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He tailed the truck for two miles, observing the driver’s stiff, mechanical movements. The man kept his eyes on the road, refusing to glance at his mirrors—practicing the “ostrich effect,” hoping that by ignoring the predator, he might stay hidden. When the truck’s rear tire finally grazed the white fog line, Miller had his probable cause. He flicked on the lights, and the blue Ford drifted to the gravel shoulder, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
As Miller approached the cab, the smell of acrid sweat and stale cigarettes hit him. The driver, Stephen Kovich, looked like a man whose anxiety had etched itself into his features. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. He stammered a weak explanation about delivering premium alfalfa to a ranch Miller knew didn’t exist. When Kovich struggled to retrieve his registration, shaking violently, Miller’s instincts screamed.
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