The sergeant frowned. He motioned for a younger patrolman to watch me, then walked over to the wheel with Vance trailing him like a shadow. The sergeant clicked on his heavy tactical flashlight and shined it behind the mudflap. He leaned in. He stayed there for a long time. When he finally stood up, he looked at Vance, and the irritation in his eyes had hardened into something much more serious.
"Your stud is sheared completely off," the sergeant said. "And the rest of the lug nuts are backed halfway out. You were about to put this on the highway?"
"It’s a maintenance oversight!" Vance protested, sweating profusely now. "It’s a tragedy averted, thank God, but it’s an internal district maintenance issue. We have a wrecker on the way. We’ll handle the investigation at the yard."
"No, you won't," I said from across the pavement. "If it goes to your yard, you’ll replace the hub, sweep the sheared bolts into the trash, and fire Angela for failing to catch it on her pre-trip inspection. You'll blame the driver for a mechanical failure she couldn't possibly see with the naked eye."
Angela’s head snapped up. She looked at Vance, and the fear in her eyes instantly morphed into betrayal. She knew I was right. The district always blamed the driver.
"Angela," I called out, ignoring the patrolman telling me to keep quiet. "Who touched your bus today? Did you write up a defect this morning?"
Angela hesitated, her eyes darting between the police, Vance, and me. Then she turned and scrambled back up the steps of the bus.
"Hey! Driver! Step down!" Vance yelled, lunging for the door.
The sergeant put a heavy hand on Vance’s chest, stopping him dead. "Let her get her log," the sergeant commanded.
A moment later, Angela reappeared. She was clutching a district-issued electronic logging tablet. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely tap the screen.
"I flagged the brakes this morning," Angela said, her voice cracking. "They felt spongy on the morning route. I parked Bus 42 in the maintenance bay at nine a.m. and flagged it in the system."
"And who cleared it for the afternoon run?" I asked.
She stared at the bright screen. The wind whipped her short curly hair across her face. "The log says... it says the rear hub was inspected, the slack adjusters were tightened, and the vehicle was cleared for service at one-fifteen p.m."
"Who signed it?" I pressed.
"It’s an electronic signature," Angela whispered. "It says the work was performed and authorized by David Miller."
I felt a cold, hard knot form in my stomach. I knew Dave Miller. We had worked at the same diesel shop a decade ago before he took a comfortable, pension-tracked job with the school district. Dave was a meticulous mechanic. He would never over-torque a wheel, and he certainly wouldn't send a compromised bus out with children on it.
But more importantly, I knew exactly where Dave was today.
"That's a lie," I said, my voice cutting through the noise of the parking lot. "Dave Miller blew his rotator cuff two weeks ago. I visited him at Mount Carmel Hospital. He’s at home in a sling. He hasn't turned a wrench or logged into a district computer in fourteen days."
Vance lunged again, this time bypassing the sergeant and trying to snatch the tablet directly from Angela’s hands. "Give me that! The logs are district property!"
Angela ripped the tablet back, holding it tightly against her chest.
"Take a screenshot, Angela!" I shouted, stepping forward against the patrolman’s arm. "Send it to your personal email right now! Before he purges the system!"
"If you send that, you are in violation of your union contract and I will terminate you on the spot!" Vance screamed, entirely abandoning his professional facade. His face was purple with rage.
Angela looked at the terrifyingly blank space on the wheel hub. She looked at the sidewalk where thirty children were now huddled safely away from the vehicle, completely unaware of how close they had come to a catastrophic rollover. Finally, she looked down at the tablet.
Her thumb moved. She hit the button.