The garage door slammed shut behind us, cutting off the sound of the rain and sealing us inside.
Miller got out and opened my door, dragging me out by the chain of the handcuffs. He marched me toward the heavy steel security door leading to the booking area. He swiped a keycard, and the electronic lock buzzed loudly.
He pushed me through the threshold.
Standing in the center of the fluorescent-lit booking room, leaning casually against the fingerprint station with a fresh cup of coffee in his hand, was Sheriff Ray Hollister. He looked at my soaked clothes, the blood drying on my temple, and my arms twisted painfully behind my back.
A slow, ugly smile spread across his face.
CHAPTER 3: The System They Thought They Owned
Sheriff Ray Hollister took a slow, deliberate sip from his styrofoam cup, letting the steam curl around his thick face. The booking area of the Oakhaven County Sheriff's Department smelled of industrial floor wax, stale sweat, and the sharp tang of ammonia. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with an irritating, relentless hum, casting harsh shadows across the cinderblock walls. Hollister leaned casually against the stainless steel fingerprinting station, his eyes tracing the line of my battered frame as Deputy Miller shoved me through the reinforced security door.
"Look what the storm washed in," Hollister said, his voice echoing off the hard surfaces of the room. He didn't look angry. He looked entirely entertained.
Miller pushed his hand hard against my spine, forcing me to stumble forward. With my hands ratcheted tightly behind my back, my balance was ruined. I caught myself awkwardly against the edge of a wooden holding bench, my dislocated right shoulder screaming in protest. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through my stomach, but I locked my jaw, refusing to give either of them the satisfaction of a groan.
"He was causing a scene at the clinic, Ray," Miller said, breathing heavily. He wiped rainwater from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Threatened Dr. Aris. Resisted a lawful order. And he was carrying this."
Miller reached into his tactical vest and pulled out my phone. The screen was dead, the black glass reflecting the harsh overhead lights. He tossed it onto the metal intake counter. It landed with a heavy clatter, sliding to a stop inches from Hollister's coffee cup.
Hollister glanced at the device, then looked back at me. The smug smile on his face deepened into something ugly and permanent. He set his coffee down and walked over, his heavy duty boots clicking rhythmically against the linoleum. He stopped two feet away, invading my space, forcing me to smell the cheap diner syrup and stale tobacco clinging to his uniform.
"You just don't know when to stay down, do you, old man?" Hollister asked softly. "I gave you a pass at the diner. I told you to crawl away. But you had to go to the clinic. You had to try and make a paper trail in my county."
"You're not writing a parking ticket, Hollister," I said, keeping my voice level despite the agonizing throbbing in my temple where the skin was split open. "You assaulted me in front of a room full of witnesses. And your deputy just dragged me out of a medical facility to cover it up."
Hollister laughed. It was a genuine, relaxed sound. He turned back to the intake counter and picked up my phone, turning it over in his massive hands.
"Witnesses?" Hollister mocked. "You mean the waitress who didn't see a thing because she was looking at her shoes? Or Dr. Aris, who called my deputy to report a violent, intoxicated vagrant tearing up his examination room? You don't have witnesses. You have a hallucination."
He gripped the phone tightly and pressed the power button. Nothing happened. The screen remained entirely black. He pressed it again, holding it down. The device didn't vibrate. It didn't flash. Elise had killed the hardware remotely the second Miller had taken it, bricking the motherboard so they couldn't access the local storage.
"Piece of junk," Hollister muttered, tossing the phone back onto the counter. He looked at Miller. "Empty his pockets. Let's get him into the system. I want him processed, stripped, and put in Cell Four before the morning shift arrives. Nobody talks to him."
Miller stepped up behind me. He didn't bother loosening the handcuffs. He jammed his hands into my canvas jacket, roughly pulling out my keys, a handful of loose change, and my leather wallet. He dumped the contents onto the intake counter.
Hollister flipped open the wallet. He pulled out my driver's license and held it up to the light.
"Walter Vance," Hollister read aloud, his eyes scanning the plastic card. "Well, Walter, welcome to Oakhaven. Let's see what we're going to charge you with today."
Hollister moved behind the high booking desk and sat down heavily in the rolling chair in front of the main county computer terminal. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. This was the true weapon of a corrupt cop. The badge was just the shield; the keyboard was where they ruined your life. Once a narrative was typed into the federal database, it became a mountain of bureaucratic concrete that took years and thousands of dollars to chip away.
"Let's go with public intoxication," Hollister said, typing with surprising speed. "Aggravated assault on a peace officer. Resisting arrest. And let's tack on terroristic threats, since Dr. Aris felt his life was in danger. That's three felonies, Walter. The judge isn't going to grant bail on three felonies for a transient with no local ties."
"Ray," Miller interrupted, his voice dropping slightly. He was staring at the dead phone on the counter. "When I took that phone off him... it was on a call. On speaker. Some woman's voice. She knew my name. She said she was recording."