Through the heavy wire mesh, I watched Officer Dale Miller slide behind the wheel. The suspension groaned under his bulk. He didn't touch the county radio mic clipped to his epaulet, nor did he punch my name into the mobile terminal glowing amber on the dashboard mount. Instead, he pulled an unissued black flip phone from his trousers, snapped it open with one thumb, and dialed three digits.
Under the instrument panel’s green glow, the Hamilton watch on his left wrist caught the dash light. The acrylic crystal was split clean across the numeral three, exactly where Thomas had clipped it against our father's drill press three years ago. Thomas had refused to replace the face, saying the crack proved an honest tool could take a beating and keep time. Now that scarred crystal sat against Miller's hairy wrist, the thin gold second hand sweeping in steady, silent circles.
Miller held the phone to his ear, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to pin mine. "He's in the cage," Miller said. His voice was flat, stripped of the outrage he had performed for his chest camera at the yard gate. "No, he didn't reach the bay manifests. I intercepted him along the perimeter fence."
A voice crackled through the small receiver, sharp and hurried.
"I used the packet from the shelf," Miller answered, cutting the speaker short. "Booked for distribution weight. That triggers a mandatory weekend hold. He won't be meeting the district attorney's investigator on Monday morning."
Miller snapped the phone shut, dropped the transmission into gear, and accelerated out of the gravel lot.
The freight gates vanished in the side mirror, followed by the dark grain silos along the river basin. Thomas had been running night inventory for the county vehicle pool when he vanished. Three days before he disappeared, he told me county officers were moving seized freight through loading bay four and writing the inventory off as damaged river salvage. Tonight, I found the padlock cut before Miller blinded me with his cruiser lights.
Six months ago, the county had hauled Thomas's blue sedan off the Blackwood River bridge. The sheriff's office ruled it suicide within three days: car idling mid-span, door open, wallet on the seat. They dragged the brackish channel for four days, found nothing in the undertow, and closed the file. When our mother went to records for his watch and tools, the clerk handed her an inventory slip declaring his effects unrecovered, swept out to sea.
I stared at Miller's hand on the steering wheel. The worn leather band was buckled at the third notch—Thomas's exact wrist size. Miller's wrist was thicker, and the brass buckle pin was bent sideways under the strain, biting deep into his flesh. He bypassed the highway interchange, taking the low river road toward the North Precinct substation behind the impound yard.
The sally port iron door clattered upward, swallowing the car in yellow sodium vapor and diesel fumes. Miller killed the engine, hauled me out by my cuff chain, and shoved me through the reinforced security door into intake. Behind a polycarbonate barrier sat Desk Sergeant Frank Harris—sixty, bald, reading glasses low on his nose, tie loosened. He had run county booking since my father logged timber down the gorge.
"Got another one off the yard, Dale?" Harris asked without looking up from his paper. "What's the charge?"
"Unlawful possession, schedule two, packaged for resale," Miller said, shoving me against the counter. "Caught him outside the perimeter."
Miller dumped my belongings onto the stainless steel tray: my pocketknife, yard keys, twenty-four dollars, and the heavy plastic baggie. Under the buzzing fluorescent lights, the purple ink on the crimped seal was unmistakable: CASE 23-0411-B / EVIDENCE / PROP. RM.
My throat clamped shut. 23-0411 was stamped across every document from the night Thomas's car was towed off the bridge. The powder hadn't come from a street bust; it had been pulled directly from Thomas's closed impound file.
Harris uncapped his pen. "Take his cuffs off so he can sign the ledger."
"He stays cuffed," Miller snapped. "I'll sign as arresting officer and lock the narcotics up myself."
Miller reached for the baggie.
"Look at the crimp, Harris," I said, leaning hard against the counter.
Miller’s elbow drove into my ribs, knocking the wind out of me. "Shut your mouth, Vance."
"It's marked Case 23-0411-B," I gasped out. "That's an active county evidence stamp."
Harris froze, pen poised above the yellow voucher. He peered over his glasses at the packet, then up at Miller. "What is this, Dale?"
"He's stalling," Miller said, his jaw tightening. "Recycled supply bag. It was in his coat."
"Recycled bags don't carry case numbers in permanent ink," I said. "That's Thomas Vance's file. Ask Miller why he's carrying contraband from a suicide case in his vest."
Harris hesitated, then clicked his pen and bent over the ledger. In the item box, he wrote: One sealed packet, white powder, bearing county stamp CASE 23-0411-B.