Officer Coleman leaned over the counter, still smiling, and said that if Marcus Hayes was really a general, then he himself must be the president of the United States. The other officers chuckled again, and one of them reached out and picked up the metal box, turning it over in his hands as though it were a child's toy rather than something a man had carried through war zones, hospital beds, and funerals for men who never came home.
Marcus finally spoke, his voice low and even, asking only that someone take his report about the stolen wallet so he could be on his way.
Nobody answered him directly. Instead, Officer Coleman told him to stay right where he was, because in his professional opinion, wearing military decorations without proper authorization was a federal offense, and impersonating an officer was not something the department took lightly, regardless of how quiet or polite the man standing before them happened to be.
Within minutes, two officers stepped around the counter and asked Marcus to place his hands behind his back. He did not resist. He did not raise his voice. He simply turned, exhaled slowly, and allowed the cold metal of the handcuffs to close around his wrists while the small crowd of officers watched—some smirking, some already turning back to their desks—as though nothing unusual had happened at all.
As he was led toward the back hallway, Marcus glanced once at the folder still lying open on the counter, the silver star catching a thin ray of afternoon light. Something in his expression suggested not fear, but a tired, familiar disappointment—the kind that comes from watching history repeat itself in a uniform he once wore with pride.
A few onlookers near the entrance, ordinary citizens waiting to file their own reports, exchanged uneasy glances. One elderly woman shook her head slowly, as though she had seen this particular scene play out before in one form or another, more times than she cared to count. Nobody in that waiting room spoke up on his behalf, and Marcus did not expect them to, understanding all too well how quickly a crowd could turn into an audience for someone else's cruelty without ever intending to.
The interrogation room was small, painted a dull shade of gray, with a single table bolted to the floor and a camera blinking quietly in the corner. Marcus was seated across from two officers, Coleman and a heavy-set sergeant named Dale Pruitt, both of whom seemed convinced they had caught something significant.
Pruitt slid a notepad across the table and asked Marcus to explain, in detail, where he had obtained the medal, the identification card, and what he intended to do with them. Marcus answered plainly, stating that the items belonged to him, that he had served for over thirty years, and that the wallet containing his current identification had been stolen that same morning, which was the entire reason he had walked into the station in the first place.