Then the water bottle.
The senior officer stood still.
The mother looked at him.
Finally he bent down.
He reached toward the jersey.
Her son stopped him.
“I’ll get it.”
The teenager stepped forward.
The senior officer straightened.
The boy picked up his own jersey.
Mud stained one sleeve.
He stared at it.
The mother saw.
Something inside her sharpened further.
The younger officer returned to the cruiser to close the call.
Then stopped.
A notification had appeared on the mobile terminal.
He frowned.
He clicked.
The dispatch notes expanded.
The mother noticed.
“What?”
The younger officer did not answer.
He read another line.
Then another.
His expression changed.
The senior officer called:
“What is it?”
The younger officer looked at him.
“Nothing.”
But his face said otherwise.
The mother walked toward the cruiser.
She stopped several feet away.
“What did dispatch send?”
The younger officer looked uncertain.
The senior officer approached.
“I'll handle it.”
The younger officer turned the monitor slightly away from him.
That small movement changed the atmosphere.
The senior officer noticed.
“What are you doing?”
The younger officer said, “The supplemental call notes just loaded.”
The mother waited.
The senior officer asked:
“So?”
The younger officer read silently.
His forehead tightened.
Then he looked toward the house across the street.
The white woman on the porch had stepped backward.
The mother followed his gaze.
“What does it say?”
The young officer swallowed.
“Ma’am…”
The mother’s heart accelerated.
“What?”
“The caller knew your son’s name.”
The teenager looked up.
His mother froze.
The senior officer frowned.
“What?”
The young officer read:
“Caller identified subject as the Mayor’s son.”
Silence spread across the street.
The woman across the road lowered her phone.
The mother looked at her.
Then back at the computer.
“That makes no sense.”
The young officer continued.
“Caller said she knows he lives nearby.”
The senior officer’s face changed.
The mother stared.
“So this was never a report about an unknown teenager.”
“No, ma’am.”
The younger officer scrolled.
Then his expression became even more uncomfortable.
“There’s more.”
The mother’s voice went quiet.
“Read it.”
The young officer hesitated.
She did not order him.
She simply waited.
Finally he read:
“Caller stated, ‘I know whose boy he is. That doesn’t mean he should be wandering around here with that bag. Somebody needs to teach him not to make residents uncomfortable.’”
The teenager’s face went blank.
His mother felt a wave of nausea.
Not rage.
Not yet.
Something colder.
The caller knew.
She knew who he was.
Knew where he lived.
Knew he was the mayor’s son.