“Those are too tight.”
“You’ll survive.”
Terrence’s eyes settled on him.
Langley immediately regretted the sentence, though he did not understand why.
The elderly woman spoke.
“He didn’t do anything.”
Everyone looked at her.
She tightened both hands around her purse.
“He came in to report his wallet.”
Carver said:
“Ma’am, stay out of police business.”
The woman stared at him.
“This is a police station. I thought citizens were the business.”
No one laughed.
Terrence gave her a small nod.
“Thank you.”
Then the officers led him down the hallway.
As he passed the front counter, he looked once toward the open folder.
Afternoon sunlight through the glass doors struck the Silver Star Medal.
For an instant, the metal flashed brightly.
Terrence’s expression did not show fear.
It showed exhaustion.
Not physical exhaustion.
Something older.
The disappointment of watching people repeat mistakes they insisted belonged to another generation.
The interrogation room was twelve feet long and painted a gray that seemed designed to erase time.
A metal table was bolted to the floor.
Three chairs.
A camera in the corner.
No windows.
Terrence sat with his cuffed hands in front of him after Carver reluctantly agreed to reposition the restraints.
Langley sat across the table.
Carver stood near the wall.
Doyle remained by the door with her phone.
Terrence noticed.
“Is that departmental equipment?”
he asked.
Doyle glanced at the phone.
“My phone.”
“Are you recording?”
“It’s documentation.”
Carver answered for her.
Terrence looked toward the official camera in the corner.
“You already have departmental documentation.”
Doyle lowered the phone slightly.
Carver sat.
“Let’s start again.”
Terrence waited.
“Where did you obtain the military card?”
“It belongs to me.”
“Where did you obtain the Silver Star?”
“It was awarded to me.”
“For what?”
“Combat service.”
“What unit?”
Terrence gave him a unit designation.
Carver wrote it down.
“When?”
Terrence gave a year.
“What operation?”
“That information is partly classified.”
Langley laughed.
Terrence looked at him.
Langley stopped.
Carver continued.
“You’re asking us to believe you were a four-star general.”
“I am asking you to verify a fact.”
“You expect me to believe a four-star general retires here?”
“Yes.”
“Drives a rusted pickup?”
“Yes.”
“Lives in a twelve-hundred-square-foot house?”
Terrence almost smiled.
“I did not realize rank came with a minimum square footage requirement.”
Doyle covered a smile.
Carver noticed.
She stopped immediately.
He leaned forward.
“Men fake service all the time.”
Terrence’s face went still.
“They buy medals.”
“Yes.”
“Print IDs.”
“Yes.”
“Tell stories.”
“Yes.”
“Get free meals.”
Terrence looked at him for several seconds.
Carver shifted slightly under the stare.
Finally Terrence said:
“You believe thirty-four years of military service would be worth inventing for a restaurant discount?”
Carver shrugged.
“People do strange things.”
“That is true.”
Terrence leaned back.
“You have demonstrated that today.”
Langley slapped his palm against the table.
“Watch your mouth.”
Terrence turned toward him.
The room went silent.
Langley had expected the older man to flinch.
He did not.
Terrence’s voice came quietly.
“Officer Langley, if you intend to charge me, charge me.”
“If you intend to verify my identity, verify it.”
“But stop performing for the room.”
Doyle’s eyes widened.
Carver said:
“You’re in no position to give instructions.”