He called his operations supervisor.
"Take the heavy recovery truck. I'm coming with you."
The supervisor sounded surprised.
"It's just a pickup."
Vane looked toward the office door.
"Not this one."
Chief Deputy Redd reached Cleary by radio while the sheriff was waiting for the tow truck.
"Arthur, I need to talk to you about the Brooks stop."
Cleary frowned.
"What about it?"
"Federal investigators are asking questions."
"I heard."
"What's the basis for the arrest?"
"Fraudulent identification and obstruction."
Redd paused.
"Have you verified the identification?"
Cleary looked toward the broken card.
For a moment, he didn't answer.
Then said, "It looked fake."
Redd frowned.
"Did you contact the issuing agency?"
"No."
"Then how do you know?"
Cleary's tone sharpened.
"Thomas, I've been doing this longer than some of these deputies have been alive."
Redd remained calm.
"That's not what I asked."
The sheriff stared toward the road.
For several seconds, he seemed ready to explode.
Then he spoke quietly.
"Stay out of this."
Redd leaned backward in his chair.
"Arthur, I'm trying to make sure we have a lawful basis for what's happening."
Cleary laughed bitterly.
"You sound like the man I just arrested."
Redd didn't answer immediately.
Then said, "I'm requesting that you preserve the vehicle, the identification, and every recording associated with the stop."
The sheriff's expression hardened.
"Don't tell me how to handle evidence."
The radio went silent.
Redd stared at the device.
For the first time, he understood that the problem might be much worse than an ordinary dispute over a traffic citation.
A young deputy named Evan Holt arrived at County Road 44 shortly before the tow truck.
Holt was twenty-nine, with short dark hair and a cautious manner. He'd joined the sheriff's office three years earlier after serving in the National Guard, and he knew enough about military identification to recognize that the accusation against Isaiah required proper verification.
He parked behind Cleary's SUV.
Then stepped out.
"Evening, Sheriff."
Cleary glanced toward him.
"It's barely three."
Holt smiled weakly.
"Long day."
The sheriff pointed toward the Ford.
"Secure the truck until Redline gets here."
Holt approached the pickup.
The driver's door was open.
He looked inside.
Then noticed the two broken pieces of a military identification card on the seat.
For several seconds, he stared.
He recognized the general format.
The photograph.
And the retirement information.
He carefully photographed the pieces as part of documenting the scene, without moving them.
Then he looked toward Cleary.
"Sheriff, what happened to the ID?"
Cleary shrugged.
"Counterfeit."
Holt frowned.
"Was it examined?"
The sheriff's expression darkened.