Chapter 3 - THE FALSE BADGE AND THE POCKET WATCH
“Step away from the child, Mr. Mitchell,” the taller officer repeated, his hand resting casually but menacingly on his utility belt.
I didn’t move. I tightened my grip on Olivia’s hand and pulled her slightly behind my leg. My heart was pounding, but my mind was violently clear. You don't live in a small Texas town your whole life without recognizing the local police force. I knew every deputy in this county.
I had never seen these two men before in my life.
“What’s the problem, Officer?” I asked, keeping my voice loud enough for Linda to hear.
“We received a call from the district office,” the shorter officer said, stepping forward. His uniform looked stiff, almost brand new. “A report of a hostile parent threatening school staff and attempting to unlawfully remove a student from the premises.”
I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Unlawfully remove? She’s my daughter. And the only threat here is the principal locking a nine-year-old in a room for catching him stealing.”
“We’re not here to argue, sir,” the tall officer snapped. “Let go of the girl. We have orders to place her in temporary protective custody while we investigate the disturbance.”
Olivia buried her face in my jeans, sobbing. “Daddy, no!”
“Over my dead body,” I said.
I noticed something then. Something small, but glaringly wrong.
The shorter officer was reaching for his handcuffs, and as his sleeve pulled back, I saw his wristwatch. It wasn’t a standard tactical watch. It was a vintage, silver pocket watch that had been custom-fitted onto a leather wrist strap.
I knew that watch.
It had belonged to Mayor Higgins, who passed away three years ago. His widow had donated that exact watch to the Helping Hands charity auction last December to raise money for the children's winter fund. It was supposed to have been auctioned off to build the new playground.
Instead, it was sitting on the wrist of a stranger claiming to be a cop.
“Where did you get that watch?” I asked, staring right at his wrist.
The officer froze. He quickly pulled his sleeve down, his eyes darting toward his partner. “That’s none of your business. Last warning, Mitchell.”
“Linda,” I said loudly, never taking my eyes off the men. “Call Deputy Miller. His personal cell number is on the emergency contact sheet. Tell him we have two men impersonating police officers in the school lobby.”
The tall one lunged at me.
Adrenaline exploded through my veins. I shoved Olivia backward, out of harm's way, and stepped into the man's charge. I slammed my forearm into his chest, driving him back into the reception desk. The wood splintered under his weight.
“Run, Olivia! Go to the secretary’s office!” I yelled.
The man with the pocket watch pulled his baton, swinging it wildly. I ducked, feeling the air rush past my ear, and drove my shoulder into his midsection. We crashed to the floor, rolling over the polished linoleum. He elbowed me in the jaw. Pain flared, tasting like copper in my mouth, but I didn't care. I grabbed him by the collar, hoisted him up, and slammed his back against the filing cabinet.
“Who sent you?!” I roared, pinning him. “Was it Vance?!”
“Get off me!” he choked out.
The glass doors flew open again.
“HEY!” a booming voice echoed through the lobby.
It was Deputy Miller. The real one. He walked in, his hand resting on his holstered sidearm. He took one look at the two men, then at me, and his face hardened.
“Tom, back away,” Miller ordered.
I let go of the fake cop, breathing heavily. Miller walked over to the men. He didn’t ask for their badges. He didn't ask for their names.
“I told you boys to stay out of my sector,” Miller said quietly.
My stomach dropped. Miller knew them.
“Vance called us, Miller,” the tall one spat, wiping blood from his lip. “Said this guy was causing trouble. We were just handling it.”
“I handle this school,” Miller said, his tone icy. “Get in your car and drive back to the county line. If I see you in this town again, I’ll arrest you myself.”
The two men glared at me, then shoved past Miller and walked out the door.
I stood there, staring at the deputy—a man I had shared beers with at summer barbecues. A man who coached my son’s Little League team.
“You know them, Mark?” I asked, my voice shaking with betrayal.
Mark Miller sighed, taking off his Stetson hat. He looked exhausted. He looked older than his forty years.
“They’re private security, Tom,” Mark said quietly. “Vance hires them for his... off-the-books issues.”
“They just tried to take my daughter!” I yelled, pointing at Olivia, who was trembling in Linda’s arms. “They’re wearing stolen charity goods on their wrists! Vance threatened my wife in the hospital! And you're just letting them walk away?!”
Mark looked down at his boots. “It’s bigger than you think, Tom. You need to take your girl and go home. Let this go.”
“I’m not letting anything go until Vance is in handcuffs.”
Mark stepped closer to me, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You think Vance is running this alone? You think a school superintendent has the power to hire private thugs and forge charity documents without someone looking the other way?”
“Then who is it?” I demanded.
Mark reached into his chest pocket. He pulled out a small, yellowed piece of cardstock.
He handed it to me.
It was a pawn ticket.
“I’ve been investigating the missing donations quietly for six months,” Mark whispered. “I tracked some of the stolen jewelry and electronics to a pawn shop two towns over. I pulled their security footage from last December.”
I looked at the pawn ticket. It was dated December 13th. The day before Sarah’s emergency surgery.
“I didn't want to show you this, Tom,” Mark said, his voice laced with regret. “But you need to know what you’re walking into.”
He pulled his phone from his belt, opened his photo gallery, and handed it to me.
It was a still frame from the pawn shop’s security camera.
Standing at the counter, handing over a large cardboard box marked with the Helping Hands charity logo, was a woman.
She was wearing a heavy winter coat, her face partially obscured, but there was no mistaking her.
May you like
It was Sarah. My wife.
“Sarah didn't just find out about the stolen donations, Tom,” Mark said softly. “She was the one selling them.”
