Miller lunged toward the counter, his composure shattering into frantic panic. "That's precinct property! You have no authority to access station administrative records without a warrant signed by a county magistrate!"
"The warrant was signed at four o'clock this afternoon by United States District Magistrate Henderson," the federal investigator said calmly, pulling a folded, blue-backed document from his inner coat pocket and laying it flat on the booking desk. "Federal Search and Seizure Warrant 24-CR-882. It authorizes the immediate, unannounced inspection of all local paper logs, dispatch audio archives, safe contents, and personal property lockers assigned to Officer Thomas Miller."
The investigator picked up the heavy brass master key that Miller had laid on the counter. He walked around the divider, slid the key into the small brass lock on the supervisor’s floor cabinet, and turned it. The lock clicked open smoothly.
Inside the safe, stacked beneath three boxes of standard nine-millimeter service ammunition, lay two spiral-bound dispatch notebooks and a thick, manila envelope bound with heavy rubber bands. The investigator pulled the notebooks out and opened the top cover. Across the lined pages were handwritten vehicle entries, weight slips, and personal driver license numbers that corresponded exactly with the missing midnight timber runs from Kettle Falls. Tucked into the back of the envelope were six banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills, each stamped with the teller band of a commercial bank in Colville.
Deputy Vance looked down at the cash on the desk, then slowly turned his head to look at Miller. His mouth parted slightly, a mixture of disbelief and quiet revulsion settling over his young face. "You told me the state audit was just routine paperwork, Miller. You told me we were protecting local jobs."
Miller did not answer. He stared at the blue warrant on the counter, his breathing coming in ragged, audible gasps, his hands trembling at his sides.
Sergeant Peters stepped directly behind Miller, unhooking a pair of standard-issue state patrol cuffs from his belt. "Officer Thomas Miller, by order of the United States District Court and under the authority of the Washington State Patrol Internal Affairs Bureau, you are relieved of your duties and placed under arrest for federal obstruction of justice, civil rights violations under color of law, and conspiracy to commit wire fraud."
Peters unclipped Miller’s service weapon from its holster, removed the magazine, cleared the chambered round with a sharp metallic snap, and laid the pistol on the desk. He took Miller’s badge from his left breast pocket, unclipping the gold shield with deliberate care, and placed it face-down beside the shattered watch.
Miller offered no resistance as Peters pulled his arms behind his back. The steel handcuffs clicked around his wrists with a cold, definitive finality that echoed off the cinderblock walls.
The two troopers took Miller by his elbows and guided him out through the sally port door. His heavy boots dragged slightly on the threshold, his head hung low, refusing to look back at the desk, at the locked terminal, or at the two young deputies he had tried to drag into his wreckage.
The intake room went completely still, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent fixtures and the quiet, rhythmic clicking of the helicopter blades that continued to circle in the cold mountain air above the roof.
The federal investigator handed me a bottle of water and a sterile gauze pad from his kit. "Medical transport is pulling into the bay now, Davis. Let them clean up that brow and check your ribs."
I pressed the gauze against my temple, feeling the steady throb of the bruise, and looked at Deputy Vance, who was still standing by the open door of the dispatch booth, his face pale and exhausted.
"You made the right call on the radio, Vance," I said quietly, holding his gaze. "A lot of men wait until the grand jury subpoenas arrive before they find their voice. You found yours while the door was still shut."
Vance swallowed hard and nodded once, his eyes fixed on the empty floor where Miller had stood. He didn't speak. There was nothing left to say that the open line hadn't already preserved.