Meanwhile, just outside of town...
State Police Trooper Darwood McStevens carefully backed his patrol car into position, partially hidden behind the "Welcome to Springfield" sign that stood right outside city limits. For some years now, he and his fellows had been using this spot as the perfect highway speed trap. Some smart geek in his department had noticed that the sign was actually a good 50 yards beyond the official town boundry, so the local detatchment used the site without any worries about jurisdictional pissing matches. Technically, since he was a state police officer, he was allowed to patrol anywhere in the state, including inside town limits, but it made for better relationships with the local departments if they didn't make a habit of it.
The spot was perfectly situated so drivers approaching town couldn't see his patrol car until they were practically on top of him, but he still had a direct line of sight to aim his radar gun past the sign, down the highway, right at the spot where the posted limit officially dropped from 55 to 35. If the unfortunate soul was still slowing down but had not yet slowed to 35 mph at that point, WHAM, he had them, and that was one more ticket toward his monthly quota. He'd long ago become inured to the standard plea of "officer, I was slowing down." It didn't matter. The radar recorded not only the speed, but the range to his target. He had all the evidence needed to back up his tickets in traffic court.
The site wasn't as lucrative as it used to be. Traffic patterns had shifted a few years ago when the new interstate bypass had been completed, and this stretch of road wasn't as heavily used anymore. McStevens had decided he liked this new quiet here. If he was ahead of schedule on his monthly quota as he usually was, he could pull in here, and relax a bit and catch up on his paperwork, and still net the occasional speeder to demonstrate to his superiors that he was indeed working. It made for a good way to wind down his shift in the late afternoon.
Something out of the corner of his eye made him look up from his paperwork. He frowned. There was a silver-grey SUV approaching from town... fast. Sheesh, that driver must be blind, or drunk, or both. His patrol car wasn't hidden at all from that side. He swung his radar gun around to bear on the rapidly approaching vehicle, and took a reading. Damn, they were going 73 mph... in a 35 zone! He was briefly disappointed that this catch wasn't going to count any more towards his quota than an "ordinary" speeder. The state's coffers would certainly be enriched more than usual for this one.
As the SUV passed in front of him, it started to slow down. Hah, he'd already gotten his reading; slowing down now certainly wasn't going to help them. He pulled out behind the SUV and hit his lights, and gunned his accelerator to quickly catch up with this scofflaw. The powerful engine in his 2006 Crown-vic was up to the task, and the speeder had barely gotten beyond the limit change from 35 to 55 when he caught up behind them.
He was close enough now to read the license plate, and with a practiced hand he reached over to his dashboard-mounted computer and punched the number in without even looking. He started to get irritated, because the SUV had slowed down to exactly 55, but now was showing no sign of stopping. It was as if the driver hadn't really noticed him with his flashing blue lights, but none-the-less had suddenly decided to obey the current limit. Definitely drunk, McStevens decided. He activated his siren and flashed his high-beams. His brights were enough to penetrate the deep tinting on the rear window and he could see four wide-eyed faces looking back at him. Kids, he grumbled to himself. They all appeared to be in their late teens.
He definitely had their attention now. The SUV slowed down and pulled off to the right side of the road. McStevens stopped behind them with his patrol car a bit out to the left, giving the dash-mounted camera a good view of the rear and driver's side of the vehicle. "About time," he muttered to himself, and killed his siren. He checked his computer for the results of his license plate query. The car was registered to one Dean Lowell, 18, from Springfield, no outstanding warrants. He keyed his radio and reported in to dispatch that he was making a stop. He gave the details about the vehicle and owner and was acknowleged by the dispatcher.
He stepped out of his vehicle and carefully approached the other car. This stop was already a bit on the weird side, but his instincts were clamoring at him, insisting that there was something even more wrong about this car. He just wasn't quite sure what it was, yet.
