Nolan sat in the passenger seat, his deactivated body cam still dark on his chest. Keats followed in the unmarked charger. At 2:45 p.m., the patrol car pulled into the sally port at the rear of the station. The overhead door closed behind them. Steel on concrete.
A sound designed to feel permanent. They were walked through a booking corridor, not booked, not fingerprinted, not photographed. That distinction mattered. Booking creates a record. Booking triggers a process.
Intake forms, a phone call, a notation in the county jail management system that can be retrieved by any attorney with a subpoena. Keats didn't want a record. Not yet. Not until the paperwork was handled. Instead, they were placed in interview room B, a 10x12 space with a metal table, two chairs on one side, one chair on the other, and a mounted camera in the upper left corner.
The camera's indicator light was red, inactive. Malcolm noted it. He noted the model, a Pelco, the same model used throughout the station. He noted the angle pointed at the chair on the single side, the subject's chair. He noted the red light, and he noted that interview room A, directly next door, had a camera with a green light when they walked past.
Active recording. Room B was chosen on purpose. They were seated side by side, still handcuffed in the two chairs facing the table. Ror stood by the door. Nolan stood in the corner.
The notebook, Malcolm's phone, both wallets, and the car keys sat in a clear plastic evidence bag on the table. At 2:51 p.m., Captain Reed Hollister walked in. He was 54, tall and angular, with thinning hair combed straight back and a face that had settled into a permanent expression of administrative displeasure. 26 years on the force, watch commander for the last nine. He wore a dress uniform, not patrol gear, which meant he had come from the administrative wing, not the field.
He didn't introduce himself. He sat down in the single chair across the table, opened a manila folder already prepared, already containing pages, and looked at the two men with the unhurried patience of someone who had conducted hundreds of interviews and believed he already knew how this one would end. James Whitfield, Terrence Boyd. He read the names from the legend IDs, then looked up. Those your real names?
Neither man answered. Hollister waited 5 seconds 10. Then he opened the notebook. The clear bag had been unsealed and placed it flat on the table. You've been collecting operational data on my deputies.
Hollister said. Badge numbers, shift patterns, radio frequencies, use of force notations. That's not something a civilian does. That's not something anyone does unless they're working for someone. He leaned forward.