I flipped the toggle to local review.
The small green screen flickered twice, then rolled through five lines of high-resolution telemetry data.
LOC: INTAKE WEIR 3 - RIVER MILE 41. DATE: 11-14. TIME: 02:47:12 EST. CONTAMINANT: TRICHLOROETHYLENE / TETRACHLOROETHYLENE. CONCENTRATION: 840 PPM. THRESHOLD EXCEEDED: 16,800%. MANUAL OVERRIDE: REMOTE GATE 44-E. OPERATOR AUTHORIZATION: MIS-GARRETT-R.
The authorization code wasn't the nephew’s. It wasn't the truck driver's.
It was Raymond Garrett’s personal emergency utility pass—the municipal oversight clearance issued to the county chief of police so law enforcement could bypass public works locks during flood emergencies.
"You didn't just let your nephew dump the wash tanks," I said, holding the illuminated screen up toward the mercury vapor lights so Miller could read every pixel. "You authorized the gate opening from your office console. You cycled the intake valve while the municipal pumps were actively drawing drinking water for the southern half of the county."
Garrett’s face drained of color, then went dark purple with rage. His hand came all the way out of the holster. The black barrel of his Glock 22 rose until it was centered directly on my chest, six feet away across the concrete floor.
"Put the box down, Mercer," Garrett said, his voice flat, devoid of any pretense of administrative procedure. "Put it on the deck, close the latches, and step away from the truck."
"Chief," Miller said, his voice trembling violently. "Put the gun down. Please. Chief, don't do this."
"You want to spend twenty years in a federal penitentiary in Lewisburg, Miller?" Garrett said, his eyes never wavering from mine. "Because that’s where we go if this unit walks out that door. Every lease, every bond, every municipal contract this county has signed for ten years is tied to the industrial park. If the river intake gets condemned by the EPA, Mercer County goes bankrupt, the tax base evaporates, and you’re working retail in Beckley for minimum wage."
"And David?" I asked, my voice cutting through his panic with surgical coldness. "Where is he, Garrett?"
Garrett’s jaw tightened. "David is where the current put him."
"You're lying," a third voice said from the shadows behind the bay wall.
We all turned.
Vance stood in the open doorway that led to the central booking holding cells, his hand resting on the security push bar. Behind him, leaning against the door frame with his hands cuffed behind his back, stood the flatbed driver—the man Garrett had supposedly locked away in Interview Two.
"He's lying, Miller," Vance said. The younger deputy had a printed dispatch run sheet in his left hand, the paper shaking slightly in the cold cross-draft. "I pulled the maintenance logs from the basement backup console. David’s truck didn't hit the water. Garrett had the county wrecker haul it out to the quarry road at four in the morning. David was in the county infirmary annex for six hours under an involuntary psychiatric hold that Garrett signed himself."
The bottom dropped out of the room.
"Where is he, Vance?" I asked, every muscle in my body locking tight.
"State hospital down in Huntington," Vance said, his eyes fixed on the chief’s drawn weapon with undisguised horror. "Garrett checked him in under an alias. An unidentified transient picked up along the highway with acute chemical delirium. They’ve had him sedated in a locked ward for four weeks so he couldn't call his family."
Garrett didn't lower the gun. But his hand began to shake—not from weakness, but from the sudden, terrifying realization that the small world he had ruled with an iron fist had just unraveled under the weight of his own paper trail.
"Vance," Garrett said, his voice cracking into a dry croak. "Step back into the office."
"No, sir," Vance said. He took two steps onto the concrete of the bay, pulling his own radio from his chest strap with deliberate, unhurried care. He clicked the side switch twice, keying the county wide-band emergency channel. "Central Dispatch, this is Unit Two. I am at the sally port in Bay Four. I have a code triple-zero. The chief of police has drawn down on a federal investigator. We need every available state police unit on Route 9 to roll to this location immediately. The station is under full environmental quarantine."
"Drop the mic, Vance!" Garrett screamed, taking a half-step toward the deputy.
Miller didn't swing the bolt cutters. He did something far more lethal to Garrett’s world: he laid the heavy tool down on the concrete, stepped three feet to his right, unclipped his radio, and keyed the same frequency.
"Cruiser Four to Central," Miller said, looking Garrett dead in the eyes as the chief’s gun swung wildly between the three of us. "Cruiser Four corroborating Unit Two. Chief Garrett is non-compliant with federal liaison protocols. I am securing the bay perimeter until the state detachment arrives."