Now it was just a matter of running the guy's ID and hauling him downtown to let him rot in a holding cell for the night. Inside the back of the cruiser, the air was stale, smelling faintly of sweat, industrial cleaner, and old fear. The heavy plexiglass partition separated Agrippa from the front seat. His wrists throbbed where the steel cuffs clamped tightly against his bones, the ratchets having been tightened one notch too far. The rain drummed relentlessly against the roof of the car.
Agrippa sat perfectly upright, his breathing slow and measured. He closed his eyes, mentally cataloging every sequence of the last 10 minutes, the fabricated traffic violation, the illegal command, the unconstitutional search, the excessive force, the false arrest.
In the front seat, Decker was whistling a tuneless melody. He picked up Agrippa's driver's license, wiping a droplet of water off the plastic and keyed his radio. "Dispatch, this is 4 Bravo."
"Go ahead, 4 Bravo." The dispatcher's voice crackled through the speaker, sounding bored.
"Got a 10-15 here. Need you to run a name and date of birth for wants and warrants," Decker said, leaning back in his seat and resting his boots near the brake pedal.
"Copy. Send it."
"Name is Graham. First name Agrippa. Date of birth is 04-12-1964."
"Copy that, 4 Bravo. Stand by."
Decker tossed the license onto the passenger seat and picked up his phone, starting to type a text to his union rep bragging about bagging a suit who thought he owned the road. Thirty seconds passed, then a minute.
"Dispatch, 4 Bravo. You get a hit on that yet?" Decker asked, slightly annoyed by the delay.
The radio buzzed. The dispatcher's voice returned, but the boredom was entirely gone. It was replaced by a tight, nervous hesitation. "Uh, 4 Bravo, can you confirm the name on that ID again?"
"I said Agrippa Graham," Decker snapped, rolling his eyes. "What's the holdup? Does he have a warrant or not?"
"4 Bravo, hold your position. Do not initiate transport. I repeat, do not transport."
Decker frowned, a tiny prickle of unease finally piercing his arrogance. "Dispatch, suspect is cuffed and in the vehicle. I'm ready to transport to central. Why am I holding?"
"4 Bravo, I am patching in the watch commander," the dispatcher said, her voice dropping an octave.
Decker sat forward, taking his boots off the floorboard. The watch commander for a routine traffic stop. Before he could get an answer, the radio crackled again. It wasn't the watch commander.
"Unit 4 Bravo, this is Chief Keller."
Decker nearly dropped his radio. Chief Thomas Keller was the head of the Oakridge Police Department. He never under any circumstances got on the dispatch frequency at midnight on a Tuesday unless a bank was being robbed or an officer was down.
"Okay, Chief," Decker stammered, pressing the talk button. "This is Officer Decker. I've got a suspect."