Cole snapped a blue latex glove onto his right hand, pulled a portable forensic tablet from Miller’s kit, and connected a heavy shielded diagnostic cable to the terminal. The tablet screen flared white, reflecting across Cole’s wire-rimmed glasses as the local hardware directory mounted to the display.
“Reading onboard buffer,” Cole murmured, his fingers tapping the touch screen with methodical, professional detachment. “Hardware identifier: Mercer County Dispatch Aux-Relay. Internal real-time clock synced to the national atomic standard via radio beacon. ”
The room went dead silent, save for the hum of the boiler.
“Pull up the gate trigger log for midnight,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed directly on Dolan’s face.
Cole tapped three icons on the glass. A column of stark green text rolled up the screen:
23:48:12 — GATE CYCLE: INACTIVE
00:02:40 — GATE CYCLE: INACTIVE
00:14:02 — GATE RELEASE SIGNAL RECEIVED. CIRCUIT ID: PORT 09 (DEP-LOCKER AUX). HARDWARE MAC: 00-1B-44-11-F8-02. OVERRIDE KEYSTAMP: 4108.
Cole stopped scrolling. He leaned in, his nose three inches from the glass.
“Port nine,” Cole read aloud, his voice dropping every trace of bureaucratic neutrality. “Circuit nine doesn't lead to the front dispatch counter. Miller, check the circuit directory on the inside door panel. ”
Miller pulled the steel door wider, shining an inspection light onto the hand-lettered circuit directory pasted inside the lid. His gloved finger traced down the rows of neat pencil entries until it stopped at line nine.
“Circuit nine is the private line to the night supervisor’s bunk room and locker bank,” Miller said, looking up from the paper with wide, startled eyes. “Terminal four on the front counter is wired to circuit one. The pulse that opened that impound gate at twelve-fourteen didn't come from the public desk. It came from the auxiliary terminal inside locker twelve. ”
“Locker twelve is my departmental property,” I said softly, stepping forward until I stood shoulder to shoulder with Cole. “Assigned by written order seven years ago to senior road deputy Frank Dolan. ”
Dolan’s hand moved.
It wasn't a reach for a weapon—his gun belt was sitting on the hood of my car upstairs in the cold. It was a frantic, involuntary reach for the heavy steel conduit pipe behind him, his shoulder dropping as he made a half-pivot toward the open utility room doorway.
Before his boot could find purchase on the slick concrete floor, I drove my forearm across his chest, slamming his back flat against the limestone wall with a concussive thud that rattled the boiler pipes overhead. Thirty years of lifting fence posts, hauling accident victims out of creek beds, and wearing the Mercer County star were in that forearm. Dolan gasped, his head bouncing off the masonry, his face turning the color of wet chalk as his heels dragged against the grit.