16th Precinct interrogation room
9:50 am
"We're going to start over," Frank said, transfixing Cloutier with a strong Look, "and this time I want the whole truth. Understand?"
"Yes." Cloutier was quivering again.
"Yes what!" Frank leaned forward until he was sure that Cloutier could feel his heat. Cloutier shrank back but Frank kept pace.
"Y-yes sir."
"If I have to say 'yes what' one more time, I will rip you. Understand?" Frank barked, widening his eyes even more.
"Y-yes s-sir."
The Look was Frank's best tool, but it had its problems when used on a weak person. In some cases it seemed to drain one's intelligence — there was such a thing as being scared witless, and Cloutier was getting there. Soon it would be time to let two of the SVU ladies have a go at him, as "good cops."
Cloutier had yet to ask for a lawyer. Probably he was afraid of legal fees on top of medical fees. He had an appointment at Alexander Day Surgery early tomorrow morning — the mole would be removed and biopsied.
"Now . . . at 7:33 am August 31, you stole Blackgranite's van."
"No . . . sir!"
"Barely in time with the 'sir.' But that lie is another black mark."
Someone knocked once, then the door opened. In came two uniformed cops. Both were gray-haired but there was at least a thirty-year difference in age. The younger cop was carrying a large bin, the contents of which he flung on the table the way one chucks trash in a dumpster.
Cloutier turned red and shrank back at the sight of the papers. Many were swimsuit flyers and pencilled drawings (an Old Master he would never be) but there was also scribbled-on looseleaf by the dozens of pages. Frank skimmed a few paragraphs, any one of which convinced him that while Cloutier might be an aspiring Vladimir Nabokov he was about a century away from acquiring that author's skill.
"Search his laundry?"
"Ohh yeaaah," the older cop said, looking balefully at Cloutier.
If a person could shrink when he knew he was screwed, thought Frank, Cloutier would be the size of a cockroach by now. Frank sensed that if he gave Cloutier his strongest Look, there would be a mess. He Looked anyway.
Six minutes later, when the wagon of cleaning supplies and new clothing (a gray track suit) arrived, Frank found himself on the receiving end of Chief McGrath's Look.
"I should make you supervise him," the Chief said, "as punishment to fit the crime." His eyes went on to scan the other cops. "Galindez, what's that short straw you're holding?"
"Yes sir," Atlanta said in the even tone of someone accustomed to getting dirty assignments from time to time. Captain Benson grinned (a warmup act, Frank knew) and followed her inside. A good commander wasn't afraid to see, smell and even (with protective gloves) touch dirt.
The two ladies acted cheerful, and Cloutier gradually calmed. He continued to deny that he'd stolen the van or attacked the two girls. He said in the type of whiny voice that always put a Look in Frank's eye, "I know what you think from my art and writing. I'm an immature little man. But I'm no Grand Theft Auto character. I'm no kidnapper. I'm no rapist or killer!"
Officer Xander Donaldson, the prematurely gray man who had dumped Cloutier's trash and who had the nickname G.R. for Gray Rookie (which he was), stroked his chin as he watched with his fellows.
"I don't get it," G.R. said. "How does such a wimp land a security job?"
Chief McGrath crooked a smile. "Son, once you're more experienced you'll understand that strange things happen."
Frank said, "He panics easily. Ran from us because he was working without bond."
"We have our mouse," Kevin said.
Dani Vertiz stood from her desk. The three monitors on it showed various people-filled streetscapes. Two were live streams, but the center was frozen. Dani said, "Cloutier's probably our boy, but you need to see this."
