I walked straight to the second window. Maria was still there, sorting a stack of deposit slips. She looked up, her warm smile faltering when she saw my face.
"Walter?" she asked, stepping up to the glass partition. "Did you forget something? The impound lot didn't take the cash?"
"They took it," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I glanced over my shoulder at the security guard, then leaned closer to the speaker slot. "A police officer took it. Officer Ryder. He pocketed the five hundred outside the gate and told me it was a local processing fee."
Maria froze, her hand hovering over the keyboard. She had known me for six years, ever since I opened my business account to run the scrap hauling. She knew I didn't exaggerate and I certainly didn't lie about the police.
"Walter, are you serious?" she whispered back. "He just took it?"
"Straight out of my wallet," I said. "Maria, you told me those bills were fresh. You said you ran them through the scanner. Is there a record of the exact serial numbers you handed me?"
Her eyes widened. The shock morphed instantly into sharp, professional focus. "Yes. It was a fresh strap from the Federal Reserve delivery this morning. I had to break the band and scan the sequence to transfer them from the main vault inventory to my drawer."
"Can you print it?" I asked. "I need proof I had those specific bills."
She didn't hesitate. She turned to her terminal, her fingers flying across the keys. The screen reflected in her dark glasses as she navigated the branch management software. "Outgoing cash logs," she muttered to herself. "Drawer two. Time stamp 2:14 PM."
A small laser printer behind her hummed to life. She pulled the single sheet of paper, stamped it with the official First National branch seal, and signed her initials at the bottom. She slid it under the glass partition.
I picked it up. There it was. Five sequential alphanumeric codes, starting with PB84729101G and ending with PB84729105G. The document clearly showed they were dispensed to my account.
"Walter, you have to take this straight to the precinct," Maria said, her voice tight with concern. "You need to file a report with Internal Affairs. He can't just rob people in broad daylight."
"Thank you, Maria," I said, folding the heavy paper and sliding it deep into my inside jacket pocket, separate from my wallet. "I'm going there now."
I left the bank, the weight of that single sheet of paper pressing against my ribs. It was usable evidence. It was a digital tether tying Ryder's stolen cash directly to my name. But as I drove across town toward the 4th Precinct, the cold reality of my situation began to settle in.
Ryder hadn't looked worried. He hadn't checked for witnesses. He operated with the casual arrogance of a man who knew the system was built to absorb his mistakes and crush anyone who complained.
The precinct was a concrete fortress surrounded by a fleet of blue-and-white cruisers. I parked down the block, my hands gripping the steering wheel for a long minute before I forced myself to get out. The air inside the station house smelled of floor wax and stale sweat. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, pale glow over the linoleum floor.
I walked up to the heavy wooden desk. The duty sergeant, a thick-necked man with the nameplate MILLER pinned to his chest, didn't look up from his computer monitor.
"I need to file a complaint against an officer," I said.
Miller stopped typing. He slowly raised his head, his eyes scanning my faded work jacket, my calloused hands, and the dirt caked into the soles of my boots. "Against who?" he asked, his tone flat.
"Officer Ryder," I said. "He was at the municipal impound lot about an hour ago."
Miller’s expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened. He hit a few keys on his keyboard. "Name?"
"Walter Hayes."