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The video stopped moving again.
“When did those get put on him?” Chu said.
“When I took him out of interrogation, he was already in them,” Jacobs explained. “I assumed you did it.”
Pro looked at Chu. “Those must have been the ones from which he’d already escaped. You and I were talking, so neither of us saw him slip them back on. Keep going.”
On the video, Max turned out as the door was closed and offered his hands. Jacobs pulled a tool from his belt and bent to get close to Max’s hands, restrained by the bars.
“Hold it,” Pro said. “Zoom in.”
The photo grew larger, and it was clear that Max’s hands were touching Jacobs’ badge backer.
“That’s when he lifted the badge and credentials,” Pro explained. “While you were taking the restraints off, he was swiping your badge. Continue!”
The video began to move again, and Max expertly lowered his hands with the badge and blocked it with his body as Jacobs stood and walked out with the cut restraints. Max walked out of camera view toward where the bed and the open toilet sat.
“Do we have cameras in that part of the cell?” the lieutenant asked.
“No, sir,” grumbled the officer at the computer. “That corner cell has limited visuals.”
“I believe the suspect knew that from the previous day when he had been put in the same cell,” Pro suggested.
“Great,” the lieutenant said with crossed arms. “So, how did he get out?”
As the Lieutenant spoke, Max crossed back to the cell door and hung his hands through the bars and hung his head, as if depressed by his state of affairs.
“Freeze it,” Pro demanded. “Now blow up the area around his hands.”
The picture grew larger and the hands filled the screen. When looking at the regular image, all you noticed was a man looking sad. But now that the hands were the focus, you could see a slender rod going into the door lock.
“What is that, what is he doing?” Chu said.
“He’s picking the lock,” Pro explained, “and he tried to look depressed to draw the attention of anyone watching away from his hands.”
“But where did he get picks?” Sergeant Palos complained.
Pro sighed. “I’m guessing, but I would suggest he brought tools in either one or both of the heels of his shoes.”
“Geez!” Palos barked. “How were we supposed to know that?”
“Keep going on the video,” Pro said. “I think the answer is that we weren’t expecting this. But Max…Mister Martin…was.”
On the video, Max stepped away from the door and back into the hidden part of the room.
“Focus on the door,” Pro told the man at the keyboard. “I believe it was open at this point.”
The keyboard operator moved the zoom in, and when the image drew closer, you could see that the door was slightly ajar.
“I’ll be damned,” the lieutenant muttered.
“Still that doesn’t explain how he got out of there,” Palos noted.
“We’re coming to that,” Pro said. “Zoom back.”
The camera view moved to the standard view of the cell. Into the frame and inside the cell came what appeared to be a completely different man. He seemed taller and walked with confidence. The hair was different, black and short, not the slightly longer cut Max wore. But he was in an NYPD uniform, complete with badge, name tag, and badge backer on the left front of the shirt and NYPD patches on both arms.
The man walked to the door, opened it, and stepped into the hall, where you could now see a pair of glasses on his face. Between the glasses and the hair, it didn’t look like Max Martin, aka Max Marvell, at all.
