktor Hald was in possession of classified commercial data protected under the Digital Commerce Act. We believe he may attempt to transfer this data to journalists or foreign entities. We're requesting that your office issue an immediate warrant for his detention on national security grounds."

Anya leaned back in her chair. The request was audacious, but not surprising. StreamVault was trying to weaponize the legal system against its own chief compliance officer, using the same national security protocols that had been used to bury the Rebane investigation.

"I'll need more information," she said. "What exactly did Hald access? Why did he access it? Who was the woman he left with?"

"We believe the woman was Lydia Cross, the journalist who has been reporting on StreamVault for the past year. As for what Hald accessed, we're still assessing the scope of the breach."

"And Elena Vance's death? How does this connect?"

A pause. "We don't know yet. But Hald's behavior since the death has been erratic. He met with Detective Dreyer earlier today and may have provided him with confidential information. We're concerned he may be attempting to obstruct the investigation."

Anya considered her options. StreamVault was lying, or at least omitting critical information. But denying their request outright would raise questions she was not prepared to answer. She needed time to understand what was happening before she committed to any course of action.

"I'll take the request under advisement," she said. "In the meantime, if Hald contacts you or appears at any StreamVault facility, notify us immediately."

She ended the call and sat in silence, the folder with the email printout still open on her desk. Somewhere in the city, Viktor Hald was either fleeing from a crime or running toward the truth. Detective Dreyer was suspended but still investigating. Lydia Cross was pursuing a story that could bring down the country's largest tech company. And someone had sent her proof that she had been involved in a cover-up she could not remember.

The walls of her office seemed closer than they had an hour ago.

At eleven o'clock, she left the DOJ building and walked six blocks to a coffee shop she had not visited in two years. It was in the basement of a residential building, accessible only through an alley entrance, frequented by people who valued privacy over espresso quality. She ordered black tea and sat at a corner table, waiting.

The woman who arrived ten minutes later was in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun and glasses that magnified her eyes slightly. She wore a grey cardigan over a simple blouse, the uniform of a mid-level bureaucrat who had stopped caring about appearances years ago.

"Anya," the woman said, sliding into the opposite chair. "It's been a long time."

"Elga. Thank you for meeting me."

Elga Mardis had been the department's records archivist for twenty-three years. She knew more about the DOJ's filing systems than any living person, and she had survived six administrations by making herself indispensable. She and Anya had worked together in the early years, when Anya was still a junior prosecutor idealistic enough to believe that justice could be achieved through proper documentation.

"I need to know who accessed the Rebane case file," Anya said. "The original file, before it was sealed. Who requested it, who reviewed it, who ordered the sealing."

Elga studied her for a moment. "That file is under national security classification. Even looking at the access logs requires special clearance."

"I know. That's why I'm asking you informally."

"Informally." Elga's expression did not change. "Anya, I've seen the transfer orders that went out this morning. I know your office is taking over the Vance investigation. I also know that Detective Dreyer was suspended for refusing to cooperate with the transfer. If you're asking me to look at classified records related to a case that you're currently controlling, you're asking me to risk my position."

"I'm asking you to help me understand something that doesn't make sense. Something that may indicate that the department's systems have been compromised."

Elga was silent for a long moment. Then she reached into her bag and withdrew a tablet. "I looked at the logs before I came here. I had a feeling you might ask."

Anya felt a chill pass through her. "What did you find?"

"The access logs for the Rebane file are incomplete. The original request was submitted in January 2022 by the Cybercrime Task Force. The file was reviewed by three people: the task force director, a forensic analyst, and a prosecutor in the Special Investigations Division. The prosecutor's name was Anya Krieger."

The room seemed to tilt slightly. Anya gripped the edge of the table. "That's not possible. I have no memory of reviewing any Rebane file."

"The access log records your authorization code, your digital signature, and a timestamp. January 14, 2022, 9:47 p.m. You accessed the file from a terminal inside the DOJ building. The session lasted forty-two minutes."

"And then what happened?"

"Three weeks later, the file was sealed. The sealing order was submitted by the Cybercrime Task Force director, but the authorization for the seal came from your office. Specifically, from your deputy at the time, a prosecutor named Henning Voigt."

Henning Voigt. The name triggered something in Anya's memory, a faint echo she could not quite place. Voigt had worked in her division for two years before transferring to the Prosecutor General's office. He had been competent, unremarkable, one of the dozens of prosecutors who passed through the department without leaving any lasting impression.

Except that he had sealed the Rebane file. And according to the printout in her office, someone had discussed the Rebane referral with StreamVault using her email account. And now Voigt was in the Prosecutor General's office, which was the office that had ordered the transfer of the Vance investigation.

"Where is Henning Voigt now?" Anya asked.

"That's the strange thing. He transferred out of the Prosecutor General's office six months ago. His current posting is classified." Elga hesitated. "Anya, there's something else. When I looked at the access logs, I found that someone else had queried them earlier this morning. Someone from outside the department. The query came from an IP address registered to the Ardent District police department."

"Dreyer."

