His colleagues had noticed the pattern. In the last year, a young officer named Devon Pike had written a memorandum about one of Kirby's roadside encounters, recording that the explanation for a search had changed between the verbal discussion and the report. The review concluded without discipline, partly because the recording angle had been poor and partly because the supervising lieutenant treated the incident as a disagreement over wording. Kirby remembered the review as persecution, not as a chance to improve.
That afternoon he had been looking forward to the end of his shift. His lieutenant had recently rejected another request for a specialized assignment, and the explanation had included the phrase professional judgment under stress. He had repeated those words to himself in the cruiser until they sounded like an insult. When he saw the dark Suburban in the loading zone, the vehicle offered him something much simpler than a disappointing performance review: a problem he believed he could solve by giving orders.
He ran the plate through his mobile terminal. The response displayed a federal exemption flag and an instruction to use established interagency verification procedures if additional confirmation was required. The entry did not identify a civilian owner, and Kirby disliked that immediately. To him, an unfamiliar answer was not information he needed to understand; it was a challenge to his ability to control the situation.
He leaned toward the windshield and tried to make out the driver. Through the limited angle beside the side mirror, he saw the outline of a man seated alone, facing forward. That single glimpse activated assumptions that had nothing to do with the information displayed on his screen. In Kirby's mind, the vehicle became a luxury car, the plates became a disguise, and the driver became a suspect before anything had happened to justify the progression.
"Federal, my foot," he muttered.
The cruiser rolled to a stop behind the Suburban. Kirby turned on his body camera, though he did not check whether it had completed its startup sequence, and unfastened his seat belt. He took his heavy flashlight from the door compartment even though sunlight still filled the intersection. The familiar weight in his hand made him feel prepared.
Toby watched him approach. He noticed the flashlight, the pace, and the fact that Kirby looked at the vehicle before looking at the person sitting inside it. He could not read the officer's mind and had no interest in trying. His immediate task was to keep a routine contact from interfering with a larger assignment.
Three sharp strikes against the driver's window announced Kirby's arrival. The sound made a pedestrian turn, and a bird startled out of the tree beside the building. Toby lowered the window a narrow distance so he could hear without exposing the interior of the vehicle. He looked up at the man standing outside and waited for the first question.
"License and registration," Kirby said.
"Good afternoon, Officer," Toby answered. "Before I reach for anything, I'll tell you where my identification is. I have a federal credential in my left breast pocket, and I can show it to you now."
"I didn't ask for a speech. License and registration."