Croft moved to block Vance’s line of sight, shifting his bulk between the state trooper and my Buick. "Stay out of this, David. Step up here and put your hands behind your back, or you're getting charged with resisting without violence."
"Let the man speak, Sheriff," Vance said. The tone was polite, but the authority behind it was absolute. Vance stepped around Croft's shoulder, angling his high-powered flashlight down into the mud where I stood. "You holding paper, David?"
"It's Croft's Form 104," I said, holding the yellow carbon copy up toward the flashlight beam. The rain was beginning to soften the edges, but the blue ink remained sharp. "He had it filled out before he ever stopped me. Look at the timestamp line. Seven-fifteen PM. He pulled me over at eight-zero-two. And look at the VIN line. He wrote down seventeen digits of a vehicle identification number that's buried under pine needles on my dashboard. He didn't inspect this car tonight. He planned to make it disappear."
Vance held out his gloved hand. "Bring it up here, David. Slow."
I climbed the muddy bank, digging the toes of my work boots into the wet clay. Croft shifted his weight, his shoulders knotting, his right hand twitching toward his holster.
"Ray," Vance said, without looking directly at him, "keep your hand off that retention strap."
The instruction was quiet, but it hung in the cold drizzle like an electric charge. Croft froze. His jaw worked, teeth grinding behind closed lips, but his fingers loosened their grip on the leather.
I reached the gravel shoulder, water dripping from my jeans into my boots, and placed the yellow carbon sheet directly into Trooper Vance’s open hand.
Vance clicked on a small penlight, shielding the document from the falling rain with his heavy brimmed hat. He read the header line. He checked the timestamp: 7:15 PM. He checked his own wristwatch: 8:14 PM. Then he walked over to the front of my Buick, stepped up to the windshield, and shone his penlight down at the lower driver-side corner.
A thick mat of rotted pine needles, dirt, and dried grease completely obscured the metal VIN plate beneath the glass. It hadn't been touched in months.
Vance turned back toward Croft. His eyes were hard. "How did you read this plate from the shoulder in the dark, Sheriff?"
"I had it on file from a previous stop," Croft said, his voice tightening. "David’s vehicle is known to my department."
"Is that right?" Vance reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his department phone, and tapped the speaker button. "Lieutenant Miller at Crestview ran David Miller's plates ten minutes ago when Frank walked through the door. David hasn't had a traffic citation or contact in this county in four years. So where did you pull a seventeen-digit VIN from twenty minutes before dispatch showed him on this road?"
Croft didn't answer. The silence stretched between the idling trucks, heavy and suffocating.
Vance didn't wait for Croft's excuse. He turned his flashlight beam squarely onto Harlan.
The wrecker driver flinched under the white circle of light, lifting a grease-stained arm to shield his face. The heavy steel J-hook still lay abandoned on the wet asphalt by his boots.
"Harlan," Vance said, taking two slow steps toward the flatbed. "You want to explain why you're out here on a private call within six minutes of Unit One clearing dispatch? The county rotation had Miller’s Towing on deck for Route Nine tonight. Why did Croft call your private line?"
"He... he radioed for county assistance," Harlan stammered, his eyes darting toward Croft. "I was just doing what the sheriff dispatched."
"Central dispatch has no record of a rotation ping to your garage," Vance said, holding up his phone. "Mary Ellen logged Croft requesting you by name on a direct departmental channel. And Frank Miller is currently showing the state auditor photographs of the six county plow alternators you delivered to the road commission scrap heap last week."
Harlan’s knees visibly buckled. He grabbed the side mirror of his flatbed to steady himself. "Ray told me they were decommissioned surplus! He told me the road supervisor approved the trade-in!"
"Shut up, Harlan," Croft snapped, his face turning dark red under the brim of his hat. "Shut your mouth right now."
"No, Sheriff, you don't give orders to a state witness," Vance barked, stepping directly into Croft's space, eye to eye. "Step away from that wrecker. Step back to your cruiser. Now."