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As he hurried to comply, I maintained my composed exterior, but inside a cold certainty was forming. Someone had tried to use the system I’d served faithfully for 30 years against my grandson, and they were about to learn exactly why that had been a grave mistake.
Officer Peterson led me through a security door into the station’s interior. His earlier confidence replaced by a nervous energy that manifested in quick glances and unnecessary commentary about the facility. I let him ramble, observing the subtle shift in how other officers regarded us as we passed, their curious eyes following the suddenly differential Peterson and the straightbacked woman who had caused such a change in his demeanor.
“I’m familiar with how juvenile detention works, officer,” I replied evenly. “I’ve sentenced young offenders to such facilities when circumstances warranted it.
I’ve also dismissed cases when police work was sloppy or motivated by personal connection rather than evidence.”
He swallowed visibly at that, stopping before a door with a small observation window. Through it, I could see Tyler sitting alone at a table, his posture defeated, one hand touching the side of his face where a reddish mark was visible even from this distance. “Has he received medical attention for that injury?”
I asked sharply.
“He didn’t request any medical.”
“He’s 16, Officer Peterson,” I said. “A minor in custody. The responsibility for ensuring his well-being lies with your department, not with a frightened teenager’s ability to formally request assistance.”
Peterson fumbled with his keys.
“I’ll have someone from medical check him right away after—”
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