CR-404 / UNIT 12 / DEP. T. RYDER / 14:18:02 / HWY 9 MM 14 / STATUS: CONTACT UNVERIFIED / CAM 1 ACTIVE / AUDIO STANDBY.
"Look right here," Marsha whispered, pointing a trembling ballpoint pen at the fifth line of code. "Audio standby. He killed the wireless lapel microphone before he got out of the car. That's why he didn't care that the dashcam was pointed at your tailgate. He knew the video would show him talking to you, but there wouldn't be a single recorded word of him demanding the cash."
"He didn't kill the audio," I said, pulling the scarred flip phone from my left pocket and laying it flat on the counter beside her paper slip.
The small gray screen was still lit, displaying an open recording file that read twenty-two minutes and fourteen seconds.
"My truck’s driver door hinge is rusted," I told her. "When he pulled me over, I jammed the phone between the weather-stripping and the side mirror bracket before I stepped into the gravel. The phone mic was six inches from his chest when he reached into my vest."
Marsha looked down at the scratched plastic casing, her eyes widening. "Walter, did you get his voice?"
"I got every word," I answered. "'You owe me right now. You know how this works when you're hauling scrap across town lines.' Followed by the sound of his fingers tearing the bills out of my wallet."
Before Marsha could touch the phone, the heavy steel door at the end of the corridor groaned open.
Deputy Ryder walked into the basement intake area, his service belt creaking with every deliberate step. He had removed his aviator sunglasses, revealing pale, hard eyes that swept across the sorting bins until they landed squarely on me. He wasn't wearing his hat, and his short brown hair was damp with sweat.
"Afternoon, Walter," Ryder said, his voice dropping into that same low, mocking cadence he had used on Highway Nine. He walked up to the counter, stopping less than three feet from where I stood, and dropped a set of heavy brass keys onto the laminate top with a loud, metallic clatter. "I saw your faded Chevy parked out in the visitor lot. Thought maybe you got lost looking for the scrap yard."
Marsha had already dropped a ledger folder over the printed paper strip, but her hands were trembling so badly she couldn't keep the edges straight.
"I came to settle my fuel tax voucher with the clerk," I said evenly, not shifting my weight an inch.
Ryder leaned forward, resting his right hand casually on the leather grip of his baton. "Funny thing about fuel vouchers. Tommy upstairs was running a line diagnostics on our server ten minutes ago. He tells me somebody from this terminal tried to query unit patrol logs without a supervisor override."
He glanced sideways at Marsha, his gaze lingering on her employee badge until she shrank back into her rolling chair.
"Now, Marsha knows the regulations," Ryder continued, turning his eyes back to my face. "An unverified stop log is internal patrol data. Tampering with county administration servers is a Class C felony, Walter. That carries mandatory holding up at the regional jail in Casper. At your age, three nights on a concrete slab will ruin whatever's left of your knees."
He reached out his left hand, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the counter, right next to the ledger folder hiding the paper strip.