The call had come at the worst possible time. In the middle of a late patrol briefing, my thoughts were focused on shifts and routes until the trembling voice of my seventeen-year-old son broke through. Dylan was on the line from the police station, his voice a mix of fear and frustration.
“Dad… I’m at the police station. Mark hit me. He filed a report saying I attacked him. The officers believe him.”
My heart dropped. “Which officer?”
“Sergeant Miller.”
“Stay where you are. Twenty minutes,” I instructed, my mind already racing through the possible scenarios. I didn’t think to call a lawyer. I didn’t even think to change out of my uniform. I got into my car and drove straight to the small precinct on Lincoln Avenue with my siren silent, my badge feeling like a lead weight on my chest.
When I walked into the precinct, the usual hum of activity was tinged with tension. The sharp aroma of brewed coffee hung in the air as Sergeant Miller looked up. His eyes met my name badge, and he paled visibly. “Lieutenant Reynolds—sir—I didn’t realize—”
My voice was calm but cold. “You have my son in custody?”
“He’s not under arrest, just being questioned. Mr. Carver—his stepfather—came in first with bruises. Claimed your boy assaulted him.”
I glanced toward the holding area where Dylan sat, battered and bruised. His eyes were red, knuckles scraped, and a visible swelling marred the right side of his face. He whispered to me as I approached, “He pushed me down the stairs, then punched himself before calling 911.”
Turning back to Miller, I said, “Give me fifteen minutes alone with his stepdad.”
The room went silent, the air thick with anticipation. Miller blinked, clearly uncertain. “Sir, that’s not—”
“Fifteen minutes,” I repeated, my tone leaving no room for argument. It was the kind of tone every cop understands: this ends one of two ways.
Mark Carver, Dylan’s stepfather, stood in Interview Room 2, exuding an air of smug confidence. At forty, with an athletic build and a veneer of calm, he greeted me with a grin. “Lieutenant, I didn’t expect you. You should keep your boy under control.”
Stepping closer, I asked, “You laid hands on him?”
He smirked, attempting to maintain his composure. “He’s lying. I’ll press charges.”
I didn’t raise my voice; I didn’t need to. “If you ever touch him again, I’ll make sure every badge in this city knows what you are. You won’t walk into another precinct without feeling eyes on you.”
The mask of arrogance slipped from his face, replaced by a flicker of fear.
As I exited the room, Miller pretended to shuffle papers, avoiding eye contact. “Sir, what do you want to do next?”
“Book him. Then call CPS. We’re reopening every domestic complaint this man ever filed.”
Dylan’s shoulders relaxed for the first time that night as I placed a reassuring hand on his back. “Let’s go home, son.”
In that moment, I knew this was far from over, but as we left the precinct together, I was determined to ensure that my son would never feel unsafe under his own roof again. The bond between us felt stronger than ever, a testament to the unyielding commitment of a father to protect his child.
