Pike disconnected the call.
Camille understood what he had done. A local caution was not a stolen vehicle entry; it warned officers to investigate, but did not establish probable cause by itself. Pike was building the source record backward from the arrest.
He opened a new report and typed while speaking each allegation aloud: Camille had accelerated away when signaled to stop. She had ignored repeated lawful commands. She had reached toward a concealed object. She had claimed to be sheriff only after officers discovered police equipment. The Harley displayed a plate associated with organized vehicle theft.
Every sentence transformed a documented act of compliance into evidence of guilt.
"I want my objection recorded," Camille said. "The report omits the clear return, the county transmission, my credential, my request for EMS, and Officer Van's correction."
Pike continued typing. "Suspect attempted to direct and intimidate personnel by invoking political authority."
The booking officer moved the credential case into a clear property bag. Pike stopped her before she sealed it. He changed the label from "verified identification" to "suspected counterfeit government credential."
"Where is the motorcycle registration?" Camille asked.
"Sloan Recovery will inventory the bike."
"Then place them on preservation notice, too."
Pike smiled without warmth. "You can make requests when we confirm who you are."
He selected three proposed charges: possession of a stolen vehicle, obstruction, and impersonating a peace officer. Then he attached the local caution he had called patrol intelligence. Van stood in the doorway, his face pale. His notebook remained beneath Pike's hand.
Pike pressed submit. The screen assigned a case number, and the lie became the official reason Camille Bennett was locked in a holding cell.
The holding cell had no clock, only a fluorescent panel that hummed above a steel bench. Camille sat with her right arm lifted away from her body. The leather sleeve had fused against the worst part of the burn, and each small movement pulled at the skin beneath it. Rain hammered the narrow window in the door.
When the booking officer finally returned with two paramedics, Pike followed them inside.
"She fell while resisting," he said.
The older paramedic examined the sleeve without touching it. "This is a contact burn. We need to cut the jacket and clean it at the hospital. She also reports a head strike."