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engagements, he had received two purple hearts. Earlier in life he had been a celebrated first string defensive lineman at Florida State. Age-yellowed newspaper clippings of his football achievements, framed and matted, covered his office walls. After football, when his strenuous exercising regimen had ceased, his eating habits hadn’t; and now he was 100 pounds overweight and still gaining. The chief was munching on a large Hershey bar as Fred entered his office.
    Fred made his briefing quick. Fred knew the chief preferred a crisp synopsis, never a detailed play by play. As Fred spoke, the chief finished consuming the candy, opened his desk drawer and pulled out a plastic-wrapped piece of cake. Fred was not sure if the chief was listening at all but when he finished, the chief ordered him to get a confession out of the suspect as soon as he could. He added “Even if we’re not successful in obtaining a confession, it was obviously an aborted robbery attempt and we already have all the facts we need for a conviction. Let’s not overkill this investigation.”  
    Fred recognized the chief’s last statement as a not too subtle criticism of Fred’s tendency to linger on a case until he was overly satisfied that he had obtained all the facts. Trying to buy time, Fred said, “Yes, sir. I’ll get back to you on that.” The chief was busily munching on his cake as Fred exited.
    Fred walked to the back of the station to a guarded confinement cell to speak to Slivers. Fred assumed the guard had been put there because the chief had feared a suicide attempt.
    Slivers had remained in a highly traumatized emotional state. Fred asked “Where did you obtain the assault weapon?”  
    “Are you crazy? I don’t own an assault weapon; in fact I hate guns with a passion. I don’t even hunt. When are you going to release me? I have been in this god-forsaken place for what seems like hours.”
    “I don’t anticipate you ever will be released. We’re holding you on multiple first degree murder charges.”
    “If you’re talking about what happened at the bank, I wasn’t involved. I’m deeply sorry for the victims but I have no idea who was responsible.”  
    Fred often employed the same technique that he applied in his poker games during his interrogation of suspects. He looked for subtle inconsistencies, delays in responses, and physical reactions inconsistent with verbal statements. Because of Slivers’ emotional state, however, Fred could not learn anything.  
    He attempted pure rationality, “Your statement makes no sense, all the witnesses identified you as the shooter, and the weapon you used was at your feet. I’m sure your fingerprints are all over the weapon. Now, how in the name of God could you possibly say that you were not involved? Maybe if you confess, I can ask the DA to make it easier on you. After all there’s no reason for the taxpayers to spend their money on an open and shut case. You must know the death penalty will be the DA’s objective if we go to trial. Perhaps with a plea bargain, we can keep you alive. Now what do you say?”  
    Slivers vainly attempted to hold his emotions in check, but he started sobbing again and blurted out, “I couldn’t have done that, I just couldn’t. I am not a murderer! I deeply resent your accusing me of such a thing! On my mother’s grave, I am innocent.”  
      Seeing that the interrogation was going nowhere, Fred gave up for the time being. He still had to call on Ernest James’ widow to break the news of her husband’s death, a task that made him sick at heart. The Saturday night poker game would never be the same again.
    Fred’s cell phone rang. It was Maureen.  
    “Whatever happened? I have been trying to call you for the last hour.”
    “I turned my cell phone off, what did Judy tell you?”
    “She told me you were beaten up by two men, but you seemed all right and she left.”
    “No, I wasn’t beaten up. It’s a long story but I’m okay.”