“I am trying to prevent you from making another mistake.”
The sheriff shoved him again.
This time Isaiah’s shoulder hit the truck harder.
Mooney said quietly, “Sheriff.”
Cleary spun.
“What?”
“We could run his name.”
“I already told you what he is.”
Mooney looked at the broken card visible on the seat.
“What if it’s real?”
Cleary’s smile turned ugly.
“Then he can explain it at the station.”
Isaiah closed his eyes for one second.
Not because he was frightened.
Because he was exhausted.
He had spent years in places where mistakes carried immediate consequences.
Here, mistakes seemed almost casual.
Sheriff Cleary put Isaiah into the back seat of the cruiser and slammed the door.
Through the partition, Isaiah watched Mooney walk reluctantly around the truck.
The deputy did not search deeply.
He opened the center console.
Glove compartment.
Looked beneath the front seats.
Then he found the retirement packet.
He stood with it in his hands.
The packet contained federal forms, separation documents, medical paperwork, travel orders, and a dozen other pages that would have clarified everything.
Mooney carried it toward Cleary.
“Sheriff.”
“What?”
“You should see this.”
Cleary barely looked.
“Paper can be printed.”
“There are seals.”
“So?”
“His name’s on everything.”
“Anybody can type a name.”
Mooney stared at him.
Isaiah watched the deputy realize what had already become obvious.
Cleary did not want verification.
He wanted confirmation.
And he would reject anything that failed to confirm the story he had already chosen.
The sheriff shut the truck.
“Towed.”
Isaiah leaned forward.
“That vehicle is legally parked.”
Cleary turned.
“Not anymore.”
“You’re impounding it?”
“You were arrested.”
“For what?”
“Reckless driving.”
“Fake identification.”
“Resisting arrest.”
“And now obstruction.”
Isaiah almost laughed.
Cleary noticed.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
“What’s funny?”
“That list keeps growing.”
The sheriff opened the rear door.
“Say one more thing.”
Isaiah looked at him.
“Your radar reading is false.”
Cleary smiled.
Then slammed the door.
Coopersville was small enough that the sheriff’s office shared a building with the county tax assessor and emergency management department.
The station looked as though it had not been renovated since the late 1980s.
Brown brick.
Narrow windows.
Fluorescent lighting.
A faded state flag near the entrance.
Isaiah was brought through a side door at 3:41 p.m.
Deputy Mooney removed the cuffs.
Red marks circled Isaiah’s wrists.
The front-desk deputy looked up from her computer.
Her name was Rachel Hines.
She was in her forties, with tired eyes and the efficient movements of someone who had learned that reacting visibly to Sheriff Cleary only encouraged him.
“What happened?”
“Caught ourselves a fake hero,” Cleary said.
Isaiah stared at him.
Mooney looked uncomfortable.
Rachel glanced at Isaiah.
Then at Cleary.
“Charges?”
“Reckless driving.”
“Fraudulent identification.”
“Resisting.”
“Obstruction.”
Rachel’s eyebrows lifted.
“That all?”
Cleary did not hear the sarcasm.
“For now.”
Isaiah emptied his pockets.
Wallet.
Keys.