Elena made a mental note of the time.
She also noticed the small security camera mounted above the entrance to the operations room.
Its red indicator was illuminated.
The confrontation was being recorded.
MARCUS HALE: You know what? I've had enough of this.
ELENA MARSHALL: Then return my identification.
Marcus looked at the credential wallet.
A faint smile appeared on his face.
MARCUS HALE: You really think that badge makes you important?
ELENA MARSHALL: It identifies my official position. Nothing more.
MARCUS HALE: Well, it certainly doesn't impress me.
ELENA MARSHALL: That isn't my concern.
Marcus lifted the wallet higher, turning it toward the other officers.
MARCUS HALE: Everybody take a look. Apparently, we're supposed to stop everything because someone showed up wearing a fancy badge.
Nobody laughed.
The silence seemed to irritate him.
MARCUS HALE: What's wrong? Nobody has a sense of humor today?
Thomas looked away.
Maya remained motionless behind the counter.
Elena extended her hand.
ELENA MARSHALL: Officer Hale. Give it back.
Marcus stared at her.
For a moment, he seemed to consider whether he should end the confrontation.
He could have placed the identification on the counter.
He could have contacted his supervisor.
He could even have apologized for the way he had handled the situation.
But his pride had become more important than common sense.
He looked toward a plastic wastebasket positioned beside a filing cabinet.
Then he turned back to Elena.
MARCUS HALE: You want this back?
ELENA MARSHALL: Yes.
Marcus smiled.
He released the credential wallet.
It dropped through the opening of the wastebasket and landed among discarded paperwork and empty coffee cups.
The small plastic holder struck the bottom with a sharp clatter.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
The room seemed to become unusually quiet.
Even the officers who had been speaking near the booking counter stopped their conversation.
Elena looked down at the wastebasket.
Her photograph was visible through the transparent plastic.
The federal identification seal faced upward.
Marcus folded his arms.
MARCUS HALE: There. Now we can get back to work.
He smiled as though he had just won an argument.
But the expression on Thomas's face suggested otherwise.
THOMAS REED: Marcus, what the hell are you doing?
MARCUS HALE: Watch your language.
THOMAS REED: That's federal identification.
MARCUS HALE: And?
THOMAS REED: You can't just throw it away.
MARCUS HALE: I didn't throw anything away. I put it where it belongs until someone verifies who she is.
Elena slowly raised her eyes.
There was no anger in her expression.
No embarrassment.
No visible attempt to defend her professional reputation.
Instead, she seemed to be examining Marcus with the same detached attention she might have given to a suspect during a formal interview.
ELENA MARSHALL: Are you finished?
Marcus gave a short laugh.
MARCUS HALE: What are you going to do? File a complaint?
ELENA MARSHALL: I will document what happened.
MARCUS HALE: Good luck with that.
ELENA MARSHALL: I have your name, your badge number, and the time of the incident.
Marcus glanced at the body camera on his chest.
MARCUS HALE: Everything is recorded here. If you did anything wrong, we'll know.
Elena looked briefly at the camera.
ELENA MARSHALL: That's good.
Her calm response unsettled him more than an argument would have.
He had expected her to become upset.
He had expected her to raise her voice, demand an apology, or make some desperate attempt to retrieve her identification.
Instead, she simply reached down, picked up her briefcase, and placed it on the reception counter.
MARCUS HALE: What's the matter? Finally realized you can't push your way into a police department?
ELENA MARSHALL: No.
MARCUS HALE: Then what?
ELENA MARSHALL: I'm waiting for the appropriate person to arrive.
Marcus smirked.
MARCUS HALE: You can wait all day.
Elena said nothing.
She glanced toward the corridor.
At that exact moment, the door to the command office opened.
A senior officer emerged carrying a folder.
He was Lieutenant Robert Gaines, the department's administrative commander.
He had been working in the building for more than twenty years and was known for his cautious approach to departmental matters.
When he saw the group gathered around the reception counter, he slowed his steps.
ROBERT GAINES: What's happening?
MARCUS HALE: Nothing serious. We have someone here claiming to be a federal investigator.
Robert looked at Elena.
Then his eyes moved toward the wastebasket.
He stopped.
ROBERT GAINES: Officer Hale, what is that?
MARCUS HALE: Her identification.
ROBERT GAINES: Why is it in the trash?
MARCUS HALE: Because she refused to cooperate with a basic security check.
Elena turned toward Robert.
ELENA MARSHALL: Lieutenant, I would like you to verify my authorization through your command office.
Robert examined her face.
Something about her appearance seemed familiar.
He looked again at the identification wallet inside the wastebasket.
Then he noticed the gold federal seal.
ROBERT GAINES: May I ask your name?
ELENA MARSHALL: Elena Marshall. National Public Integrity Division.
Robert's expression changed.
He had seen that agency's name before.
In fact, he had received an internal memorandum several weeks earlier warning that federal investigators might request access to the department's financial and evidence records.