Raymond heard Sandra call his name from behind the front door. "I'm not attacking you," he answered, keeping his hands in view as much as Puit's grip allowed. "You're holding my arm. I'm asking you to let it go."
Puit released one hand and snapped his other toward the baton at his belt. The metal sections extended with a sharp sound that cut through the neighborhood noise. He lifted the baton high enough for everyone watching to understand what could happen next. Dorothy made a small, involuntary noise, and Marcus tightened his grip on the phone, holding the image steady despite the shaking in his fingers.
In the kitchen, Sandra heard her husband's voice change. She had known him long enough to distinguish ordinary calm from the particular controlled tone he used when lives depended on other people following instructions. The sound brought her out of the kitchen, through the hallway, and toward the front window. When she saw the raised baton and Raymond standing beside their car, the coffee cup in her hand shook against its saucer.
Raymond saw her silhouette and felt fear settle through him with a precision he had never experienced at a homicide scene or in a courtroom. He could tolerate a threat against himself without losing his train of thought. He could not tolerate the possibility that Sandra might open the door and walk into an encounter this officer was already struggling to control. He needed the scene to become safer immediately, and he had one remaining means of changing Puit's understanding of it.
"Officer Puit," he said, his voice firm but not raised, "lower the baton. I am not presenting a threat to you." Puit hesitated.
For three seconds, his arm held its position and his face seemed to register the authority in Raymond's tone without understanding its source. "You don't give me orders," he said, though the words emerged with less force than he intended. Raymond took no step toward him. "I'm telling you what I'm going to do next, so there is no misunderstanding."
"Keep your hands where I can see them," Puit ordered. "I will," Raymond said.
"I need to remove a credential wallet from my back pocket. I'm going to move slowly. You can watch every movement." He waited while Puit stared at him, then turned his right hand outward and reached toward the pocket with deliberate care. There was no sudden motion, no attempt to conceal anything, and no reason for the officer to mistake what followed for an attack.
The leather wallet was old and soft at the corners, its surface worn smooth by more than two decades of use. Raymond held it at chest height without opening it immediately. Puit's gaze fixed on the shape, and something unsettled moved across his face. Then Raymond opened it, revealing the gold detective sergeant's shield beside a departmental identification card bearing his photograph, his name, and his Major Crimes assignment.
"Detective Sergeant Raymond A. Doss," Raymond said.
"Garland City Police Department. Major Crimes Division. Star number four-four-seven." He did not raise the wallet higher or move closer. He simply held the credential where Puit could examine it, as he had examined thousands of credentials during his own career.