"Look closer at the screenshot," I said, following him into the den. "Down at the bottom left. The metadata string on the digital signature."
Dave leaned in, tapping his spacebar to wake his monitor for extra light. He squinted at the phone screen again. At the very bottom of the log, beneath his forged name, was a string of tiny alphanumeric characters: AUTH-T4-SUP-OVERRIDE.
Dave’s breath hitched. "Terminal 4."
"What's Terminal 4?" I pressed.
"The district yard has three mechanic terminals in the bays," Dave explained, his words spilling out faster now. "Terminals 1, 2, and 3. Standard wrench access. You can log parts, check out tools, and clear minor defects. But a red-tagged brake issue requires a supervisor override to force the bus back into the active fleet without a secondary road test. Terminal 4 is the supervisor's desk in the glass office overlooking the floor. That login wasn't just my name. It was an administrative override."
"Vance," I said. The knot in my stomach tightened into solid rock. Vance hadn't just forged a name; he had used his own administrative power to push a broken bus out the door to meet his afternoon route quota. And when he rushed to put the wheel back on to get it out of the bay, he used an impact gun with no torque stick, snapping the stud and sending it out anyway.
Before Dave could say another word, his cell phone lit up on the desk. The caller ID flashed brightly in the dim room: COLUMBUS DIST TRANSPORT - M. VANCE.
Dave stared at the ringing phone like it was a live explosive. He looked up at me, panic flooding his eyes. "He knows. If he's calling me now, he knows you caught the bus."
"Answer it," I commanded, keeping my voice perfectly level. "Put it on speaker. Do not tell him I am here. Let him talk."
Dave swallowed hard, reached out with his left hand, and hit the green button. He tapped the speaker icon.
"Hello?" Dave said, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Dave, Marcus Vance here," the voice boomed out of the small phone speaker. Vance sounded entirely too cheerful, a forced, plastic tone that poorly hid a layer of desperate sweat. "How’s the shoulder holding up, buddy?"
"It's... it's sore, Marcus. Still in the sling."
"Listen, Dave, I’ve got some great news," Vance continued smoothly. "HR just reviewed your medical file. We are prepared to fully approve your permanent medical disability and early pension payout. You won't have to worry about a thing. We take care of our own."
Dave’s eyes widened. He looked at me. A full pension, guaranteed. All he had to do was play along.
"That's... that's great, Marcus," Dave stammered. "Thank you."
"Of course," Vance said, his voice dropping slightly, the cheerful tone tightening into a businesslike hum. "There’s just one minor piece of housekeeping. The system glitched today and logged a remote diagnostic consultation under your credentials for Bus 42. Since you're going on permanent medical, we just need to tidy that up. I’m sending a courier over to your house right now with a printed affidavit. It just says you authorized the repair remotely based on the shop's description. Sign it with your left hand, give it back to the courier, and your pension is locked in by tomorrow morning."
The room went dead silent. The offer was right there on the desk. A bribe wrapped in a quiet threat. If Dave signed, the digital forgery became a legally sworn truth. Vance would be entirely in the clear. Angela Morris would be fired and blacklisted for driving a sabotaged bus, and Dave would get his money. If he refused, Vance would use the digital log to destroy him.
Dave looked at the phone. He looked at his ruined right shoulder. He had a mortgage. He had a daughter finishing college. The weight of the choice physically pushed him down into the chair.
I didn't say a word. I just stood there, letting Dave make his own choice.
Dave closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned toward the microphone.
"Marcus," Dave said, his voice suddenly losing its tremble. "I'm on heavy painkillers. I can't read a legal document today. Tell the courier to turn around. I'll have my union rep look at it on Wednesday."
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. The plastic cheerfulness vanished instantly. "Dave, I am telling you to sign this paper today. If you don't, I cannot protect you from the negligence inquiry regarding Bus 42."