Coffey waited until Imhof was gone, then he stepped into the small immaculate cell, followed by Rabiner. The second guard closed the door from the outside and locked it, preparing to stand watch.
The prisoner lay on the narrow bed, propped up on a thin pillow, dressed in a fresh jumpsuit so orange it almost glowed. Coffey was shocked by his appearance—head bandaged, one eye swollen shut and the other dark, the entire face a palette of black, blue, and green. Behind the puffy slit in the prisoner’s good eye, Coffey could see the glitter of silver.
“Agent Coffey?” the guard asked. “Do you want a chair?”
“No, I’ll stand.” He turned to Rabiner. “Ready?”
Rabiner had removed a microcassette recorder. “Yes, sir.”
Coffey folded his arms and looked down at the battered and bandaged prisoner. He grinned. “What happened to you? Try to kiss the wrong guy?”
No answer, but then, Coffey expected none.
“Let’s get down to business.” He took out a sheet of paper with his notations. “Roll the tape. This is Special Agent Spencer Coffey, in prison cell number C3-44 at Herkmoor Federal Correctional and Holding Facility, interviewing the prisoner identified as A. X. L. Pendergast. The date is March 20.”
A silence.
“Can you talk?”
To Coffey’s surprise, the man said, “Yes.” His voice was barely a whisper and a little thick on account of his puffy lips.
Coffey smiled. This was a promising beginning. “I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible.”
“Likewise.”
It seemed the softening up had worked even better than he had anticipated.
“All right, then. I’m going to return to my previous line of questioning. This time I expect a response. As I’ve already explained, the evidence puts you in Decker’s house at the time of the killing. It provides means, motive, and opportunity, and a direct link between you and the murder weapon.”
The prisoner said nothing, so Coffey continued.
“Point one: the forensic team recovered half a dozen long black fibers at the crime scene, which we found came from a highly unusual cashmere/merino blended Italian fabric made in the 1950s. An analysis of the suits in your wardrobe indicate that all of them were made from the same fabric, even the very same bolt of cloth.
“Point two: at the scene of the crime, we found three hairs, one with root. A PCR analysis proved it matched your DNA to a probability of error of one in sixteen billion.
“Point three: a witness, a neighbor of Decker’s, observed a pale-complected individual in a black suit entering Decker’s house ninety minutes before the murder. In no less than three photo lineups, he positively and categorically identified you as that person. As a member of the U.S. House of Representatives, he is about as unimpeachable a witness as you could find.”
If the prisoner sneered momentarily, it happened so fast that Coffey wasn’t sure he had seen it at all. He took a moment to read the man’s face, but it was impossible to discern any kind of emotion in a face so swollen and bandage-covered. All he could really see of the man was the silver glitter behind the slitted eye. It made him uneasy.
“You’re an FBI agent. You know the ropes.” He shook the piece of paper at Pendergast. “You’re going to be convicted. If you want to avoid the needle, you’d better start cooperating, and cooperating now.”
He stood there, breathing hard, staring at the bandaged prisoner.
The prisoner gazed back. After a moment, he spoke.
“I congratulate you,” he said. His slurred voice sounded submissive, even obsequious.
“May I make a suggestion, Pendergast? Confess and throw yourself at the mercy of the court. It’s your only option—and you know it. Confess, and save us the shame of seeing one of our own dragged through a public trial. Confess, and we’ll get you transferred out of yard 4.”
Another brief silence.
“Would you consider a plea bargain?” Pendergast asked.
Coffey grinned, feeling a flush of triumph. “With evidence like this? Not a chance. Your only hope, Pendergast—and I repeat—is to store up a bit of goodwill with a nice, round confession. It’s now or never.”
Pendergast seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he stirred on the cot. “Very well,” he said.
Coffey broke into a smile.
“Spencer Coffey,” Pendergast went on, honeyed voice dripping with obsequiousness, “I have watched your progress in the Bureau for almost ten years, and I confess I’ve been amazed by it.”
He paused to breathe in.
“I knew from the beginning you were a special, even unique individual. You—what is the term?—nailed me.”