Callahan leaned down, his jaw tightening as he read the numbers. He pulled an encrypted satellite phone from his pocket, punched a three-digit extension, and held the receiver to his ear without looking away from the voucher.
“Dispatch, this is Callahan on the Mercer County breach,” he said, his voice flat and level. “Notify the United States Attorney for the Northern District of Georgia immediately. Request a federal sealing order for the executive suite at the Atlanta Field Office. Have four deputy marshals secure Director Donald Miller at his residence before he reaches the perimeter gate. Tell them we have the paper trail. ”
Behind the reinforced glass of the control booth, Ellis engaged the electronic lock. The heavy steel door clicked open, and the young deputy walked down the concrete ramp with the red manifest binder held against his ribs. He didn't stumble now. His boots were deliberate, his head up, his knuckles steady as he placed the heavy folder directly into Callahan’s hands.
“The incoming teletype queue is logged on the backup drive in utility closet C,” Ellis said, his voice clear enough to echo through the quiet bay. “It contains the routing numbers for forty-two separate wire transfers from the state flood escrow account. Every transaction was countersigned by Director Miller’s administrative liaison code and deposited into the commercial account of Blackwood Scrap. The hard copies are right here. ”
Wade Hoyt looked up from the running board, his throat working. “I’ve got the deposit slips,” Wade said, his gravelly voice cutting through the hum of the cruiser engines. “I’ve got every signed invoice in the office safe at the yard. Ray told me it was clean. He told me the feds authorized the haulage contracts to clear storm timber out of the basin. I didn't know nothing about no dead deputy. ”
“Shut your mouth, Wade,” Raymond Hoyt hissed, his voice trembling with exhausted fury.
“No, I won't shut up, Ray,” Wade snapped, his face contorting as two state troopers pulled his arms behind his back and clicked their cuffs shut. “You put my signature on forty million dollars of stolen paper while you sat behind that desk taking ten-percent kickbacks in cash. You made me the sole name on the bank ledger. You were going to let me hang for this while you and Miller drove down to the coast. ”
Callahan didn't wait for them to finish. He gestured to his men, and within two minutes, both Hoyt brothers were being hauled up the concrete ramp toward separate transport cages in the gravel yard. Raymond Hoyt did not look back as his boots dragged through the threshold of his own precinct. The kingdom he had run for eighteen years had shrunk to the width of a six-by-eight cell in the Lowndes County jail.
I walked back into the booking room with Callahan and Ellis following close behind.
The room was still suffocatingly quiet. On the laminate desk, my gold FBI shield sat inside the brown evidence sack beside my encrypted phone. I reached into the bag, drew out the leather cred wallet, and held the badge under the glare of the fluorescent tube.
The brass was scratched along the left wing where Hoyt had tapped his pen while he laughed at me, but the seal was intact. The federal eagle still held the olive branch and the arrows, sharp and unyielding beneath the lacquer.
I laid the wallet on the counter, reached into my pocket, and pulled out a small pair of stainless utility shears from the desk drawer.
I slipped the blade beneath the thick thermal plastic band around my right wrist. With a single sharp snap, the plastic parted.
I laid the band on the counter next to my badge.
Thomas Vance. Intake #09-4112. Status: Deceased (Remains Unrecovered).
“His mother still lives on the north side of the river,” Ellis said quietly, looking down at the name. His hands were clasped in front of his belt, his posture stiff, but the burden that had bowed his shoulders all morning had finally begun to lift. “Every November on the anniversary of his disappearance, she comes into the front lobby and asks if anyone pulled a new file from the state archive. Hoyt used to tell her the paperwork was misplaced during the county system upgrade. ”
“The paperwork wasn't misplaced,” I said, looking at the young deputy. “It was buried in the utility closet so Hoyt could keep the flood account open under Vance’s name. Hoyt was using a dead man’s identity to sign the county haulage manifests. ”
Callahan looked from the plastic band to Ellis. “Son, you realize what this means for your standing in this county? The timber boards run the school district, the county commission, and the credit union. When word hits the morning paper that you turned over the manifest binder, you won't be able to buy gas within thirty miles of Waycross. ”