"You have no idea who you just put in handcuffs," David thought, watching Dugan strut around the front of the cruiser. "But you're about to find out." The ride to the Oak Brook Police Department took less than 10 minutes, but Dugan spent the entire duration gloating. He blasted talk radio over the cruiser's speakers, and occasionally glanced in the rearview mirror, smirking at David. David didn't say a word.
He sat perfectly still, letting his silence unnerve the officer. In his 12 years with the Bureau, David had interrogated cartel hitmen, international smugglers, and corrupt politicians. He knew that when your enemy is destroying themselves, you do not interrupt them. The cruiser pulled into the sally port of the precinct. Dugan dragged David out by the chain of his handcuffs, a deliberate move designed to cause maximum pain, and marched him through the heavy steel doors into the booking area.
The Oak Brook precinct was a small, well-funded department. A few officers were milling around the coffee machine. Desk Sergeant Miller, an older man with a gray mustache and a tired expression, looked up from his computer monitor as Dugan shoved David against the booking counter. What do we have, Brian?" Miller asked, sighing as he reached for a blank intake form.
"Caught a burglar red-handed over in the new Elmwood development." Dugan said proudly, leaning against the counter. ""Tried to tell me he owned the place. Then he tried to tell me he was FBI. Guy's delusional. I want him processed for felony trespassing and resisting."" Miller glanced at David. Unlike the usual suspects dragged into the precinct on a Saturday afternoon, typically belligerent, drunk, or strung out, David stood with perfect military posture.
His face was a mask of absolute calm. His eyes sharp and analytical. "Name?" Miller asked. "David James Campbell."
David said. His voice was steady, resonant, and carried easily through the room. A couple of the officers near the coffee machine stopped talking and looked over. ""Sergeant, before you enter anything into that system, I am going to tell you exactly what I told your officer on my driveway. I am a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Chicago Field Office. My badge number is 4497 Alpha.
I strongly suggest you verify that before you proceed with booking a federal agent on fabricated charges."" Miller paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He looked at David, then looked at Dugan. Dugan rolled his eyes. ""Don't listen to him, Sarge. He's full of it. I patted him down.
No ID, no badge, nothing. He was wearing sweatpants trying to break into a million-dollar home."" "I was doing yard work." David corrected, His gaze locking onto the desk sergeant. My credentials are in the house. "Sergeant, if you fingerprint me and run it through AFIS or NCIC, it's going to trigger a federal flag.
When that happens, my superiors are going to be notified. If you want to avoid a massive jurisdictional nightmare, I suggest you call the Chicago Field Office right now and ask for Assistant Director Thomas Weller." The mention of a specific high-ranking federal name made Miller visibly uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair. "Brian, you didn't find any ID on him at all."