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“I don’t think he will. He’s smart, he can think on his feet, et cetera.”
“But if he does?”
“Then we will both-Matt and I, I mean-know he doesn’t belong in Homicide, won’t we?”
“Then it’s sink or swim time, right?”
“I shall have to make note of that phrase,” Washington said. “It is so profound.”
“What about Daniels, if Matt blows it?”
“Then, psychologically guided interrogation having proven ineffective, I fear I shall be forced to revert to the rubber hose system.”
Cohen chuckled.
“That’s really not so funny,” Washington said. “I really would like to work that walking obscenity over with a rubber hose.”
NINETEEN
When Sergeant Kenny led Homer C. Daniels from what the Daphne police department called the detention area into the administrative area and toward the chief’s office, Daniels was even more firmly cuffed and shackled than Jason Washington thought he would be.
The chief of police had gone into his supply room and come out with a white canvas bag labeled “Prisoner Restraint System.” It held three belts made of thick saddle leather and heavy canvas, a Y-shaped chain, and some other accessories. The system looked as if it was rarely used, if it ever had been.
Washington could now see how it worked when installed. The waist belt buckled in the back. On the front, connected to it with heavy chains, were handcuffs. Daniels could move his cuffed wrists no more than a few inches. Daniels’s ankles had smaller versions of the waist belt around them. A short length of chain connected the two ankle restraints together, so that he had to walk with small steps. Another chain ran up his back, split into two, then went over his shoulders and connected with the waist belt. His ability to bend was severely restricted. Washington wondered how he was going to sit down in the restraint.
When Sergeant Kenny led his shuffling prisoner through the door of the chief’s office, Washington said, “Time,” and punched one of the buttons on his Tag Heuer chronograph.
“I never saw anyone actually push the buttons on one of those fancy watches before,” Steve Cohen said in mock wonderment.
Washington held his wrist up so that Cohen could see the dial.
“It is also extremely useful when preparing soft-boiled eggs, Steve. One needn’t make wild guesses about whether three and a half minutes have passed or not.”
“I’m impressed.”
“And well you should be.”
Three minutes and forty seconds later, Sergeant Kenny came through the door, a very large Daphne police officer went in, and then Kenny walked to his office.
“He wants to take a leak,” Kenny said.
“Time,” Washington said, punched several buttons on his watch, and then said, “Splendid.”
Precisely five minutes later, Washington said, “Sergeant Kenny, will you please escort Mr. Daniels back to his cell, so that he may relieve the pressure on his bladder?”
“The more I think about how that guy gets his kicks, the more I’d rather have him piss his pants,” Kenny said.
“That, while a very interesting thought, would almost certainly, as Mr. Cohen would quickly tell us, violate Mr. Daniels’s civil rights,” Washington said.
“Let him have his leak, Kenny,” Cohen said.
It took seven minutes and twenty seconds for Mr. Daniels to be shuffled back and forth to his cell.
“Time,” Washington called, as Daniels shuffled through the door into the chief’s office.
Not quite ten minutes later, Washington said, “Matt, go tell the chief that if Mr. Bernhardt wishes to consult with his client…”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said, and left Kenny’s office.
