The sergeant turned toward the sound. The officer turned. The tow truck driver, who had been hooking the motorcycle's front wheel, let the chain hang loose in his hand and straightened up.
The three SUVs stopped in a tight arc thirty feet from the scene. The doors opened simultaneously. The men who stepped out were wearing body armor with three letters across the front, and the one who stepped out first was large, calm, and moving with the particular efficiency of someone who had prepared for exactly this situation.
The marshal. Forty-five years old, United States Marshal. He had the build of a man who had spent two decades in federal law enforcement, and the composure of a man who had spent ten of those years managing situations that other people had made significantly worse before he arrived.
He walked directly to the sergeant and held out a credentials case that contained more authority than the sergeant had accumulated in his entire career.
"I need you to stop what you're doing."
The sergeant looked at the credentials. He looked at the three SUVs. He looked at the eight additional agents who had fanned out across the scene with the professional discipline of people who were not there to argue.
"This is a local matter," he started.
"It was," the marshal said.
He moved past the sergeant and walked to her. He stopped in front of her. He looked at her steadily. There was no performance in his expression, no drama.
He said simply, "Your Honor, I apologize for the delay."
The officer standing fifteen feet away watched this exchange. The clipboard was still in his hand. He had stopped moving entirely.