The anger was gone, replaced by a cold, surgical clarity. He had memorized Higgins's badge number. He had noted the exact time of the assault. He knew the cruiser's unit designation. And he knew an eyewitness had observed the interaction.
Higgins slammed the rear door shut, circled the car, and climbed into the driver's seat. He was breathing heavily, his hands shaking slightly from the rush of adrenaline. He felt powerful, vindicated. He reached for the radio hand-mic mounted on the center console.
"Dispatch, this is Unit Four Alpha. I have one male suspect in custody at Fourth and Elm. Attempted vandalism, trespassing, resisting arrest with violence. Returning to station for booking."
"Copy that, Four Alpha," the dispatcher's voice crackled through the speaker. "Identify suspect for the log."
Higgins glanced into his rearview mirror. He met Beatatrice's eyes—unflinching, steady, watching him silently.
"Unidentified Black male, John Doe," Higgins said into the mic, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Refused to provide identification at the scene."
Beatatrice pushed himself up into a sitting position despite the sharp pain in his ribs. He looked directly at the wire-mesh partition separating the front cabin from the rear.
"My wallet is in my rear right pocket, Officer Higgins," Beatatrice said, his tone utterly devoid of emotion. "Check it now."
"I'll check it when I get around to it in intake," Higgins said, throwing the cruiser into drive and pulling away from the curb. "Enjoy the ride, sunshine. It’s going to be a very long day for you."
As the cruiser accelerated down Elm Street, Beatatrice looked out the tinted rear window. He saw Mrs. Gable standing on her driveway, a tablet computer held up in her hands, her fingers moving frantically across the screen. She wasn't just calling the police department; she was dialing every emergency contact she possessed.
Beatatrice allowed his lips to curl into a grim, dark smile. Higgins believed he was hauling an unhoused vagrant to a holding cell. In reality, he was driving his career directly into a incinerator.
The five-minute drive to the precinct passed in heavy silence, punctuated only by the hum of the cruiser’s tires and Higgins humming a pop song under his breath, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel. He felt a profound sense of accomplishment. He believed he had asserted control over his sector, putting a troublemaker in his place.
He steered the cruiser down the ramp of the department’s rear sally port—the secure underground garage where prisoners were unloaded. The heavy steel overhead door closed behind them with a loud, mechanical thud, locking out the sunlight and sealing them inside the reinforced concrete belly of the Oak Creek Police Headquarters.
"Alright, big guy," Higgins said, stepping out of the car and pulling open the rear door. "End of the line. Let's go."
He made no effort to assist Beatatrice. Instead, he grabbed the back of Beatatrice’s sweatshirt collar and yanked hard. Beatatrice’s feet caught the lip of the door frame, and he tumbled out onto the concrete floor, landing heavily on his hip. He swallowed a sharp cry of pain, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself back up to his feet. His hoodie was torn at the shoulder, dirty grey fabric streaked with road grime, and the left side of his face was swollen, marked by a dark purple bruise where he had hit the roof of the vehicle.
"Move," Higgins ordered, shoving Beatatrice toward the heavy steel door leading into the processing facility.
They walked into the intake area. On a Sunday morning, the room was usually a hive of low-level chaotic activity—off-duty officers finishing shift paperwork, individuals sleeping off weekend intoxication, the pungent smell of industrial floor cleaner mixing with burnt coffee. Higgins marched Beatatrice through the center of the room like a hunter parading a trophy. He held his chin high, wanting every officer in the room to witness his arrest.
"Got a live one," Higgins announced loudly, puffing out his chest. "Found him stripping metal off the playground structures down on Fourth. Resisted, got aggressive, tried to throw hands. Adding assault on an officer to the charge sheet."
The lies came with effortless ease, born from years of working in environments where an officer's word was treated as absolute truth.
He shoved Beatatrice toward the high counter of the booking desk, where Sergeant Tom Miller sat behind a computer terminal. Miller was a thirty-year veteran of the force, a man with thick silver hair, worn eyes, and a broad chest that filled out his uniform. He was typing a routine maintenance report, barely paying attention to the incoming noise.
"Name?" Miller asked in a gravelly, indifferent voice, keeping his eyes fixed on his screen.
"Refused to identify," Higgins said smugly, leaning against the counter. "Logged him as a John Doe. Run his prints through the system, let’s see which county warrants he’s running from."
Miller typed a few more keystrokes, hit the enter button, and finally looked up over the rims of his reading glasses to inspect the arrestee.
The moment Miller’s eyes landed on Beatatrice, the low murmur of conversation in the booking room died instantly. It wasn't a gradual quiet. It was a sudden, absolute drop in atmospheric pressure, as if all the sound had been sucked out of the space by a vacuum.
Miller’s hands froze over the keyboard. His jaw slackened. He stood up so fast his heavy swivel chair crashed backward against the filing cabinets.
Higgins frowned, sensing the sudden shift in energy but entirely misinterpreting its origin. "What? Is he one of our regulars?"
Miller didn't answer him. He stared at Beatatrice, a look of sheer, unadulterated terror washing over his face. He looked at the deep purple bruise blooming across the mayor’s cheekbone. He looked at the ripped, dirty sweatshirt. He looked at the tight metal handcuffs digging into the bloodied skin of Beatatrice’s wrists.
Then Miller’s head snapped toward Higgins. The expression in his eyes was not anger—it was panic.
"Higgins," Miller whispered, his voice shaking noticeably. "What... what did you do?"
"I told you," Higgins said, his voice faltering slightly as he looked around the room. "He was vandalizing the park. I took him down."
"You took him down?" Miller repeated, his voice exploding into a frantic shout. "You took him down?!"
"Yeah! He wouldn't show ID, he got hostile—"
Miller scrambled around the end of the counter, moving faster than anyone had seen him move in a decade. He rushed over to Beatatrice, his hands hovering in the air near Beatatrice’s arms, terrified to even touch him.
"Mr. Mayor," Miller stammered, his face turning pale. "Mr. Mayor... I... I am so sorry. I don't... I don't know what this idiot—"
Higgins stood paralyzed. The blood seemed to drain from his body, leaving a cold, hollow sensation in his chest. The word repeated in his head, over and over, deafeningly loud.