He turned to Prescott. And for the first time in 15 years on the force, Sergeant Wade Prescott saw something he had never seen directed at him before. The look of a man who outranked him in every way that mattered. "Remove the handcuffs," Richardson said. It was not a request.
"Now." Prescott did not move. Richardson stepped closer. "I said remove the handcuffs, Sergeant." The word sergeant came out the way a colonel says it when he means something lower.
Prescott's fingers found the key on his belt. They shook so badly the chain rattled against the metal loop. He walked behind Adrian and fumbled with the lock. It took three tries. The cuffs clicked open and fell to the pavement with a sound that echoed off the chapel walls.
Adrian brought his wrists forward. Deep red grooves circled both. He did not rub them. He did not flex his fingers. He stood still and let the blood return on its own.
Richardson turned to the two soldiers who had stepped out behind him. Secure the body cam and dash cam footage from both patrol vehicles. Nothing gets erased. Nothing gets overwritten. Yes, sir.
The soldiers moved toward the cruisers with the kind of purpose that made Holt step out of their way without being asked. Richardson faced Adrian. His voice dropped low enough that only the two of them could hear. Sir, are you injured? Adrian looked at his aide-de-camp.
The man who had coordinated his schedule through three overseas deployments. The man who had once driven six hours through a sandstorm in Kuwait to deliver classified briefing materials because the encrypted line went down. No, Adrian said. But my niece was pushed to the ground. He nodded toward Denise on the chapel steps.
She scraped her hand. Richardson's jaw tightened. He looked at Denise. He looked at the dried blood on her palm. Then he looked at Prescott.
And for 3 full seconds, nothing in his expression moved at all. That stillness was worse than anger. Noted, Richardson said. Adrian bent down slowly. His knees protested.
58 years of gravity and 35 years of standing at attention had taken their toll. He reached the pavement and picked up the photograph of James, the boot camp picture Prescott had thrown from his wallet hours earlier. It lay face down near the curb. A boot print smudged across the back. Adrian wiped it against his sleeve carefully, the way a man handles something irreplaceable.
He tucked it into his breast pocket beside the torn halves of the funeral program. He stood up. He looked at Prescott. That photograph is the only copy I have of my brother at 18. His voice was level.
No tremor. No threat. You threw it on the ground like it was garbage. Prescott opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
His lips moved, shaping the beginning of a word, maybe sorry. Maybe sir. But his throat refused to release it. Inside the lead cruiser, one of Richardson's soldiers connected a laptop to the dash cam system. The screen lit up.