"It's sent," Angela said. She handed the tablet to the police sergeant, completely ignoring Vance. "Officer, I want to file a formal report. Someone forged a mechanic's signature, tampered with my wheel, and tried to put me on the highway to die."
Vance stood there, his chest heaving, realizing he had lost control of the evidence. He spun toward the sergeant. "I want this biker arrested right now! He is trespassing, he is harassing my driver, and he is creating a public panic!"
The sergeant looked at me, then down at the forged digital log on the tablet. He sighed, unhooking his radio. He knew I had just saved thirty lives, but he also had a district supervisor demanding a lawful arrest on school property.
"Mr. Mercer," the sergeant said, his tone entirely professional but lacking any real aggression. "I am officially issuing you a trespass warning. You are ordered to move your motorcycle and leave Brookside Elementary property immediately, or you will be placed in handcuffs."
"Understood," I said. I didn't argue. I didn't need to.
I turned and walked toward my Harley. I had the high-resolution photos of the fractured steel secured on my phone. Angela had the timestamped proof of the forged maintenance log sitting in her personal inbox. The district could tow the bus. They could try to bury the hardware in a scrap bin and pretend it never happened. But the evidence was already out, and I wasn't going to let them blame Dave Miller, frame Angela, or bury the truth.
I kicked my bike into gear, the heavy rumble of the V-twin echoing off the brick walls of the school, knowing exactly where I had to go next.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
I took the Grove City exit and rumbled into a quiet neighborhood of single-story ranch houses. Dave Miller’s driveway was cracked, and the grass in his front yard was pushing six inches high. Dave took pride in his lawn, but you can’t push a mower with a blown rotator cuff. I killed the engine, kicked the heavy kickstand down, and walked up to his faded red front door.
I knocked hard, three sharp raps. It took a full minute before the deadbolt finally clicked.
The door pulled open to reveal Dave. He looked ten years older than fifty. His right arm was strapped tight across his chest in a heavy black canvas medical sling, his shoulder completely immobilized. He wore faded sweatpants and a rumpled gray t-shirt. The smell of strong black coffee and sharp muscle liniment rolled out of the hallway.
"Jonah?" Dave blinked, surprised to see me filling his doorframe on a Monday afternoon. "What are you doing out here? I thought you were up in Dublin rebuilding that panhead."
"I was," I said, stepping past him into the narrow living room without waiting for an invitation. "Then I took a ride past Brookside Elementary."
I pulled my phone from my vest, opened the photo gallery, and handed it to him. "Tell me what you see."
Dave shifted the phone awkwardly into his uninjured left hand, squinting at the bright screen. The mechanic in him took over instantly. His eyes narrowed. He zoomed in on the left rear dual tires of Bus 42. He saw the missing lug nut, the stripped metal threads on the remaining three, and the bright, jagged silver of the freshly sheared stud.
"Jesus Christ," Dave breathed, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Someone held the trigger on a one-inch impact gun and didn't let up. That steel is stretched to death. Catastrophic over-torque. That wheel was a mile away from snapping completely off the axle."
"It was rolling out of the school driveway loaded with thirty kids," I told him. "The driver is Angela Morris. She flagged the brakes as spongy at nine o'clock this morning. She parked it in Bay 3 at the district yard."
"Okay, so why didn't the yard tag it out of service?" Dave asked, handing the phone back. His left hand was shaking slightly. "If she wrote up a brake defect, it automatically red-tags the vehicle in the system. A mechanic has to pull the duals, check the slack adjusters, and clear the tag."
"Somebody did," I said.
I swiped to the next photo. It was the screenshot Angela had emailed to herself from the district tablet, showing the digital clearance log. I held the screen up to Dave’s face.
Dave read the screen. The color completely vanished from his weathered face, leaving him the pale color of old ash. He stared at his own name printed in crisp digital letters under the authorization line.
"Cleared for service," Dave read aloud, his voice cracking. "One-fifteen p.m. Authorized by David Miller. Jonah... I haven't been within ten miles of the district yard in two weeks. I haven't even logged into a computer. I can't lift a wrench. I can't even tie my own work boots."
"I know," I said quietly. "But Marcus Vance was ready to let Angela take the fall for a blown axle, and if that didn't work, he left a digital paper trail pointing directly at you. They forged your clearance."
Dave turned away, walking heavily into his small den off the living room. He slumped into an office chair in front of a sleeping desktop computer. "They can't do that," he muttered, sounding more terrified than angry. "I'm three years from my pension, Jonah. If my name is on a catastrophic failure that kills a bus full of kids... they'll strip my retirement. They'll press criminal negligence charges."