"The full recording history of that device is to be preserved," Marcus continued. "Your in-car video and dispatch communications are also part of this incident. Do not delete, edit, discard, or privately review any related material." He turned to Voss. "You are a witness to the subsequent detention and the statements made after you arrived. You will provide your account to independent investigators."
"Captain, surely we can talk about this," Voss said. Marcus answered that they would, through a documented process that neither sergeant nor officer would control. He took out a pocket notebook and wrote the location, the approximate sequence of events, and the names and badge numbers displayed on the uniforms. Reigns watched the pen move as though each line were another link being secured around his wrists.
The sun was beginning to rise behind the buildings. Marcus had planned to meet the night shift and learn which officers kept the city running while most residents slept. Instead, he had found two men who believed the early hour gave them freedom to demand money with no witnesses. He closed the notebook and looked at them one final time.
"We are going to headquarters," he said. "Separately, by the most direct route. You will not discuss what happened with each other before your statements are taken." Voss started to protest, then thought better of it. Marcus returned to the SUV, adjusted the driver's seat, and placed his credentials back in his jacket.
When he started the engine, the dashboard still displayed the route to Central Precinct. Only the arrival time had changed. The little digital recorder on the passenger seat was still running, its battery indicator steady. He stopped it carefully and placed it beside his notebook, already thinking about evidence preservation rather than revenge.
In the mirror, he saw Reigns climbing into his cruiser. The officer had begun that morning believing a black man with an expensive vehicle was someone from whom he could extract cash. Now his patrol car would follow that same man toward the headquarters where Marcus was about to become his commanding officer. Neither of them knew yet how many other drivers had heard the same demand on the same dark roads.
The Westbridge Central Precinct occupied a three-story municipal building with narrow windows and a front entrance that had been renovated more recently than the rest of the structure. Its glass doors opened onto a tiled lobby, a public counter, and a bulletin board crowded with notices about missing pets, neighborhood meetings, and employment opportunities. The fluorescent lights had the tired, unchanging brightness of places that never really closed. A custodian was wiping the floor when Marcus arrived.
Officer Jennifer Torres stood at the overnight duty desk with a stack of reports balanced beside her keyboard. Marcus recognized her from a short orientation session the previous week, when she had asked a thoughtful question about how supervisors should respond to complaints involving veteran officers. She looked up at his approach and smiled in surprise. "Captain Ellison. I didn't expect to see you before the shift change."