Story code: ST-001262
Part 3: The Transmitter in the Pocket
David Lin looked down at the manufacturer’s technical specifications, his pen hovering over the registered transmitter IDs. Outside the safety glass, the silence between Sarah Miller and Gordon Vance seemed to grow dense, matching the heavy, humid air of the county hallway. A radiator clicked in the corner, a sharp, metallic sound that made Gordon flinch.
“According to the manufacturer’s log,” David said, his voice even and detached as he spoke through the circular metal grill, “the code that bypassed the rolling receiver at 10:14 PM was generated by transmitter ID 884-B. The county database indicates that this specific ID was assigned to the Oakridge management office as a master backup.”
Gordon cleared his throat, his hand shifting inside his jacket pocket. “The logs are often out of sync,” he muttered, looking up at the ceiling lights. “The software is notoriously buggy. You can’t rely on digital timestamps for legal filings.”
Sarah did not look at him. She kept her eyes on the yellow legal pad where David was carefully writing down the transmitter code. Her shoulders were set, her fingers still resting on the edge of the manila folder. “The software has been verified by the tenant union council,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “It is accepted by the county as accurate to within three seconds.”
David turned a page in the file. “That is correct,” he said. “The county records office accepts these logs as primary evidence under Section 8 of the municipal code.”
Gordon took a step closer to the window, his keys jingling with the sudden movement. “Look, the backup remote is kept in the master lockbox. It’s only accessed by authorized personnel. If someone used it, it was for an emergency inspection that might have missed the log-in sheet. We had a suspected leak in the line that week.”
“There are no utility lines running through the detached garages,” Sarah said. She turned her head slightly, her gaze dropping to the heavy bulge in Gordon’s right jacket pocket.
Gordon’s hand moved, but as he went to pull his phone out to check the time, his fingers caught the edge of a plastic device. The motion pulled the pocket open wide. Inside, nestled against his key ring, was a small, grey plastic garage remote. The plastic was scuffed, and a strip of white label tape was stuck to the side, bearing the hand-written number 12-B in black marker.
David Lin looked directly at the remote. He noted the physical description on his pad: grey plastic casing, white label tape, hand-written unit number.
Sarah’s eyes remained fixed on the label. The remote was identical to the one she carried in her purse, right down to the specific wear on the plastic buttons.
“The ID number is printed on the reverse side of the casing,” David said, his voice maintaining its flat, administrative tone. “Mr. Vance, if you would care to present the remote for verification, we can confirm the transmitter ID immediately.”
Gordon’s fingers closed over the grey remote, pushing it back down into the dark depths of his pocket. His knuckles were white. “This is private company property,” he said, his voice rising slightly before he checked himself, looking around the empty hallway. “I am not required to hand over office equipment without a formal subpoena.”
David made a final note on his pad and drew a neat line beneath it. “A refusal to permit verification of a visible transmitter listed in a complaint will be noted on the initial processing sheet,” he said.
The hallway was quiet again. The unresolved pressure hung between them like the heavy dust motes drifting through the fluorescent light. Gordon’s hand remained jammed in his pocket, holding the remote tight, his chest rising and falling as he stared at the glass divider.