He pulled out a handkerchief, a small pocketknife, which he tossed onto the hood like it was a murder weapon, and a leather wallet. Braden snatched the wallet and opened it. He saw the driver's license. Marcus Thornee, address 405 Willow Creek, the address they were standing in front of. Braden paused for a microsecond.
He looked at the license, then at the house, then at Marcus. A smarter man would have stopped there. A smarter man would have uncuffed him, apologized, and begged for forgiveness. But, Braden was committed. He had made a scene.
He couldn't back down now without looking like a fool. "So, you live here? " Braden sneered. "Doesn't give you the right to obstruct a police investigation. You're still going downtown.
" He opened the back door of the cruiser and pushed Marcus inside. The hard plastic seat was unforgiving. The cage was cramped. Marcus had to twist his body to fit his legs and his shoulders, burning from the position of his arms behind his back. Braden slammed the door shut.
The interior of the car smelled of stale coffee and sanitizer. Marcus leaned his head back against the partition. He closed his eyes. He wasn't afraid. He was furious, yes, but mostly he was disappointed.
He had spent 35 years trying to build a department that respected the community. He had taught thousands of recruits. He had drilled the Constitution into their heads until they could recite the amendments in their sleep. And yet, here was the result. A boy with a badge who thought power was the same thing as respect.
Braden got into the driver seat. He was breathing hard, revved up on the conflict. He picked up his radio. 4-Alpha-21 in custody. Transporting to central booking. Marcus watched the back of Braden's head through the wire mesh.
He didn't say a word during the transport. He knew that anything he said now wouldn't help. The time for talking was over. The time for evidence gathering had begun. He memorized the route Braden took.
He noted that Braden was driving 5 miles over the speed limit. He noted that Braden didn't call in his starting mileage, another policy violation. The drive to the precinct took 15 minutes. They pulled into the sally port, the heavy metal doors rolling down behind them, sealing them inside the concrete belly of the police station. This was a place Marcus knew better than his own home.
He had designed the workflow of the booking area during the renovation in the late '90s. He knew the smell of the floor wax. He knew the hum of the ventilation system. Braden hauled him out of the car. Marcus's hands were numb now, his fingers tingling.
Braden gripped his arm and marched him through the double doors into the processing area. Got a resistor. Braden announced loudly as he walked in, trying to set the narrative early. Refused to identify himself, belligerent, tried to pull away. The booking area was busy.
Several officers were typing reports. At the main raised desk sat the watch commander. It was Sergeant Tom Miller. Miller was 50 years old, a thickset man with graying hair and tired eyes. He was drinking coffee and looking at a monitor.
He didn't look up immediately. Bring him to the bench. Miller muttered still typing. Braden pushed Marcus toward the counter. Name is Thorne.
Refused to give it at the scene, found it in his wallet. Miller stopped typing. His hands froze over the keyboard. The name triggered something in his brain. He slowly lifted his head.