The 1968 Broadcast Tapes: How My Uncle Used an Underground Radio Show to Cover Up Serial Murder
👉 Previous Decision: You arrived here from Chapter 9 after choosing to break into Sallow’s office OR from Chapter 13 after analyzing the spliced voices.
The Capital Reserve Bank, gleaming with polished marble and brass, was empty save for the echoing footsteps of a night watchman. I waited in the shadows near Raymond Sallow’s office, the weight of the last few days—the betrayal, the framing, the weaponized voice of my father—a cold, hard knot in my gut. He finally emerged, locking his office door with a heavy clunk, his briefcase clutched tight.
“Mr. Sallow,” I said, stepping into his path. My voice was calm, steady, betraying none of the turmoil within.
Sallow jumped, dropping his keys with a startled clatter. His face, usually smug, paled when he recognized me. “Albright! What in God’s name—”
“I know about the $185,000,” I interrupted, cutting him off. “The Saigon payroll, laundered through Arthur’s shell accounts. The auditors. The Apex tape. I know you signed off on it all, Sallow.”
His eyes darted around, searching for an escape. His brow furrowed with a mix of fear and indignation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Those were legal transactions, approved by—”
“And I know about your *other* transactions, Sallow,” I pressed, stepping closer. “The illegal tax shell accounts. The ones you used to hide your own personal fortune from the IRS. The records Clara Finch and I pulled from Treasury aren’t just about Arthur. They’re about you too.”
Sallow froze. His mouth opened and closed uselessly. The arrogant facade crumbled, revealing the sweaty, cowardly man beneath. He remembered the specific, concrete numbers from the bank records.
“Expose Arthur,” I continued, “and your entire operation, your career, your freedom, goes down with him. You’ll be ruined. Unless…”
Sallow swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on my face. “Unless what?” he rasped.
“Unless you certify the original $185,000 bank transaction receipts,” I stated, holding out the documents Clara had provided. “Stamp them. Notarize them. Make them official proof of Arthur Albright’s guilt. Right now.”
He hesitated, his eyes wide with panic. The thought of losing his illicit empire, of facing federal charges for tax evasion, was a palpable fear on his face. He slowly reached for the papers.
“Do it,” I urged, my voice firm. “Or I walk out of here and give everything I have to the *Washington Daily*, and make sure your name is on every single headline.”
With a shaky hand, Sallow retrieved his notary stamp from his briefcase. He pressed it down onto each document with trembling force, his signature a frantic scrawl next to the official seal. The dull *thud* of the stamp was a small victory, a tangible piece of evidence against a man who thought he was untouchable.
➡️ Read CHAPTER 15 to continue the story.
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