40 yards back, the old man kept recording. Lennox turned, placed his hands behind his back, and let the cuffs close around his wrists without a single word of resistance. Over his shoulder, he said only one thing. Make sure your report says I complied.
Toiver dug the Bentley remote out of Lennox's pocket and walked to the back of the car. Cara followed him. Wade, think about this before you open that trunk. I am thinking. No, you're trying to justify what you already did. He pressed the button anyway, and the trunk rose slowly.
There it was, sitting alone in the center of the cargo space. The black metal case, numbered seals, evidence tape, the white label, restricted. Transition integrity review. Neither deputy moved. For a few seconds, the only sound on Highway 64 was the wind moving through the tobacco.
That case has a control number. Verify it before you touch it. If you break that seal without authority, everything inside becomes your responsibility. He's right, Wade.
Call it in. Check the number first. Nobody asked either one of you.
Toiver tore the tape off anyway. Inside were folders, sealed envelopes, audit summaries, and a small encrypted drive. Every item stamped with its own control label. Toiver opened the first folder.
Internal complaints. He opened a second. His eyes moved down the page and stopped.
He didn't need to read any further. His own name was right there in black type. Toiver W. Evidence discrepancy, prior complaint, report modification pending review.
He turned the page and found another name, one that made his hands go colder still. Captain Russell Puit, approving supervisor again and again. And near the bottom of the page, a column of complaint numbers that went back more than 30 years.
He shut the case hard and turned around. You're being detained on suspicion of unlawful possession of restricted county material. You don't know that it's unlawful. You never checked. I know your name ain't on a single page in there. Be careful what you decide never happened, deputy.
Wade Toiver sat in his cruiser with the door shut for almost a full minute. He didn't move. Then he turned the dash camera over, found the memory card slot, and slid the card into the reader wired to his patrol computer. He opened the most recent file.
The recording started before he ever left his car. The camera's tiny microphone picked up something Toiver had forgotten he'd said. It was his own voice muttering through his open window as he walked up. low and careless: car like that, man like him, on this road on a Sunday. He paused the video. His face had gone a deep blotchy red.