“Where’d you get that costume?”
I looked down at myself.
“This isn’t a costume.”
“Sure.”
He tossed the coffee into a trash can and walked toward me.
I was accustomed to being recognized in official settings.
That was very different from expecting every patrol officer in Virginia to recognize my face.
I did not expect that.
I did expect professional verification.
There was a difference.
Halpern stopped several feet away.
“You got a convention around here?”
“No.”
“Parade?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing dressed like that?”
“I’m attending an official ceremony.”
He laughed.
“Official for who?”
“Virginia State Police.”
His laughter became louder.
Two shoppers turned.
I remember thinking that was the precise moment the interaction shifted.
Before then, this could still have been misunderstanding.
Afterward, he seemed entertained.
“You expect me to believe you’re state police?”
“Yes.”
He walked around me.
I disliked that.
Not because I feared him.
Because circling someone while questioning them is rarely accidental.
It changes the relationship.
It tells the other person that they are being inspected.
“I know uniforms,” he said.
“Good.”
“And something’s wrong here.”
“What?”
He pointed toward the commissioner insignia.
“That.”
I looked down.
“What about it?”
“People don’t walk around shopping centers wearing that.”
“I just told you why I’m here.”
“You already gave me that story.”
“You asked twice.”
His mouth tightened.
That was my first mistake in his mind.
Not legally.
Socially.
I had answered without deference.
“Identification.”
I nodded.
“My credentials are inside my jacket.”
I began reaching slowly toward the inner pocket.
His hand shot toward his belt.
“Slow.”
I stopped immediately.
“My identification is where I just told you it is.”
“I said slow.”
I moved with exaggerated care.
Two fingers inside the jacket.
Credential wallet out.
Before I could open it completely, Halpern grabbed my wrist.
My eyes lifted.
“Officer.”
“What?”
“Let go.”
“Not until I know what you’re reaching for.”
“You instructed me to retrieve identification.”
“Then open it.”
He released my wrist.
I opened the wallet.
My photograph was visible.
Department seal.
State identification number.
Title.
Commissioner.
There was also a verification contact.
Halpern stared for perhaps two seconds.
Then laughed.
“That’s fake too.”
The sentence irritated me more than I expected.
“Call the verification number.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Yes, you do.”
That was my second mistake in his mind.
I had told him what he needed to do.
His expression changed.
“Don’t give me orders.”
“I’m giving you the simplest way to resolve the question you raised.”