Sellitto couldn't've put it better himself.
A tedious half hour of this game passed. Finally the detective just gave up. He was angry, thinking that he'd be going home soon to his girlfriend and the dinner she was making--turkey, ironically, just like what'd been on the lunch menu at the Riverside Inn in Bedford Junction--but that Officer Larry Burke would never be returning to his wife. He dropped the facade of the friendly but persistent interrogator and muttered, "I want you out of my sight."
Sellitto and the other officers drove the prisoner two blocks to the Manhattan Detention Center for booking on murder, attempt, assault and arson charges. The detective warned the DOC officers about the man's skills at escaping and they assured him that Weir would be placed in Special Detention, a virtually escape-proof facility.
"Oh, Detective Sellitto," Weir called in a throaty whisper.
The detective turned.
"I swear to God I didn't do it," he gasped, his voice echoing with what sounded like genuine remorse. "Maybe after I get some rest I'll remember some things that'll help you find the real killer. I really do want to help."
*
Downstairs in the Tombs the two officers, both with a firm grip on the prisoner's arms, let him shuffle his way to the booking station.
Doesn't look so scary to me, Department of Corrections Officer Linda Welles thought. He was strong, she could tell, but not like some of the beasts they'd processed here, those kids from Alphabet City or Harlem with perfect bodies that even huge quantities of crack and smack and malt liquor couldn't soften.
No, she didn't quite know why they were making all this fuss about this skinny old guy, Weir, Erick A.
"Keep a hold on him, watch his hands all the time. Don't take the shackles off." That'd been Detective Sellitto's warning. But the suspect just looked sad and tired and was having trouble breathing. She wondered what had happened to his hands and neck, the scarring. A fire or hot oil. The thought of the pain made her shiver.
Welles remembered what he'd told Detective Sellitto at the intake door. I really do want to help. Weir had seemed like a schoolchild who'd disappointed his parents.
Despite Detective Sellitto's concerns the fingerprinting and mug shots went without incident and soon he was back in double cuffs and ankle shackles again. Welles and Hank Gersham, a large male DOC officer, took an arm each and then started down the long corridor to intake.
Welles had handled thousands of criminals here and thought she was immune to their pleas and their protests and tears. But there was something about Weir's sad promise to Detective Sellitto that moved her. Maybe he actually was innocent. He hardly seemed like a murderer.
He winced and Welles relaxed her viselike grip on his arm slightly.
A moment later the prisoner moaned and slumped against her. His face was contorted in pain.
"What?" Hank asked.
"Cramp," he gasped. "It hurts . . . oh, God." He gave a whispered scream. "The shackles!"
His left leg was straight out, quivering, hard as wood.
The guard asked her, "Undo him?"
Welles hesitated. Then said, "No." To Weir: "Let's go down, down on your side. I'll work it out." A runner, she knew how to handle cramps. It probably wasn't fake--he seemed in too much genuine agony and the muscle was rock hard.
"Oh, Jesus," Weir cried in pain. "The shackles!"
"We've gotta get 'em off," her partner said.
"No," Welles repeated firmly. "Get him on the floor. I'll take care of it."
They eased Weir down and Welles began to massage his stiff leg. Hank stood back and watched her at work. Then she happened to glance up. She noticed that Weir's cuffed hands, still behind his back, had slid to his side and that his slacks had been pulled down a few inches.
She looked closely. She saw that a Band-Aid had been peeled away from his hip and beneath it--what the hell was that? She realized it was a slit in the skin.
It was then that his palm hit her square in the nose, popping the cartilage. A burst of pain seared her face and took her breath away.
A key! He'd had a key or pick hidden in that little crevice of skin under the bandage.
Her partner reached out fast but Weir rose even faster and elbowed him in the throat. The man went down, gasping and clutching his neck, coughing and struggling for air. Weir clamped a hand on Welles's pistol and tried to pull it from her holster. She struggled to control it with both hands, using every ounce of strength. She tried to scream but the blood from her broken nose flowed down her throat and she began to choke.
Still gripping her gun, the prisoner reached down with his left hand and in what seemed like seconds unshackled his legs. Then with both hands he began in earnest to get the Glock away from her.