Saturday morning arrived clear and bitterly cold, with thin ice still hiding in the shadows behind the Silver Pines Police Department. The evidence yard had been arranged for television, and the enormous yellow crusher stood at its center like a machine brought in for a county fair. A steel conveyor rose toward its enclosed crushing chamber, and a round clock had been fixed high on the side so camera operators could show the exact time. Beside it waited a heavy metal bin secured by a chain and padlock, the inventory of 214 firearms covered by a tarp. A white table marked FEDERAL AUDITOR stood next to the restricted work area, its surface already crowded with clipboards, sealed folders, and a tablet.
Monica arrived at 9:25 wearing the emerald blazer over a white shirt, dark trousers, and sensible black shoes. She carried her father's wrench in one hand and a thick folder in the other; beneath her arm was the oak sign Ralph had asked her to keep safe. Her belt was empty, a fact she could feel every time she shifted the folder against her hip. She did not try to enter the evidence area, and she did not approach the crusher. She took a place at the public rope line, where the town had been invited to watch.
Ralph joined her a minute later, carrying his thermos and wearing the olive jacket whose old Air Force patch had started the friendship between them. Behind him came Beatrice with her little dog and the folding lawn chair that she had now made famous among their neighbors. Several other residents of Larkspur Bend stood together nearby, no longer willing to pretend the arrest in Monica's driveway had been something they could safely ignore. Their presence did not comfort her as much as their determination to witness everything made her feel responsible for getting the facts right.
Janice Hariston arrived carrying Cory's dark blue work jacket folded over one arm. Monica recognized it immediately from the small apartment where Janice had shown her the shoebox and the apprenticeship records. The older woman's face was pale, but she insisted that she wanted to stand where she could hear the serial numbers. "They've been saying my son's gun is evidence," Janice told Monica. "I want to see what kind of evidence it is if they destroyed it before he was arrested." Monica promised only that the auditor would be checking the records, and Janice nodded as though even that limited promise was worth the cold.
Across the yard, Captain Beexley was greeting a city council member beside the stage. He wore the same white command shirt as at the press conference and accepted a polished plaque from an aide with a smile practiced in front of mirrors. Copeland and Fowler waited near the chained bin