"They took the vehicles," Sherman said as Clayton unlocked the office. "Did they take the burn-in server?"
Clayton stopped with his key halfway into the technical-room lock. The server was mounted in a metal cabinet beside the network switches. Every night, since the reliability test began, the cruisers' onboard camera systems had transmitted recordings over the shop's secured local network. That was how Reed Auto Shop could demonstrate that each camera continued operating for seventy-two hours under the agreed test conditions.
The server was still humming. A small green light blinked on its front panel. Clayton pulled up a chair while Sherman set the installation book on the desk, open to the page bearing the city's fleet inspector's signature. The signed schedule read: Thursday, September 24, 7:00 p.m., through Sunday, September 27, 7:00 p.m., twelve units, continuous reliability recording, subject to the technical specifications attached.
"Eight hundred sixty-four hours," Clayton said. "Twelve cars, seventy-two hours each."
"That's what they asked us to record," Sherman replied. "And unit seven had a clear view of the front lot."
Clayton opened the archive browser. A dozen numbered folders appeared, each with hourly files, diagnostic logs, and integrity information. He selected unit seven, September 26, the hour beginning seven in the morning. The file took several moments to load. He was tired enough to hear his own heartbeat while he waited.
At 7:09 the image appeared. Through unit seven's windshield, the lot looked almost peaceful. The red AUTO SHOP sign hung above the showroom. A silver SUV stood near the front entrance. Clayton, wearing his green hoodie, moved along the windshield with his father's yellow cloth. No one in the frame behaved like a person breaking into vehicles.
Then patrol car fourteen entered the lot. The camera captured Hagen stepping out, taking the cloth from Clayton's hand, and throwing it onto the SUV. It caught the way Lel accepted the driver's license and slipped it into a pocket without opening it. It caught the witnesses gathering by the showroom. Most painfully, it caught Clayton lowering himself onto the wet asphalt while the officers dismissed what everyone around them was saying.
Clayton stared when Lel lifted the badge. The gold star Hope had made flashed in the sun. The camera microphone caught the word "Owner" clearly before the badge flew through the air and landed in the puddle.
He replayed that moment three times. Sherman did not tell him to stop. The third time, Clayton reached over and paused the image on the small gold star. "I thought maybe he never really saw it," he said. "I kept telling myself that was possible."
"He saw it," Sherman answered. "The camera saw him see it."
At 7:15, the recording showed Lel holding up the brass ring and then placing it into his own shirt pocket. The timestamp continued. There was no evidence bag and no inventory form, only a uniformed hand pressing the flap closed. Clayton realized the video had recorded a detail he had tried for nearly a week to prove with nothing but his own words.