One of them was Officer Daniel Whitmore.
Camille recognized his face from local news reports. He had recently received a commendation for his work on a narcotics investigation.
The other officer was younger, perhaps twenty-six, with short brown hair and a nervous expression.
Camille continued driving.
She had no reason to stop.
Then Whitmore stepped into the street and raised his hand.
She pulled over.
The officer approached her driver's window.
“License and registration.”
Camille rolled down the window.
“Good evening, Officer. Is there a problem?”
“License and registration.”
She handed him the documents.
Whitmore glanced at them.
“Where are you coming from?”
“My office.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Where do you live?”
She gave him her address.
He looked at the documents again.
“You know why I stopped you?”
“No, sir.”
“You were driving suspiciously.”
Camille looked at the empty street behind him.
“I'm sorry?”
“You heard me.”
“I was driving below the speed limit because of the rain.”
Whitmore leaned closer.
“Don't get smart with me.”
Camille immediately lowered her voice.
“I'm not trying to be difficult. I just want to understand.”
The younger officer approached from the other side of the cruiser.
“Daniel, that's the vehicle we were looking for,” he said quietly.
Whitmore did not look at him.
“Go back to the car, Miller.”
The younger officer hesitated.
“Sir, the plate doesn't match.”
Whitmore's jaw tightened.
“I said go back to the car.”
Camille heard every word.
She looked at Whitmore.
“Is this about another vehicle?”
The officer stepped back and pointed toward the curb.
“Get out of the car.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Get out.”
Camille unlocked the door.
She stepped into the rain, holding her purse and grocery bag.
Whitmore immediately grabbed her wrist.
“Hands where I can see them.”
“My hands are visible.”
“Turn around.”
“Officer, you're hurting me.”
He twisted her arm behind her back.
Pain shot through her shoulder.
The grocery bag fell. A carton of milk struck the pavement, splitting open. White liquid spread across the wet asphalt.
“Please stop,” Camille said.
Whitmore pushed her against the side of her car.
“Stop resisting.”
“I'm not resisting.”
He pressed harder.
Camille cried out.
A man standing beneath the awning of a nearby barber shop turned toward them.
“What are you doing?” the man shouted.
Whitmore ignored him.
The younger officer returned.
“Daniel, she's not the suspect.”
Whitmore finally looked at him.
“What did you say?”
“I checked the dispatch. The suspect's vehicle is a dark blue sedan, not this one. Different plate, different make.”
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Rain tapped against the car roof.
Camille stood against the vehicle, her wrist twisted behind her back.
Whitmore slowly released her arm.
Then he stepped away.
“You should have told me that earlier,” he snapped at Miller.
Miller looked confused.
“I did, sir.”
Whitmore turned back to Camille.
“Get back in your vehicle.”
Camille rubbed her wrist.
“Am I free to leave?”
“Get in your car.”
“Officer, I'd like your badge number.”
Whitmore's face changed.
“What did you say?”
“I'd like your badge number, please.”
He stared at her.
Then he laughed.