“You handcuffed your own commander?” someone demanded after a tense roadside stop in the rain. What seemed like a routine incident quickly unraveled, and the mistake ended up destroying the careers of two officers involved.

“What’s going on?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

“You match the description of a suspect,” he replied.

That line again. I’d heard it before, in different cities, in different contexts. It was always vague enough to justify almost anything.

“What description?” I asked.

“Male,” he said. “Black. Medium build. Dark clothing.”

I almost smiled.

It was the kind of description that could apply to half the neighborhood, especially at that hour, especially in that weather. But I didn’t challenge him. Not yet.

“Where was this supposed incident?” I asked.

Calloway’s expression tightened slightly, as if the question itself annoyed him. “Don’t worry about that. Just keep your hands where I can see them.”

I raised my hands slowly.