with you, imagining that he's making it look better for himself; but in fact he's admitted that intercourse took place, and half of your job is done."
Sergeant Delaware sat back, looking annoyed, and Steve figured he had guessed right.
She stood up. "Okay, smart-ass, come with me."
"Where are we going?"
"The cells."
"Wait a minute. When's the lineup?"
"As soon as we can reach the victim and bring her in here."
"You can't hold me indefinitely without some court procedure."
"We can hold you for twenty-four hours without any procedure, so button your lip and let's go."
She took him down in the elevator and through a door into a lobby that was painted a dull orange brown. A notice on the wall reminded officers to keep suspects handcuffed while searching them. The turnkey, a black policeman in his fifties, stood at a high counter. "Hey, Spike," said Sergeant Delaware. "Got a smart-ass college boy for you."
The turnkey grinned. "If he's so smart, how come he's in here?"
They both laughed. Steve made a mental note not to tell cops, in the future, when he had second-guessed them. It was a failing of his: he had antagonized his schoolteachers the same way. Nobody liked a wise guy.
The cop called Spike was small and wiry, with gray hair and a little mustache. He had a perky air but there was a cold look in his eyes. He opened a steel door. "You coming through to the cells, Mish?" he said. "I got to ask you to check your weapon if so."
"No, I'm finished with him for now," she said. "He'll be in a lineup later." She turned and left.
"This way, boy," the turnkey said to Steve.
He went through the door.
He was in the cell block. The walls and floor were the same muddy color. Steve thought the elevator had stopped at the second floor, but there were no windows, and he felt as if he were in a cavern deep underground and it would take him a long time to climb back to the surface.
In a little anteroom was a desk and a camera on a stand. Spike took a form from a pigeonhole. Reading it upside down, Steve saw it was headed
POLICE DEPARTMENT
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
PRISONER ACTIVITY REPORT FORM 92/12
The man took the cap off a ballpoint pen and began to fill out the form.
When it was done he pointed to a spot on the ground and said: "Stand right there."
Steve stood in front of the camera. Spike pressed a button and there was a flash.
'Turn sideways."
There was another flash.
Next Spike took out a square card printed in pink ink and headed
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION,
UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE
WASHINGTON, DC 20537
Spike inked Steve's fingers and thumbs on a pad then pressed them to squares on the card marked 1.R.THUMB, 2.R.INDEX, and so on. Steve noticed that Spike, though a small man, had big hands with prominent veins. As he did so, Spike said conversationally: "We have a new Central Booking Facility over at the city jail on Greenmount Avenue, and they have a computer that takes your prints without ink. It's like a big photocopy machine: you just press your hands on the glass. But down here we're still using the dirty old system."
Steve realized he was beginning to feel ashamed, even though he had not committed a crime. It was partly the grim surroundings, but mainly the feeling of powerlessness. Ever since the cops burst out of the patrol car outside Jeannie's house, he had been moved around like a piece of meat, with no control over himself. It brought a man's self-esteem down fast.
When his fingerprints were done he was allowed to wash his hands.
"Permit me to show you to your suite," Spike said jovially.
He led Steve down the corridor with cells to the left and right. Each cell was roughly square. On the side that gave on to the corridor there was no wall, just bars, so that every square inch of the cell was clearly visible from outside. Through the bars Steve could see that each cell had a metal bunk fixed to the wall and a stainless-steel toilet and washbasin. The walls and bunks were painted orange brown and covered with graffiti. The toilets had no lids. In three or four of the cells a man lay listlessly on the bunk, but most of them were empty. "Monday's a quiet day here at the Lafayette Street Holiday Inn," Spike joked.