It was a career-ending, city-burning, national news-making catastrophe. Sir, Mr. Mayor, I I have no words, Hayes stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was already walking towards his closet, pulling a uniform shirt off a hanger. Are you injured?
Did he strike you? No strikes, just unnecessary roughness and an illegal detainment, Aaron replied, his eyes tracking Brandon, who was sitting at a desk 50 feet away, laughing with another officer and pointing at Aaron. I want you to listen to me very carefully, Bob. Yes, sir, anything. Do not call the desk.
Do not alert the officers on the floor. I want this to play out naturally until you arrive. You are going to come down here personally, and you are going to bring Captain Patterson with you. I'm on my way, Mr. Mayor.
15 minutes. I am so profoundly sorry. Save the apologies for tomorrow, Bob. Just get here. Aaron hung up the phone.
The loud clack of the plastic receiver hitting the metal cradle echoed in the hallway. Time's up, Aaron, Brandon, clears throat, shouted from his desk. Did you wake up, Mommy? Aaron turned around. He looked at Brandon, a slow, dark smile creeping onto his face.
It wasn't a smile of humor. It was the smile of a predator watching a trap spring shut. No, Officer Brandon. Aaron said softly as he walked back toward his holding cell. I woke up, Daddy.
Brandon frowned, unsettled for a fraction of a second by the sheer confidence radiating from the man in the dirty socks. But his ego quickly suppressed the feeling. He shoved Aaron back into cell three and locked the door. Meanwhile, 3 miles away, Chief Hayes was flying down the wet, empty streets of Oakmont in his unmarked black SUV. The red and blue grill lights flashing silently.
His phone was pressed to his ear, ringing the private line of Captain Alaric Patterson, the commanding officer of the fourth precinct. Patterson, a strict, no-nonsense commander, was actually asleep in his private office on the second floor of the precinct. He often pulled double shifts, sleeping on a leather couch in his office. The phone vibrated violently against the glass coffee table, waking Patterson. He rubbed his eyes and answered.
Patterson. Alaric, it's Hayes. The chief's voice barked through the speaker, sounding breathless and panicked. Are you at the house? Yeah, Chief.
I'm upstairs in my office. What's going on? You sound out of breath. Alaric, listen to me very carefully. Get off that couch, get your uniform on, and get down to the bullpen immediately.
What's happened? Patterson asked, suddenly alert, standing up and reaching for his duty belt. One of your patrolmen, Brandon, car 44. He just brought in a suspect from Cedar Ridge. Brandon?
Patterson groaned. He hated Brandon. The man was a walking liability. What did he do this time? Shoot somebody's dog?
Worse, Alaric. Oh god, it's so much worse, Hayes said, his voice actually trembling. Go down to the desk. Look at the booking log. Do not make a scene.
Just secure the prisoner and wait for me. I'm pulling into your garage in 3 minutes. The line went dead. Patterson stared at his phone for a second. He had known Robert Hayes for 20 years.
He had never ever heard the man sound terrified. Patterson threw on his uniform jacket, didn't bother with the tie, and practically sprinted out of his office. He took the metal stairs down to the main floor, two at a time, his heavy boots echoing loudly in the stairwell. He burst through the security doors and into the bullpen. The room went instantly quiet.
Desk Sergeant Gable sat up, perfectly straight. Detectives stopped typing. Brandon, who was still casually filling out his arrest report, dropped his pen and stood up at attention. The captain never came down to the bullpen at 1:00 a.m. unless someone was dead. Patterson ignored all of them.
He walked directly to the elevated booking desk. He was a large man, broad-shouldered, with a stern, heavily lined face that commanded instant respect. Gable, Patterson snapped, pointing a thick finger at the desk sergeant. Give me the booking log right now. Gable, looking confused and slightly alarmed, quickly hit print on his computer.
He slid the warm piece of paper through the slot in the glass. Patterson snatched it. His eyes scanned the most recent entry. Arresting officer, T. Brandon, badge 8842.
Suspect name, Aaron Miles. Charges, failure to comply, resisting, suspicion of prowling. Patterson stopped breathing. The letters on the page seemed to blur and rearrange themselves. Aaron Miles.
He looked up slowly. His eyes locked onto Officer Thiago Brandon, who was standing a few feet away, looking slightly nervous but largely unconcerned. Brandon. Patterson whispered. The sound was so quiet, so filled with absolute unadulterated horror, that it made the hair on the back of Rookie Mitchell's neck stand up.
Yes, Captain. Brandon answered, trying to sound confident. Where is he? Patterson asked, his voice shaking. Where is the man you just brought in?