Garza reached through the driver-side window, twisted the ignition key, and cut the diesel engine. The sudden silence in the vaulted room was deafening.
"Captain," Miller said, taking two deliberate steps forward, his hands held openly at his sides in a posture of deferential calm. "Appreciate you rolling out, but Deputy Garza jumped the gun on a routine intake squabble. We had an uncooperative female come through the front door, combative, no paper, erratic behavior. She assaulted Officer Cole at the desk. When we tried to secure her for transport to the Annex under the standing material witness capias, she started screaming federal codes."
Hayes didn't look at Miller. Her eyes were fixed on the blue courier pouch sitting beneath the front bumper of the van. She walked past Cole, knelt on one knee in the oil sheen, and read the orange evidence seal without touching the plastic.
"DOJ-AUD-8841," Hayes read aloud. She tapped the touchscreen of her county tablet, bringing up the municipal joint-task database. "Federal Inspector General serial prefix. Where did this come from?"
"It was in the trunk of the rental car she abandoned in our visitor lot," Miller said without missing a beat. "We impounded the vehicle on arrival. Officer Cole was moving the property to the transport locker so it wouldn't be tampered with on the apron."
"He was shoving it under the bench seat of the county rig, Captain," Garza countered, his voice ringing against the concrete walls. "He didn't log it on the property sheet. He didn't ask for a dual-signature inventory voucher. And when the prisoner shouted the escrow code, Cole drove his knee into her back and threw her into the cage without shoes."
Hayes stood up slowly, dusting the grime from her knee. She turned to Cole. "Unlock the cage."
Cole hesitated, glancing toward Miller. "Captain, she’s classified as an active assault risk—"
"I didn't ask for a classification, Officer," Hayes said, her voice dropping into a razor-thin edge. "I told you to unlock the cage. Right now."
Cole pulled the brass key ring from his belt, walked stiffly to the rear door of the van, and inserted the padlock key. The tumblers turned with a sharp click. He swung the iron door wide and stepped back, his eyes darting toward the floor.
"Ma'am," Hayes said, stepping up to the bumper. "Can you step down?"
"Not while my wrists are double-locked behind my back, Captain," I said, my voice hoarse from the exhaust fumes. I worked my way into a sitting position against the steel ribs of the wall, my stocking feet sliding on the slick floor. "And not until your sergeants secure that blue courier pouch and the canvas sack Officer Cole stashed behind the precinct water heater."
Hayes signaled to one of the sergeants behind her. "Get her out and unhook the cuffs. Carefully."
The sergeant stepped into the van, slid his key into the double-locked Peerless cuffs around my wrists, and twisted. The ratchets released with a dull click that sent a rush of burning blood back into my numbed fingers. I climbed down from the transport well, leaning against the cold fender until my ankles stopped trembling. My blazer was torn at the shoulder, my white cotton shirt smeared with grey grease, and my forehead burned where the skin was broken.
"State your name and agency," Hayes said, keeping her pen poised over her tablet.
"Special Agent Elena Vance, Office of the Inspector General, United States Department of Justice, audit division," I said, holding my bruised wrists in front of me. "I entered this facility at fifteen-forty to execute a federal production subpoena for the municipal court depository receipts. Officer Cole seized my credential wallet, threw it into the desk trash receptacle, and forced my thumb onto an uncalibrated optical scanner. He and Sergeant Miller deliberately mapped my biometric hash to the dead-file record of Clara Mercer."
"That is absurd," Miller barked, stepping into my peripheral vision. "The biometric software has a cache overflow glitch that regional IT hasn't patched. We explained that to her! She became violent, and—"
"I have the dispatch routing slip," I interrupted, looking straight at Hayes.
The bay went dead silent. Miller's mouth closed mid-sentence, his jaw muscles twitching beneath his sallow skin.
I reached behind the small of my back, slipped my fingers under the waistband of my slacks, and pulled out the crumpled pink slip. The carbon paper was warm, creased double and slightly torn along the perforated margin, but the blue ballpoint lettering and the heavy red pencil notations were completely legible.
I handed the paper to Captain Hayes.