Rain had been falling over Bellmont County for nearly three hours.
It turned the streets outside the courthouse into black ribbons of reflected light, blurred every traffic signal into a glowing smear, and filled the gutters with leaves that had been torn from the trees too early by the autumn wind.
Inside the Bellmont Police Department, however, nobody seemed to care about the weather.
The night shift was busy.
Too busy.
Phones rang constantly. Dispatchers shouted coordinates across the communications room. Officers moved through the corridors carrying paperwork, evidence bags, coffee cups, and the exhausted expressions of people who had been awake too long.
At 9:47 p.m., a black sedan stopped outside the station.
A man stepped out.
He was probably in his late fifties.
Gray hair.
Dark overcoat.
Charcoal suit underneath.
No tie.
No visible jewelry except a simple silver watch.
He closed the car door gently and stood beneath the awning while rain hammered the pavement around him.
He looked like someone who belonged in a boardroom rather than a police station.
But there was something unusual about him.
He wasn't nervous.
He wasn't angry.
He wasn't even impatient.
He simply waited.
A patrol officer at the entrance glanced at him through the glass.
Then the man walked inside.
"I'm here to speak with someone in charge," he said.
The desk officer looked up.
"Name?"
"Daniel Mercer."
The officer typed.
"Reason for your visit?"
"I believe there's been a misunderstanding involving one of your officers."
The desk officer frowned.
"Are you reporting a complaint?"
"No."
"Are you here because someone has been arrested?"
"Not exactly."
That answer immediately irritated the officer.
"Then you're going to have to be more specific."
Mercer reached inside his coat.
The desk officer's hand moved instinctively toward his holster.
But Mercer only produced a leather wallet.
He opened it.
There was an identification card inside.
The desk officer looked at it.
His expression changed for half a second.
Then he looked again.
Mercer noticed.
"Can I speak with Captain Reynolds?"
The desk officer hesitated.
"He's not available."
"Then Lieutenant Harris."
"Also unavailable."
Mercer nodded.
"Who is supervising the station tonight?"
"Sergeant Cole."
"Please ask him to come out."
The desk officer picked up the phone.
Before he could make the call, shouting erupted from the corridor.
"Keep moving!"
A second later, another voice answered.
"I've already told you what happened."
Mercer turned.
Two officers appeared around the corner.
Between them was a handcuffed man.
He was younger than Mercer, perhaps early forties, wearing a dark blue suit that was now slightly wrinkled around the shoulders.
His wrists were secured behind his back.
One officer held his arm.
The other walked close behind him.
The man remained remarkably composed.
He wasn't struggling.
He wasn't pleading.
He wasn't asking for a lawyer.
He simply walked.
Mercer stared at him.
The handcuffed man saw Mercer.
For the first time, his expression changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
And then something that looked almost like relief.
"Mr. Mercer," he said.
The desk officer immediately looked between the two men.
"You know him?"
Mercer didn't answer.
His eyes were fixed on the cuffs.
"Why is he restrained?"
The younger officer stepped forward.
"Sir, this doesn't concern you."
Mercer looked at the officer's badge.
"Officer Dalton."
Dalton stiffened.
"You read my name."
"No," Mercer said quietly. "I read your badge."
The second officer smirked.
"Keep walking."
The handcuffed man glanced toward Mercer.
"Daniel, don't interfere."
Mercer stared at him.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
Dalton pushed him forward.
Mercer took one step after them.
"Where are you taking him?"
"Processing."
"For what?"
Dalton stopped.
"Interfering with an investigation."
Mercer looked at the man in handcuffs.
The man merely sighed.
Then he said something that would later become the sentence repeated throughout Bellmont County:
"Daniel, let them finish."
Mercer nodded slowly.
"All right."
Dalton led the prisoner toward the holding corridor.
But before the door closed, Mercer said:
"I'll be waiting."
The handcuffed man looked back.
"I know."
The door slammed.
Mercer remained motionless.
The desk officer swallowed.
"You really should go home."
Mercer looked at him.
"No."
The officer frowned.
"Why?"
Mercer glanced toward the corridor.
"Because I think your department is about to have a very long night."
The man in the interrogation room was named Jonathan Reed.
At least, that was the name he had given Officer Dalton.
He sat alone at the metal table.
His hands remained cuffed behind him.
A fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
A small camera watched from the corner.
The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and old coffee.
Dalton entered first.
Sergeant Victor Cole followed.
Cole was fifty-two, broad-shouldered, and had spent twenty-six years in law enforcement.
He was the kind of supervisor who believed authority worked best when people could feel it before they heard it.
He dropped a folder on the table.
"You've caused quite a problem tonight."
Reed looked at the folder.
Then at Cole.
"I've caused nothing."
Cole pulled out a chair.
"That's not what Officer Dalton says."
"I don't particularly care what Officer Dalton says."
Dalton stepped forward.
"You want to be difficult?"
Reed smiled faintly.
"No. I want you to be accurate."
Dalton's jaw tightened.
Cole raised a hand.
"Let's start again."
He sat down.
"Where were you at 8:30 tonight?"
"Outside the municipal building."
"Doing what?"
"Waiting for someone."
"Who?"