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I didn't answer. The backs of my legs were trembling.
"Come on, tell me," Baxter said.
"He did it. He tortured a Treasury agent with a telephone crank, then burned him to death in my automobile."
"And he's going to waive his rights and tell us all that? Then he's going to put his signature on it?"
"I'm still signing the complaint."
"Glad to hear it."
"Baxter, you're a sonofabitch."
"You want to call names, be my guest."
"Ease off, Lieutenant," the desk sergeant said quietly in the doorway behind me.
I took my handcuff key from my pocket and unlocked one of the Nicaraguan's wrists, then hooked the loose end to the radiator pipe on the wall.
"Your trouble is you been making love to your fist so long you think you're the only guy around here with any integrity," Baxter said.
I swung from my side, hard, with my feet set solidly, and caught him square on the mouth. His head snapped back, his tie flew in the air, and I saw blood in his teeth. His eyes were wild. Uniformed cops were standing up all over the squad room. I wanted to hit him again.
"You want to pull your piece?" I said.
"You've finished yourself this time," he said, holding his hand to his mouth.
"Maybe so. But that doesn't get you off the hook. You want to do something?"
He lowered his hands to his sides. There was a deep, purple cut, the shape of a tooth, in his lower lip and it was starting to swell. His eyes watched me carefully. My fist was still clenched at my side.
"Don't you hear well?" I said.
His eyes broke, and he looked at the uniformed cops watching him from the squad room.
"Use some judgment," he said almost in a whisper, the threat and insult gone from his tone.
"Go on home, Lieutenant. It's no good for you here," the sergeant said behind me. He was a big man, built like a hogshead, with a florid face and a clipped, blond mustache.
I opened my hand and wiped the perspiration off my palm on my slacks.
"Put my cuffs in my desk drawer for me," I said.
"Sure," the sergeant said.
"Look, tell Purcel—"
"Go home, Lieutenant," he said gently. "It's a nice day out. We can handle it."
"I'm signing the complaint against this guy," I said. "Get ahold of Captain Guidry. Don't let anybody kick this guy loose."
"It's no problem, Lieutenant," the sergeant said.
I walked woodenly through the squad room, the skin of my face tight and dead against the collective stare of the uniformed officers. My hand was still shaking when I filled out the formal complaint of assault with a deadly weapon, kidnapping, and homicide against the Nicaraguan.
Outside, the glare of the sun was like a slap across the eyes. I stepped into the shade to let my eyes adjust to the li
ght and saw Clete walking toward me in a yellow and purple LSU T-shirt cut off at the armpits and a pair of red and white Budweiser shorts. The shadow of the building fell across his face and made him look like he was composed of disjointed parts.
