“You've been following this department for how long?” Marcus asked.
“Eighteen months,” Keller replied.
“And you haven't been able to prove anything?”
“We've been able to prove plenty.”
Marcus looked up.
“Then why am I here?”
“Because proving that something happened isn't always the same as proving who allowed it to happen.”
Keller opened a folder.
Inside were photographs of bruised faces, damaged vehicles, and handwritten complaints. Some had been dismissed within days. Others had simply disappeared into administrative silence.
“Unlawful stops,” Keller said. “Excessive force. False statements in police reports. Racial profiling.”
Marcus turned another page.
“And the victims?”
“Most were told there wasn't enough evidence.”
He leaned back.
“So you want evidence.”
Keller shook her head.
“We want the truth when they think nobody is watching.”
Marcus understood then.
This would not be a conventional investigation.
He would enter Deerfield without announcing who he was. He would drive legally. Dress well. Remain calm.
And wait.
“They profile Black drivers,” Keller said quietly. “Especially outsiders.”
Marcus gave a humorless laugh.
“So my job is to exist in the wrong place?”
“For a few days.”
“And if they leave me alone?”
Keller closed the folder.
“Then we learn something.”
Marcus looked at the photographs again.
“And if they don't?”
Her expression hardened.
“Then they learn something.”
Marcus finally picked up the photograph of the station.
It looked peaceful.
That was what worried him most.
A Town That Watched
Deerfield welcomed Marcus with clean sidewalks and polite smiles.
He checked into a modest motel near the highway and spent two days learning the town.
He ate breakfast at the same diner.
He bought coffee from the same gas station.
He drove the same route every evening.
Nobody bothered him.
Not at first.
On the third evening, Marcus noticed the patrol car.
It appeared in his rearview mirror as he turned onto Elm Street.
He continued driving.
One block.
Two blocks.
Three.
The patrol car remained behind him.
Marcus checked his speed.
Two miles below the limit.
He checked his mirrors.
No traffic violation.
No broken lights.
Nothing.
Then the red and blue lights came on.
Marcus released a slow breath.
He pulled to the curb.
His hands went onto the steering wheel.
The first officer approached wearing sunglasses despite the fading sunlight. His nameplate read MORRISON.
The second officer stopped near the passenger window.
“License and registration,” Morrison said.
Marcus looked at him.
“Good evening, Officer.”
Morrison didn't return the greeting.
“License and registration.”
Marcus remained calm.
“May I ask why I was stopped?”
The officer's jaw tightened.
“You were weaving.”
“I don't believe I was.”