"Did we just run a biometric scan on an FBI agent?" Miller pointed a shaky finger at Dugan. "Dugan brought him in, Captain." Reynolds walked slowly toward the booking counter, staring at David in his sweatpants and T-shirt. The captain's face was a mixture of horror and fury.
He lifted the phone to his ear. "Yes, sir. Yes, Director Weller. He is here," Captain Reynolds said into the receiver, his voice practically shaking. He listened for a moment, his face growing paler by the second.
"No, sir. I assure you this is a misunderstanding. Yes. Yes, sir. I understand."
Reynolds slowly lowered the phone and hung it up on the nearest receiver base. He turned his attention to Officer Dugan, who was suddenly standing very stiffly, the arrogant smirk completely wiped from his face. "That," Captain Reynolds said, his voice dropping to a dangerously low whisper, "was Assistant Director Thomas Weller of the FBI." He is currently dispatching a fleet of federal SUVs to our precinct. Reynolds turned to David, his posture entirely submissive. "Agent Campbell, I—I don't know what to say.
You are completely free to go. We will drive you home immediately." David rubbed his wrists one last time, his eyes locking onto Dugan. "I'm not going anywhere, Captain." David said, his voice echoing in the dead silent room. ""I'm going to sit right here on this bench, and when Director Weller arrives, I am pressing federal civil rights charges against Officer Dugan for unlawful arrest, battery, and kidnapping under color of law."" David took a seat on the cold wooden bench, crossing his arms.
"You boys better make a pot of coffee." David added coldly. ""The FBI is about to take over your precinct."" For 20 agonizing minutes, the Oak Brook police precinct felt like a morgue. Nobody spoke. Nobody drank the coffee. Officer Brian Dugan stood in the corner of the booking room, his face a pale, sickly shade of gray, nervously tapping his thumb against his duty belt.
Desk Sergeant Miller kept his eyes glued to his keyboard, pretending to type. David Campbell remained perfectly still on the wooden bench. He didn't check his watch. He didn't gloat. He just waited.
Then the heavy glass double doors of the precinct's front entrance blew open. They didn't send a couple of suits in a sedan. Assistant Director Thomas Weller had dispatched a statement. Three black Chevrolet Suburbans had jumped the curb outside, parking diagonally across the precinct's front steps. Six FBI special agents wearing tactical vests emblazoned with bold yellow letters flooded into the lobby, immediately securing the exits.
Following closely behind them was Director Weller himself. Weller was a towering man in his early 60s with silver hair, a custom-tailored navy suit, and the kind of commanding icy presence that could freeze a room. He walked past the front desk without showing a badge. He didn't need to. Captain Reynolds scrambled out of his office, his hands shaking as he approached the director.
"Director Weller, I—I cannot apologize enough for this massive miscommunication." "Save it, Captain," Weller cut him off, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that echoed off the cinder block walls. He didn't even look at Reynolds. His eyes swept the room until they locked onto David. Weller walked over to a wooden bench.