"There," Brooks pointed toward the back corner of the lot. "Bay seven."
Marcus could see his black SUV even from the entrance. It looked wrong somehow, like a familiar room with the furniture moved. The doors that Mercer had left hanging open were now closed. The hood was down. Someone had cleaned up the chaos.
"That's not how they left it," Marcus said.
Brooks pulled out her phone and called the federal forensics team waiting in their van. "We're here. Start photographing everything before we approach the vehicle."
Two FBI technicians emerged with professional cameras and evidence bags. Marcus watched them document the SUV from every angle, capturing details that would matter in court.
The impound supervisor, a tired-looking man named Rodriguez, approached with a clipboard. "Agent Brooks, I have the access log you requested."
She took the clipboard and scanned the entries: two visits—yesterday at 4:17 p.m., today at 11:30 a.m. Both signed by Lieutenant Wade Hollis.
"He said it was routine inventory procedures," Rodriguez explained. "Had proper authorization papers each time."
Marcus felt anger building in his chest. "Show me those papers."
Rodriguez flipped through his clipboard, frowning. "I thought they were... Let me check my office."
He walked away, leaving Marcus and Brooks standing beside the vehicle. The FBI technicians continued their work, documenting scratches and damage that hadn't been there during the roadside stop.
"Marcus," Brooks's voice was quiet but urgent. "Look at the rear passenger door."
He moved around the SUV and immediately saw what she meant: the door handle showed fresh tool marks, scratches in the metal that definitely hadn't existed yesterday.
"They forced entry," Marcus said.
"After it was impounded," Brooks confirmed. "After they had no legal authority to touch it."
The sound of approaching footsteps made them both turn. Lieutenant Wade Hollis walked through the impound gate flanked by two officers, his face set in hard lines.
"Agent Brooks," he called out. "I need to speak with you."
Brooks stepped between Hollis and the SUV. "Lieutenant, this vehicle is under federal examination. You have no authority here."
"That's where you're wrong," Hollis replied, producing a folded document from his jacket. "This SUV remains evidence in our ongoing investigation. The FBI has no jurisdiction over local police matters."
Marcus moved to Brooks's side, his voice deadly calm: "What investigation would that be, Lieutenant? The one where your officers illegally detained a federal agent, or the one where you're covering up evidence tampering?"
Hollis's jaw tightened. "Agent Vance, I understand you're upset about yesterday's misunderstanding, but making wild accusations won't—"
"Two visits," Marcus interrupted. "Your department accessed federal property twice after it was impounded. Why?"
"Routine inventory procedures, as I told the supervisor."
"Then you won't mind producing the signed inventory sheets."
Hollis glanced toward Rodriguez's office, then back at Marcus. "Those documents are being processed through proper channels."
Brooks stepped forward, her federal authority clear in her posture. "Lieutenant Hollis, I'm ordering this SUV sealed under joint evidence control effective immediately. Your officers will surrender all keys and step away from this investigation."
"You can't just—"
"I can and I will." Brooks pulled out her phone again. "I'm calling the US Attorney's Office right now. They'll explain federal jurisdiction over evidence tampering."
Hollis stared at her for several long seconds. Around them, the FBI technicians continued their documentation, their cameras clicking steadily. Finally, Hollis reached into his pocket and produced a keyring.
"This is a mistake," he said, dropping the keys into Brooks's outstretched hand.
"The only mistake was thinking you could cover this up," Marcus replied.
Hollis turned and walked back toward the gate, his officers following. But as Marcus began moving toward the SUV's rear compartment, another figure appeared outside the fence: Sergeant Travis Mercer stood beyond the chain link, his hands in his pockets, watching the FBI's examination with cold interest.
"Marcus," Brooks said quietly, noticing his attention shift.
Mercer stepped closer to the fence, close enough for his voice to carry: "Federal credentials don't make you untouchable, Vance."
The words hit like a physical blow. Marcus felt every muscle in his body tense as he stared back at the officer who had destroyed his vehicle and was now threatening him openly.
"Is that a threat, Sergeant?" Marcus called back.
Mercer smiled, a thin, humorless expression. "Just a friendly reminder about how things work around here."
Brooks placed a warning hand on Marcus's arm, but he was already moving toward the fence.
"How things work?" Marcus's voice carried across the impound lot. "You mean like illegally detaining federal agents? Like ordering officers to disable body cameras? Like breaking into impounded vehicles?"
Mercer's smile faded. "You don't know what you're dealing with."
"I know exactly what I'm dealing with," Marcus replied. "A corrupt cop who's about to lose everything."
For a moment, the two men stared at each other through the chain-link fence. Then Mercer turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness beyond the floodlights.
Brooks pulled Marcus back toward the SUV. "We have work to do."
The FBI technicians had finished their exterior documentation. Marcus approached the rear compartment where he kept his federal case materials—the same compartment Mercer had torn apart yesterday. Brooks handed him a pair of evidence gloves.
"Open it," she said.