For a spring day, it wasn’t that cold. The SEMO sweatshirt I was wearing kept me comfortable enough. Not too hot. Not too cold. Not just right. Adequate is more like it, but I could’ve cared less. Coming from an English class where the students thought they knew more than the instructor was scary. That the instructor was me? That was a bit scarier. I needed teaching hours to satisfy the requirements for the Master’s program. That meant teaching new college students. Or those students who didn’t meet the college requirements for writing skills. I should say writing research paper skills. But that’s not what EN100 taught. This class was like cramming your entire elementary, junior, and high school education into one semester. Nothing like teaching kids who don’t want to be taught English at a college level. It meant reading some of the most ridiculous and sanctimonious pieces of garbage I’ve ever been forced to read. Worse than some of the classics. Run on sentences. Incomplete thoughts. Periods where commas should be. Basic English concepts that you would think, after so much education (twelve years, give or take), that they would at the very least be able to write a complete sentence. Yeah. Not so much.

               Being an instructor, not a tenured professor with a Ph.D. or even faculty staff, I couldn’t park in the faculty lot. That would make my life easier, but I wasn’t there. Working towards it, yes. But not there. Not yet.

               The bonus of looking as young as I am at almost sixty is that most students don’t look twice at me unless they take my class. Then I get the occasional question or two only because they recognize me. Another positive is I don’t have to hold office hours. I don’t have an office, technically. Otherwise, I remain inconspicuous. Not even DPS, the Department of Public Safety, will talk to me because I’m not faculty. As part of the Cape Girardeau Police Department, the officers patrol and report crimes on campus, so why should they take the time to get to know someone who may or may not be there next semester?

               Springtime weather in Missouri is unpredictable. Just because there are clouds in the sky doesn’t mean it will rain. It might. It might not. Then again, you may be surprised to go into class with the clouds overhead and come out to bright, sun-filled skies. You never know. It wasn’t raining now, but it had earlier. The pavement was damp, slick enough to be treacherous if you stepped in the wrong spot. I was walking back from the Graul building to my car. Not that I minded the walk. Up the hill, past Kent Library and the University Center, down to Capaha Park, a public parking lot. I figured I couldn’t get a ticket in a public lot.

               The Oldsmobile, a Delta 88, had two keys, an ignition key and a door key, which, incidentally, also opened the trunk. Sticking my hand into my pocket, I felt the keys, but not before I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Hold it right there, pal.” I didn’t see who it was but saw what looked like a uniform from the marginal reflection off the Delta’s driver’s side window. Maybe a police officer? I wasn’t sure. I felt the cold steel of handcuffs on my left wrist, which he was now wrenching behind my back. “Be cool, and we’ll get through this. Good with you?” I nodded. Not like I had a choice. He pulled my right hand out of my jeans and clicked the other handcuff to it, then spun me around to face him. “Where do you think you’re going in such a hurry?” He was close enough to me that I could smell his last cigarette, stinking up his uniform.

               Officer Finn. Badge number 4132. “Officer,” I squinted at his badge and read his name and badge number. I was adept at two things: recalling names and numbers. I was good as long as it wasn’t longer than ten digits. Four would be easy. “Finn. 4132.” I repeated it several times before he ordered me to stop.

               “That’s enough, you. Want to tell me why you are in such a hurry to get outta here?”

               “In a hurry? Are you serious?”

               “I’m asking the questions. How do you know Gerry Ann Trammer?”

               “I don’t know a Gerry Ann Trammer. Is there a reason I’m in handcuffs?” I asked the camera attached to his uniform, not looking him in the eye. I wanted to ensure I cooperated as much as possible if I needed an attorney. The body cam footage would prove it. So I hoped.

               “You don’t know anything about Gerry Ann Trammer?” His sunglasses were hiding his eyes. I’d seen enough cop shows and knew enough police officers through the years to understand this was a subtle intimidation tactic. But the older cops knew looking someone straight in the eye was better. It’s harder to hide. Younger rookies wouldn’t learn that for a few years. After dealing with the public for a while, you get a sense of people. That’s what the old guard shared with me. Something about being a newspaper reporter. It helped me get close to a few detectives. It felt like Officer Finn was a rookie. Not that I would dare to be rude to someone who had me in handcuffs.

               “No.” My flat answer must’ve angered him.

               “What?” he shouted. Now I could smell his coffee AND his last cigarette. Yuck.

               “Am I being detained?” Two things Officer Finn failed to do: one, read me my rights, and two, tell me what I was being arrested for. Neither had been disclosed.

               “Are you in handcuffs now, wiseguy?” I could tell he wanted to take a swing. And I’m all about getting hit, especially if it will net me a big cash payout. Which, to be fair, this would’ve. If that camera was off? The whole thing would be tossed out. Officer Finn seemed desperate. “Where did you take her?”

               “Where did I take who?”

               “Are you resisting?” Officer Finn shouted.

