Lou walked back to his cruiser and ran it through the system. Derek stood by his truck with his arms at his sides. The morning sun was getting warmer. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck.
Two minutes later Lou walked back.
“He’s clean. No warrants. Nothing.”
Wade’s jaw flexed. He didn’t like clean. Clean meant he had nothing to hold on to. Clean meant this man was exactly what he appeared to be—a sixty-two-year-old who’d been minding his own business and drinking his own coffee. But Wade Greer didn’t operate on facts.
He started walking a slow circle around Derek’s truck, running one hand along the side panel like he was inspecting something he already owned.
“Something doesn’t feel right to me, Lou. I think I smell something coming from this vehicle.”
Derek’s voice was flat and steady.
“There is nothing in this truck.”
“Well, I guess we’ll find out. Lou, open it up.”
Lou hesitated—just for a second. Something crossed his face, a flicker of something that might have been conscience or might have just been nerves. Then it was gone. He opened the passenger door without consent, without a warrant, without probable cause.
Derek spoke clearly, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.
“I do not consent to this search. I am stating for the record that I do not consent.”
“Noted,” Wade said. He wasn’t even looking at Derek. He was already going through the glove compartment—registration papers, a pack of tissues, a small flashlight. He tossed each item onto the passenger seat. Lou searched the back seat—floor mats, an old jacket, a pair of reading glasses in a case. Nothing.
Then Wade found it.
Under the back seat, pushed against the frame—a locked metal case, dark brown, about the size of a shoebox, heavy.
“Well, well.” He pulled it out and set it on the hood. “What do we have here?”
For the first time that morning, something shifted in Derek’s eyes. Not fear. Something older than fear. Something protective.
“That is my personal property. It is locked. You have no right to open it.”
“Lou, find me something.”
“Wade, I don’t think we should—”
“Did I stutter?”
Lou pulled a flat-head screwdriver from his cruiser’s tool kit and handed it over without looking at Derek. Wade jammed it into the latch and twisted. The lock gave with a snap. He flipped the case open.
Inside, laid on a bed of dark green velvet, were four items: a faded military photograph of a young man in dress uniform standing straight, eyes forward; a folded American flag in a triangular frame; a leather journal with worn edges; and a small velvet box.
Wade picked up the velvet box and opened it. Inside sat a Bronze Star medal, the ribbon slightly faded, the medal still catching the morning light. He held it up between two fingers like it was something he’d found in a junk drawer.
“The hell is this? What, you buy this at a yard sale? Pick it up somewhere cheap?”
Derek said nothing. But his hands—those steady, calloused hands—closed into fists at his sides.
Wade tossed the medal. Just tossed it. It hit the asphalt, bounced once, and rolled under the truck.
“Junk.”
He dropped the case on the ground. The photograph slid out onto the pavement. The journal’s pages caught the morning breeze and fluttered open.
“Lou, I’m not finding anything illegal, but this man had an attitude problem in there. I think we need to hold him here until we figure out what’s going on.”
Lou pulled out his handcuffs and looked at Derek.
“Sir, I’m going to need you to sit down on the curb.”
“On what charge?”
“Obstruction.”
“Obstruction of what?”
No answer. Because there was no answer. There was no crime. No charge. Nothing—except two men with a badge and a last name, and one man who’d refused to be afraid.
Derek sat down on the curb. A sixty-two-year-old man. A veteran. Sitting on a concrete curb in the town where he was born, his knee bleeding through his khakis, his palms raw, his Bronze Star somewhere under his truck in the dirt.
Wade pulled out his phone, threw his arm around Lou’s shoulder, held the camera out.
Click.