"The man whose arms you pinned behind his back," Baines said, "has been inside this compound three separate times over the past four months. He has documented 261 criminal transactions, recovered the serial numbers of 47 stolen military weapons, and tonight collected the financial evidence that will be the backbone of a RICO prosecution. He told you who he was. He told you where his credentials were."
She paused.
"Did you look?"
Culvin said nothing.
"He told you to look," Baines said. "He instructed you. You chose not to."
"He didn't look like..." Culvin started.
"Like what?" Harmon said.
He was standing a few feet away now, and he said it quietly, without heat. The way a person states something that does not require emphasis, because it is simply true.
"Like a federal agent."
The corridor was very quiet for a moment.
The tactical team had moved forward into the building's interior to begin clearing the remaining sectors. In the distance, there were shouts and the sound of doors being opened. The compound was being secured.
The operation that Culvin had stumbled into was continuing without him. Around him. In spite of him.
"You're going to be transported to the field office," Baines said, her tone returning to the businesslike register she used for operational decisions. "Strip his duty belt and secure him. I want two agents with him at all times."
"You can't..." Culvin started.
"Officer," Baines said, "you are currently inside a federal crime scene. You entered without authorization. You assaulted a federal law enforcement officer, and you destroyed specialized surveillance equipment. The United States Attorney's Office will be contacted within the hour. You are done speaking."
The federal holding room at the Detroit field office was not designed for comfort and did not pretend otherwise.
Culvin had been sitting in it for three and a half hours when the door finally opened.
He had spent the first hour demanding his union representative, voice raised repeatedly toward the two-way mirror.
He had spent the second hour cycling between anger and a growing, nauseating awareness that the anger was not helping him.
He had spent the last 90 minutes sitting in silence, which was worse than the anger in ways he hadn't anticipated. Because silence gave him nothing to push against, and everything to think about.
Clarence Harmon walked into the room first, followed by Renata Baines.
Harmon had changed. He wore a pressed charcoal suit now, a white dress shirt with no tie, and his FBI credentials were clipped visibly to his belt. He was tall, composed, and looked nothing at all like the man who had been lying face down on a concrete floor three and a half hours ago.
Or rather, and this was the thing that worked on Culvin as the man crossed the room and sat down, he looked exactly like the same man. Which was the problem. Because the man had never changed at all. Only Culvin's perception of him had.