Silence hung heavily over the highway. Only the sound of a passing semi-truck broke the quiet, kicking up a gust of wind that rustled the dry weeds in the ditch.
When Marshall spoke again, the casual friendliness was entirely gone. It was replaced by the cold, slicing authority of a Deputy Commissioner.
“Officer,” Marshall’s voice commanded through the phone. “Identify yourself.”
Davis swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked at the phone, then at Arthur, his mind frantically trying to process how a man driving a truck held together by duct tape and rust could possibly have the direct cell number of the second-highest-ranking officer in the state.
“I said identify yourself!” Marshall roared, the volume making the phone speaker crackle.
“Officer... Officer Davis, sir. Badge 8492,” Davis stammered, his voice cracking. He instinctively stood a little straighter, as if Marshall could see him through the device.
“Davis,” Marshall said, the name dripping with disdain. “And who is your partner?”
Miller shrank back, wishing the earth would swallow him whole. “Officer Miller, sir. Badge 9104.”
“Well, Officers Davis and Miller,” Marshall said, his tone dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. “Do you have any earthly idea whose badge you just threw in the dirt?”
Davis licked his dry lips. His eyes darted to the worn leather wallet lying face down on the asphalt, right next to the toe of Arthur’s scuffed leather boot.
“Sir, the suspect… the individual… he had a badge pinned in his wallet. It looked old. He was driving a rusted-out vehicle. I had reasonable suspicion to believe he was impersonating an officer.”
“Impersonating,” Marshall repeated. The word sounded like a death sentence.
“Yes, sir,” Davis said, his voice trembling. He tried to puff his chest out, trying to find the arrogant swagger he’d had three minutes ago, but it was gone. “I was going to file a report—”
“Did you take his money?” Marshall interrupted.
Davis froze. He could feel the three folded twenty-dollar bills burning a hole in his uniform pocket. “No, sir! I mean, I secured the wallet for evidence—”
“Did you put his cash in your pocket, Davis?” Marshall’s voice was a whip crack.
Davis looked at Arthur. He expected to see a smirk. He expected to see the old man gloating. But Arthur just stood there, his face unreadable, his eyes ancient and tired.
“Sir, it’s a misunderstanding,” Davis pleaded to the phone. “The situation got out of hand. But this man is not a cop. Look at him.”
“You’re right, Davis,” Arthur said quietly, speaking for the first time since the call began. “I’m not a cop.”
Davis seized on it, a desperate glimmer of hope flashing in his eyes. “You hear that, Commissioner? He admits it! He’s a civilian!”
“I’m not a cop anymore,” Arthur corrected him, his voice low and steady. “I retired five years ago.”
Arthur looked down at the wallet on the ground. He didn’t bend to pick it up. He just stared at the gold star peeking out from beneath the frayed leather.