Standing up, Scott brushed off his uniform. “Right about here,” he pointed with the flashlight, “there’s a spot that doesn’t feel right. Tell me I’m wrong.” Bruce knelt down and felt the spot Scott pointed out to him.

“No. You aren’t wrong. That’s a soft spot. Should we try to pry it open?”

“And risk spilling something toxic onto the street? I don’t know.” He crossed his arms, thinking through the options. This car was in an accident, so the soft spot could be explained away with plain old Bondo, although he doubted that theory. Only it wasn’t this side of the car that was damaged. Also, this car was thoroughly checked and rechecked before they totaled it the wrecker hauled it off. How would they not find this soft spot? None of it made sense. And now? Now that it was back in his jurisdiction? It was his problem. Solve it, or let this guy go. And what if they let him go, only to find out later that he was a major player in the influx of drugs into San Ramon? No. Scott had no choice. He had to solve this right now. “You got a knife on you, Bruce?”

“Yeah. Why?”

He snapped, holding out his hand. Bruce rolled his eyes, slapping it into his hand. “You break that blade, boss, and you are buying me a new one.”

“Not going to happen.” Scott lay back down on the gravel, staring at the car’s underside. “You better be right about this, Scotty, me boy,” he said under his breath. He took a deep breath and slowly cut around the abnormally soft spot in the quarter panel, loosening up something. It fell to the gravel with a plop. A small bag full of whiteish powder, about the size of a quart Ziplock baggie, was now in Scott’s possession. Flat. Smooth. And unopened. The two officers were shocked to see such a large amount. They were used to seeing small quantities and packages no bigger than a post-it note. This was a lot more.

“Want me to call it in?” Bruce asked. Scott nodded, turning the bag over and over in his hands. He couldn’t believe the dog found it. Found the substance that no one else found, even after the accident. Scott wasn’t sure where the car came from but wanted to talk to the guy who owned it. Especially now.

Scott put the bag on the back of the K-9 unit. Bruce started writing his report. Returning to his car, Scott retrieved the test kit from the trunk of his unit. He’d done testing on substances quite a few times throughout his career, but nothing in this quantity. This was absolutely a first for him. Taking out the swab, he rubbed it along the seam of the bag, as he had done countless times before with smaller quantities. Dropping the test swab into a small vial, he pressed tightly on the cap and crushed the liquid inside it, mixing it with the test swab. The test tube’s inside turned a pale blue in less than a few seconds, indicating cocaine. Rupturing the bag and risking exposure to possible fentanyl was no longer the accepted practice. Instead, law enforcement could accurately find enough of the substance along the bag’s seams, limiting officers’ exposure to potentially dangerous and often caustic substances. 

His paperwork hours now tripled from the arrest to locating narcotics and positively testing for cocaine. Paperwork rarely bothered him, but this time? This time, it looked like someone who had no idea anything was wrong would go away for a long time. And there wasn’t anything he could do to stop the impending process. Returning to his car, he opened the driver’s side door and slid into his seat, almost forgetting his prisoner in the back seat.

“Excuse me, Sergeant?” The voice in the back startled him. “It’s a little warm back here. Do you think you could turn on the air conditioning, please?” Scott was dumbfounded. This guy had no idea that there were drugs in his car. No idea whatsoever! And there wasn’t any way for him to prove that. Not even his prisoner could prove it wasn’t his!

“Yeah,” he said, turning on the car’s ignition and blasting the A/C on full, hoping it would cool off the black plastic in the back seat. “You said you bought this car from a junkyard?” He thought maybe he could get him to answer questions without his lawyer. “I’m not answering any questions until I talk to my attorney,” he replied. “And thank you for turning on the air. It’s roasting back here.”

“You ever been in trouble before?” Scott already knew the answer, the computer screen showing only one ticket – a parking ticket in San Leandro. The meter expired before Grant could back and feed it. And the concert at the jazz club was hopping. No way was he walking out on that.

“I’m not answering any questions. What am I being charged with?”

“I’m still working on that. I don’t want to charge you with what I’m seeing, but not cooperating with my investigation isn’t helping you or your potential case, Mr. McNamar.”

“You can call me Grant, Sergeant.”

“Okay, Grant. I’m Scott.”

“I’d love to say it’s nice to meet you, Scott, but under the circumstances.”

“Yeah. I get it. If I were you, I wouldn’t answer any questions.”

“So the dog found something?”

“Alerted to something, yes.”

“And you found something?”

“Yes. A lot of cocaine.” Scott knew he could tell him the facts because he’d find out the charges sooner or later. It was better that he heard it now and knew what he was in for. “It looks like more than a kilo in terms of illicit street drugs. That’s a lot of blow.”

 “I don’t do drugs, much less carry them in the rear of my car.”

“You don’t strike me as the drug dealer type,” Scott said, looking back in his rearview mirror.

“I take it, dealers have a look.”

Scott shook his head. “Yeah. Evasive, first off. Then there’s the trying to lie to us part.”

“Try?”

“Yeah. They think they’re good at lying. Only we’re better at spotting it because everyone tries to lie to us.”

“Everyone?”

“Pretty much,” Scott said. He typed some information into the computer and exited the car, retrieving the drugs from the top of the trunk and the positive test.

To be continued . . .