"Or someone working with him. The query was timestamped at three a.m., approximately one hour after Dreyer's suspension was issued."

Anya absorbed this. Dreyer was still investigating. Despite the suspension, despite the transfer order, despite every obstacle the system had placed in his path, he was still following the trail. And the trail was leading him toward the same place it was leading her: a sealed file, a dead engineer, and a chain of decisions that someone had gone to great lengths to bury.

"Thank you, Elga. I owe you."

"You owe me nothing. But I'm going to give you some advice, and I hope you'll hear it." Elga leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Someone in the department has been manipulating the access logs. The system records show transactions that don't match the backup logs. The discrepancies are small, but they're there. Whoever sealed the Rebane file didn't just classify it. They altered the record of who had seen it and when."

"Can you prove that?"

"Not yet. But I'm not the only one who's noticed. There are others in the department who are concerned about the way certain cases have been handled. We've been documenting the anomalies for months, waiting for a pattern to emerge."

"What pattern?"

Elga withdrew a folded paper from her bag and pushed it across the table. "Cases involving StreamVault. Civil referrals, criminal complaints, regulatory actions. Every time a file crosses a certain threshold—when it gets close to exposing something about StreamVault's internal operations—it gets sealed, or transferred, or declined on procedural grounds. The pattern is consistent. And the authorizations always trace back to the same small group of people."

Anya unfolded the paper. It was a list of names and case numbers, arranged in chronological order. The list was long, covering nearly five years. And at the bottom, appearing in more than half the entries, was a name she recognized.

Henning Voigt.

"Voigt has been the gatekeeper," Elga said. "Every StreamVault case that reached the department passed through his desk at some point. He was the one who declined the criminal referral for the Doe plaintiffs. He was the one who sealed the Rebane file. And he was the one who recommended the Vance investigation be transferred to a federal task force."

"On whose authority?"

"That's the question, isn't it? He's not senior enough to make those decisions unilaterally. Someone above him was giving the orders. And the only person above him in the chain of command is the Prosecutor General."

Anya folded the paper and slipped it into her pocket. The implications were vast and terrifying. If the Prosecutor General's office had been systematically protecting StreamVault for years, then the corruption reached the highest levels of Vestonian government. And if someone in that office had decided that Elena Vance needed to die, then no investigation within the existing system would ever uncover the truth.

"I need to find Dreyer," Anya said.

"That's not a good idea. You're supposed to be taking over his case. Meeting with him would look like collusion."

"Someone sent me proof of my own involvement in this case, proof I don't remember creating. Either I'm losing my mind, or someone is manipulating the department's digital records to make me look complicit. Either way, Dreyer is the only person who might be able to find the truth."

Elga was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded slowly. "There's a forensic data analyst who used to work with the department. A woman named Roosi Mägi. If Dreyer is still investigating, he'll probably have contacted her. She's the only person in Vestonia who can recover data that's been digitally tampered with."

Anya had heard the name. Roosi Mägi had left the department under a cloud of controversy five years ago, after being accused of accessing classified files without authorization. The charges had been dropped, but her career in law enforcement had been effectively ended.

"If Dreyer is working with Mägi, he's probably not operating out of the police department. He'll have gone somewhere off the grid." Anya stood up. "Do you know where Mägi works?"

"She operates out of a workshop in the Librarian's Quarter. An old print shop on Inkstone Street. If she's helping Dreyer, that's where you'll find them."

Anya thanked Elga again and left the coffee shop, stepping into the grey morning light. The rain had stopped, but the clouds remained low, pressing down on the city like a lid. She walked toward the Librarian's Quarter, her mind turning over the fragments of information she had gathered.

The email exchange she could not remember. The file access she could not recall. The deputy who had sealed evidence and then transferred to the Prosecutor General's office. The pattern of obstruction that traced back through years of StreamVault cases. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Elena Vance's body on the floor of a server archive, killed for reasons that were only now beginning to surface.

She reached Inkstone Street twenty minutes later. The old print shop was a narrow storefront with boarded windows and a faded sign that read "MÄGI FORENSIC SERVICES — DATA RECOVERY — NO QUESTIONS ASKED." The door was locked, but a light was visible through the crack beneath it.

Anya knocked. No response. She knocked again, harder.

The door opened a few inches, and a face peered out at her. A woman in her forties, with short-cropped hair and eyes that assessed Anya with professional suspicion.

"I'm looking for Detective Dreyer," Anya said. "I'm Prosecutor Anya Krieger. I think we may have a common problem."

The woman—Roosi Mägi, presumably—studied her for a long moment. Then she opened the door wider and gestured her inside.

The interior of the print shop was a chaos of computer equipment. Server racks lined the walls, their indicator lights blinking in patterns that Anya could not interpret. Monitors displayed streams of data, fragmented files, decryption progress bars. And at the center of the chaos, seated at a workbench covered in disassembled hard drives, was Marcus Dreyer.

He looked up when she entered. His expression was tired, wary, but not surprised.

"Prosecutor Krieger," he said. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

"You were expecting me?"