               “No. I’m not,” I said, again speaking straight into the camera, not looking at Officer Finn. “Am I being detained?” I asked the camera again.

               “Yes.”

               “What’s the charge?” I asked. My tone was neutral, knowing full well that Officer Finn wanted an excuse to hit or rough me up. I figured keeping my cool, at least for now, was the right move. “Officer Finn. What’s the charge?” My tone was flat, and I never raised my voice.

               “The charge, asshole?” he shouted. “You took advantage of Gerry Ann!”

               “No. I did not. I’ve never met Gerry Ann Trammer. I don’t know her.”

               “This your car?” Finn continued shouting his questions at me. Gerry Ann must’ve been someone he cared about. Either that, or he felt terrible for her family. “A 1985 Oldsmobile Delta 88, crème colored, crème interior.”

               “Yeah. That’s my car.”

               “She said she was in your car a week ago.”

               “A week ago? That’s impossible.”

               “How’s that, wiseguy?”

               “Because I was in Las Vegas a week ago with John Barrett and Chris Gannon. We were doing research for a video project, one they asked me to write. Because that’s what I do. I teach English, and I write.”

               “Plus, you sexually assault women!”

               “No. I don’t. I’ve never had a traffic ticket. Zero moving violations in the 40 years I’ve lived in Cape Girardeau. Go ahead. Run my name and plate. I’ll wait. But I’m letting you know right now. If you fail to tell me why you handcuffed and detained me? You will be in a lot of hot water with Chief Panetti. I don’t have a record, and you have no right to question me in a parking lot.” I kept speaking in the same tone. It’s one of several reasons Jenny and I divorced thirty years ago. She hated it when I spoke in a calm, rational tone. It made her rants sound crazy. I mean, she was, from a clinical perspective. But Jenny wouldn’t be formally diagnosed until six years later. I did know Chief Panetti personally. We met a few times over the years at different functions. Fundraisers. Church services. A couple of funerals. But he respected me, even when three of my articles pointed out his lack of structure within the walls of the Cape Girardeau Police Department.

               Finn pushed me against his squad car. “Oh yeah? You think you’re connected? Protected in Cape? We’ll just see about that.” A second DPS vehicle pulled up next to Finn’s car. It was an older, more seasoned officer. From his stripes, she appeared to be a Sergeant.

               “Finn. What’s going on here?” She took off her sunglasses, looking him in the eye.

               He ripped his sunglasses off his face, bright pink filling his cheeks. He was flustered for sure. “Uh, no-nothing, Sergeant Blechle.”

               “What are you doing with this man?”

               “He’s suspected of sexually assaulting Gerry Ann Trammer.”

               “Really? And you know this, how exactly?”

               “He’s driving the same car she was abducted in, that’s how.”

               “You ran the plate? You ran his name? You double-checked with dispatch to see if there was a break in the case?” She sounded slightly irritated with Finn. This wasn’t the first time she had to talk to him about his inability to follow orders. Or simple instructions, it would seem.

               “You okay, Dusty?”

               “Yeah. Minus these, of course,” I said, smiling at the Sergeant, showing her my handcuffs.

               “Finn?”

               “Yes, Ma’am?”

               “I want to see you in my office in ten minutes.” Blechle stepped out of the car. “But in the meantime,” she turned me around, undoing the handcuffs, and handed them back to Finn. “I suggest, Officer Finn, you remember who you work for.”

               “Yes, Ma’am.”   

               “Excuse me?”

               “I mean, Sergeant Blechle.”

               “I’ll see you in ten minutes, Officer.” He halfway saluted her while climbing back into his squad car. Officer Finn creeped out of the parking lot, knowing if he sped out, he’d be written up for that, too. “Dusty James. How are you? I haven’t seen you since . . .” she paused for a second, “oh yeah, you worked for the newspaper, didn’t you? You were reporting on Panetti’s inability to get his officers to listen to him.” She laughed. “It worked, though, didn’t it?”

               “I guess.” I wasn’t in a joking mood. I spent the last few minutes in handcuffs in the park.

               “Listen, Dusty. I’m not telling you to drop this. God knows if I were you, I wouldn’t.”

               “Your body cam on right now, Sergeant?”

               “Yup. Every time we get out of the car. Why?”

               “Just wanting to make sure I had that on camera.”

               “What? That thing about me saying that you should drop this? That won’t matter.”

               “You think so?”

               “Yeah.” She climbed into her car and shut the door. “It won’t. There’s a malfunction with Finn’s body cam. It’s the darndest thing. Technology, my ass.” She grinned and pulled away. “Have a great day, Dusty!”

               I waved, contemplating whether I should flip her off or not. I thought better of it. Instead, I grabbed the keys and unlocked the Oldsmobile, turning off the video cameras. The audio may not have been studio quality, but it captured both officer’s conduct. Even if I didn’t get the body cam footage my attorney assured me we would get, I had proof. And neither of them knew it.