Rollins hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Did he offer a way to verify his identity?”
“He—”
“Take the cuffs off.”
For a moment, Rollins appeared ready to refuse.
Then Carter stepped closer.
“Officer Rollins, remove the restraints. Now.”
This time, Rollins obeyed.
The handcuffs opened.
Arthur brought his hands forward. Red bands circled his wrists, and the skin beneath them was swollen.
Carter looked at him.
“Do you need medical attention?”
“No.”
“Sir, I—”
“Interview Room Two.”
Carter nodded.
“Of course.”
Arthur walked toward the corridor without asking permission.
For the first time that morning, Derek Rollins followed someone else.
The interview room was small and windowless, furnished with a metal table, four chairs, and a camera mounted in the upper corner.
Arthur sat down.
Rollins remained standing.
Miller took the chair closest to the door.
Carter entered last and closed it.
Rollins looked at the lieutenant.
“What is this?”
Carter ignored the question.
He turned toward Arthur.
“Mr. Pendleton, may I speak with you privately?”
“No.”
Rollins smiled faintly.
He seemed to believe Arthur's refusal supported his earlier judgment.
Arthur folded his hands carefully.
“I would like Officer Rollins to complete the interview he intended to conduct before you recognized me.”
The smile disappeared.
Rollins looked from Arthur to Carter.
“Recognized him?”
Carter sat down.
Arthur nodded toward the empty chair across from him.
“Please, Officer.”
Rollins hesitated before sitting.
“Fine. Full name.”
“Arthur James Pendleton.”
“Date of birth?”
Arthur answered.
“Occupation?”
“Federal employee.”
“What kind?”
“Administration.”
Rollins wrote something on the form.
“Where?”
“Washington.”
“Agency?”
“The Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
The officer's pen stopped.
He looked up.
“You work for the FBI?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do there?”
“Administration.”
“Badge?”
“At home.”
“Credentials?”
“At home.”
Rollins gave a thin smile.
“How convenient.”
Miller closed his eyes briefly.
Carter remained motionless.
Arthur waited.
Rollins finally asked, “What is your position at the Bureau?”
Arthur looked directly at him.
“Before I answer that, I would like you to explain why you arrested me.”
“I already did.”
“No. You listed possible offenses. Explain the facts supporting them.”
Rollins shifted in his chair.
“You were standing outside an expensive property in an area experiencing theft complaints.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting suspiciously.”
“What specifically?”
“You were at the mailbox.”
“My mailbox.”
“We didn't know that.”
“You declined every reasonable method I offered to verify it.”
“You didn't have identification.”
“Is it a crime to collect one's newspaper without carrying a driver's license?”
“No.”
“Did I give you a false name?”
“No.”
“Did I attempt to flee?”
“No.”
“Threaten you?”
“No.”
“Physically resist?”
Rollins glanced at Miller.
“No.”
“Then what transformed a homeowner without a wallet into a man in handcuffs?”
Rollins pushed his chair backward.
“I don't have to sit here and be interrogated by a suspect.”
“Sit down,” Carter said.
The lieutenant's voice left no room for negotiation.
Rollins slowly returned to his chair.
Arthur studied him.
Rollins was not unintelligent. He understood enough procedure to construct explanations around his conduct. His problem was that he believed his personal assumptions deserved greater authority than the facts in front of him.
Arthur had seen that attitude in institutions before.
It rarely announced itself as corruption.
It called itself instinct.
It called itself experience.
It called itself knowing what kind of person one was dealing with.
Arthur finally answered the question Rollins had asked.
“My position is Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Silence filled the room.
Rollins stared at him.
Then he laughed once.
“You expect me to believe that?”
Arthur turned toward Carter.
“Lieutenant?”
Carter's voice was quiet.
“He is the director.”
Rollins looked at the lieutenant as though he had begun speaking another language.
Carter continued.
“I met Director Pendleton at a regional task-force conference last January. He delivered the closing address.”
Miller whispered, “Oh, my God.”
Rollins looked back at Arthur.
His face had lost its color.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“You should have said something.”
Arthur let the words settle.
“I gave you my name.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I told you where my identification was.”
“You could have told me your position.”
“I told you where I worked.”
“Not at the house.”
“No.”
“Why?”