He had expected possible resistance from people whose decisions might come under review. He had not expected resistance to arrive before anyone even read the document. That difference would matter later, although Malcolm did not know how much yet. For the moment, there were scraps of federal paper on the floor, a police officer standing over them, and a reception clerk staring at a telephone that should have been allowed to ring.
Twenty minutes after Malcolm filed the failed-service report, a dark federal sedan turned into the East Ridge parking lot. It stopped beside a delivery van, and three people stepped out into the rain without looking toward the building's front windows. The woman leading them was Special Agent Renee Carter, an investigator whose voice rarely rose above conversational volume and whose questions had a habit of making confident people wish they had spoken less. She carried a narrow hard-sided folder containing the issuing court's authentication materials. The two investigators behind her brought a camera kit and a secure evidence terminal.
Renee had worked with Malcolm on three previous cases, though they had never been close friends. What she trusted about him was not that he was incapable of making mistakes; she trusted that he recorded the mistakes he made with the same care he devoted to everybody else's. When the operational alert reached her, she had read the initial report twice before leaving the field office. She called him once on the way, asked whether he was injured or being held, and received two plain answers: no and no. She did not ask him to describe Travis's attitude or speculate about motive over the telephone.
As she entered the lobby, Hannah straightened behind the reception desk. Travis did not move from the wall until he saw the credentials displayed and the evidence equipment carried in by the other agents. Malcolm stood from the bench, but Renee raised one hand to keep him where he was for the moment. The first thing she wanted was not his account. It was an uncontaminated view of the room.
"Has anyone moved the paper?" she asked Hannah.
"No, ma'am. Officer Morrow tore it at the counter. It's been there since."
Renee nodded toward the nearest investigator. He photographed the entrance, the reception counter, the clock, the position of the fragments, and the route from the counter to the bench. A woman who had been waiting to file a property report asked whether she should come back later. Renee reassured her that the station could continue handling ordinary business while the scene was documented. That distinction was intentional: federal investigators had arrived to examine a specific event, not to occupy the building for the sake of spectacle.