A dingy desk light and the glow of the screen remain the only source of light, hope and warmth on the cold interrogation table. The suspect, unfazed and calm, gazes at the photographic evidence I present from the scene of the crime. Tuesday, September 8, I say, showing him a surveillance tape that clearly shows the events unfolding on that unfortunate day.
The detainee, a two-foot, 40 lb, pale-skinned fellow in a yellow polo refuses to cooperate. Already well aware of the Miranda warning, he has opted to practise ‘his right to remain silent’ on the subject. But I know he knows what happened that day on the lake. And all I need is a quick confession out of him to wrap up the case.
The recorder light blinks, mocking each one of my failed attempts.
So I try a different tactic. The clock is ticking,