“He’s giving you good advice, Deputy Miller,” Arthur said, drawing Miller’s rage back to him.
“Shut your mouth,” Miller snapped, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from the pouch on his belt. The metal clinked loudly in the quiet air. “Turn around. Place your hands behind your back.”
“If you put those on me,” Arthur said quietly, “you will not be taking them off. Someone else will have to do it for you.”
Miller let out a short, breathy laugh. He stepped forward, reaching out aggressively to grab Arthur’s right arm.
But as Miller’s hand darted forward, Arthur shifted his weight slightly, angling his body so that his heavy canvas jacket swung open just a few inches.
Miller’s hand stopped in mid-air.
Clipped to the inside pocket of Arthur’s jacket was a small, heavy silver star. It wasn’t a standard police badge. It was a solid, intricate crest, surrounding a deeply engraved eagle. Above the star, stamped in black lettering, were the words: OFFICE OF THE INSPECTOR GENERAL.
Miller’s eyes locked onto the metal. The breath left his lungs in a sudden, sharp hiss.
He knew what that badge meant. Every cop in the state knew what that badge meant. It was the internal oversight division, the people who only showed up when a department was rotting from the inside out. They didn't wear uniforms. They didn't drive marked cars. They were ghosts until they had you in a trap.
Arthur slowly reached up and zipped his jacket closed, hiding the badge from view once again.
“As I said,” Arthur murmured, “a catastrophic error.”
Chapter 2: The Standoff
The silence on the highway was absolute, save for the low, rhythmic idle of the police cruiser's engine.
Miller’s extended hand dropped slowly to his side. The handcuffs he gripped felt suddenly like lead weights. The hot wind whipped a cloud of fine dust around their boots, but Miller didn't blink. He was staring at the zipper of Arthur’s jacket, his mind racing, trying to process the impossibility of what he had just seen.
An Inspector General’s badge. Here. On this empty road.
“You’re… you’re IA,” Miller stammered, the aggressive bark completely gone from his voice. He sounded like a child who had just been caught stealing from a cash register.
“I am a citizen,” Arthur said smoothly, offering no confirmation and no denial. “And you are currently in possession of my personal property. A vintage 1972 Hamilton silver timepiece with a cracked bezel. You took it from my wrist three minutes ago.”
Davis, standing near the front bumper of the cruiser, looked back and forth between his training officer and the old man. “Miller? What’s he talking about? What did you see?”
Miller didn't answer. Panic, cold and sharp, was beginning to set in. If this man was who that badge said he was, Miller’s career wasn't just over—he was looking at extortion charges, grand theft under the color of law, and civil rights violations.