The zipper had opened.
A folded service cap lay partly exposed.
Beside it, an old leather credential wallet had slid onto the pavement.
The young trooper had picked it up.
Opened it.
Looked at it for barely a second.
Then thrown it onto the sedan’s hood.
“Your old badge doesn’t mean anything out here.”
The old man looked toward it.
The leather wallet had been issued to him more than thirty years earlier.
Inside was a retired-investigator credential from the State Bureau of Criminal Investigation.
It had expired in an official sense long ago.
But retired credentials were still recognized as identification.
More importantly, there was a phone number printed beneath the retirement notation.
A verification number.
The trooper had never called it.
The elderly man looked back at him.
“What did dispatch tell you about my license?”
The officer frowned.
“What?”
“My license.”
“Valid.”
“Registration?”
“Valid.”
“Insurance?”
“Valid.”
“Any warrants?”
The officer’s jaw tightened.
“None.”
“Then what exactly are you investigating?”
The blonde officer’s eyes shifted toward her partner.
The young trooper stepped closer.
“I don’t need you interrogating me.”
“I asked one question.”
“You’ve been asking questions since I stopped you.”
“That tends to happen when a man in uniform tells me I’m being detained.”
The young trooper’s nostrils flared.
“You think because you’re wearing medals, you get to tell me how this works?”
“No.”
The old man looked down at the officer’s body camera.
“I think because you’re wearing one, you should know.”
The blonde trooper’s expression changed.
A tiny flicker.
The young officer noticed.
His embarrassment became anger.
He shoved the old man again.
This time harder.
“Enough.”
The elderly veteran caught his balance.
His right hand twitched once.
Not toward the officer.
Toward his side.
An old instinct.
Control the body.
Stay centered.
He lowered his arm.
The trooper smirked.
“That costume doesn’t impress me.”
The old man’s face became still.
Not blank.
Still.
There was a difference.
The blonde trooper unfolded her arms.
Something about the older man’s silence made her uncomfortable.
He said:
“Call your commander.”
The young trooper laughed.
“You don’t get to give orders here.”
“I am not giving one.”
The old man looked toward the shoulder radio clipped near his collar.
“I’m offering you the last easy option available.”
The trooper stared at him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Call your commander.”
“You threatening me?”
“No.”
“Then stop talking like some movie general.”
The old man almost corrected him.
Colonel.
Not general.
He decided not to.
The young trooper kicked the black travel bag farther down the shoulder.
The service cap tumbled out.
It landed crown-down in dust.
For the first time, anger visibly entered the elderly man’s face.
The blonde trooper saw.
“Evan.”
The young officer turned.
“What?”