"I was expecting someone from your office. The fact that it's you rather than a team of investigators suggests you're not here on official business."

"I'm not." Anya walked to the workbench and looked down at the array of equipment. "What are you working on?"

Dreyer held up a small black flash drive. "This belonged to Elena Vance. She gave it to a journalist named Lydia Cross the night before she died. It supposedly contains evidence from StreamVault's restricted archive, but when we opened it, all we found were vacation photographs."

"And now?"

"Roosi has been working on it for the past six hours. The vacation photographs are a cover. The flash drive contains a hidden partition, encrypted with a military-grade algorithm. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure no one would find it unless they knew exactly what to look for."

Anya pulled up a stool and sat down. "What's on the hidden partition?"

Roosi answered without looking up from her screen. "Files. Thousands of them. Moderation logs, internal emails, financial records. But that's not the important part. The important part is a directory labeled 'VOIGT_REFERRALS.'"

Anya felt the floor shift beneath her for the second time that day. "Henning Voigt."

"Yes. The directory contains copies of every StreamVault-related case file that passed through Voigt's desk in the past five years. Including the original criminal referral for the Doe plaintiffs. Including the Rebane investigation file. And including a series of encrypted messages between Voigt and an individual at StreamVault identified only as 'AK.'"

"Aldis Kask," Dreyer said quietly. "Viktor Hald's second-in-command. The woman who handled StreamVault's legal strategy for the entire Doe litigation."

Anya looked from Dreyer to Roosi, the pieces falling into place with terrible clarity. Aldis Kask had been feeding information to Henning Voigt. Voigt had been burying cases and sealing evidence at Kask's direction. And somewhere along the way, Jaan Rebane had been murdered to prevent him from exposing the arrangement, and Elena Vance had been killed because she was about to uncover it.

"There's something else," Roosi said. "The encrypted messages include a reference to a meeting that took place on the night Elena Vance died. The message says: 'The lawyer is getting too close. She accessed the Guilt Archive and found Rebane's video file. She's planning to file an emergency motion tomorrow morning. If she does, everything falls apart. Handle it before sunrise.'"

"Who sent that message?" Anya asked.

"The message was sent from Aldis Kask's account to an encrypted address. The reply was a single word: 'Done.'" Roosi turned to face them, her expression grim. "The reply came from an IP address registered to the Department of Justice. The Special Investigations Division. Your division, Prosecutor Krieger."

Anya stared at the screen, her own department's complicity laid bare in front of her. Someone in her office had ordered Elena Vance's death. Someone she worked with every day, someone she trusted, someone who had used the department's resources to coordinate a murder.

"The mole," Dreyer said. "Lydia told me that Elena suspected someone inside her own organization was leaking information to StreamVault. But that doesn't explain how someone in your office could have sent that message."

"Maybe Elena was wrong about the mole's location," Anya said slowly. "Maybe the leak wasn't in her organization. Maybe it was in mine."

The room fell silent. Roosi's computers hummed and blinked, decrypting layer after layer of hidden data. Outside, the city went about its business, unaware that the foundations of its justice system were cracking open.

"Who else in your division had access to the Vance investigation?" Dreyer asked.

"Three people. My deputy, Rasmus Kull. My secretary, Toomas. And one other person who left the division six months ago but still has access to certain systems." Anya's voice was barely a whisper. "Henning Voigt."

"So Voigt is still connected to your office."

"He's in the Prosecutor General's office now, but his old authorization codes were never properly deactivated. It's an administrative oversight that happens more often than anyone likes to admit." Anya stood up abruptly. "I need to find Voigt. Before he realizes we're onto him."

"There's a problem," Roosi said. "The decryption isn't complete. The hidden partition contains more than just messages and files. There's a second layer of encryption, protecting something that Elena Vance flagged as critical. She labeled it 'INSURANCE.'"

"Can you crack it?"

"Given enough time, probably. But whoever set up this encryption knew what they were doing. It's going to take hours, maybe days."

Anya looked at Dreyer. "We don't have days. If Aldis Kask killed Elena Vance, and Voigt helped cover it up, they're both going to be tying up loose ends. Viktor Hald is already missing. Lydia Cross is probably in danger. And you and I are both targets now."

Dreyer stood up and reached for his coat. "Then we'd better move fast. Where would Voigt go if he knew we were coming?"

Anya thought for a moment. "There's a safe house the department maintains for witness protection cases. It's off the books, not listed in any official directory. I know the location because I authorized its funding three years ago."

"Then that's where we're going."

They moved toward the door, leaving Roosi at her workstation, the decryption algorithms churning through layers of secret data. As Anya stepped outside into the grey afternoon, she felt something she had not felt in years: the cold clarity of purpose, the knowledge that the work she was doing actually mattered.

But beneath that clarity was another feeling, darker and more troubling. The email she could not remember. The file access she could not recall. The possibility, however remote, that she was not the investigator in this story, but the accomplice, and that her own mind had erased the evidence.

She followed Dreyer down Inkstone Street, and the clouds above Vestonia began to release the first drops of a new storm.