The Body Looks Familiar by Richard Wormser

to leave his gun out at the front gate; Dave Corday was not carrying one. They entered the interview room, and Latson waved at the swivel chair. “Your honor, D.A.”
    Dave Corday said, “Some day I’m going to shove that deferential grin down your throat.”
    “Any time, Dave, any time. Want me to quote some more police manual to you? Want me to quote the part about physical fitness of all personnel? About periodic physical examinations? Or shall I quote you my last rating in judo?”
    “I don’t want you to quote anything to me!” Dave Corday said.
    Jim Latson was calm. “Shush.” He gestured at the door into the jail proper. It was opening. Ralph Guild came in, followed by a turnkey. The officer looked at Jim Latson who made a gesture with his thumb; the turnkey went out again. Ralph Guild stood in front of the closed door uncertainly.
    “Sit down, Ralph,” Jim Latson said. “You know who we are?” He told him their names and titles, and added, “This is just a talk. We’re not nearly as hot as my boys who have been handling you. We’ve arrived; they’re ambitious.”
    Ralph Guild didn’t smile. But after a moment, he moved toward the straight chair Jim Latson had indicated. He wore the standard jail clothes, old Marine dungarees—war surplus—on which the name of the jail had been block-printed below each knee, on the left breast, and between the shoulder blades. The dungarees didn’t fit too well.
    Jim Latson looked at Corday, which he didn’t have to do; it was up to the district attorney to question. Corday said, “Before we start this talk, Ralph, I want you to notice there are no reporters in this room, neither electronic or personal. In other words, you can talk freely. So, is there anything you want to tell us?”
    Guild’s accent had gotten worse since he had been arrested. His English was good, but his g’s and th’s were badly slurred. He said, “Gentlemen,” first and then stopped uncertainly. Suddenly his words came in a spurt. “Please, they tell me the baby has come, my wife—Could I see my wife, gentlemen?”
    Corday gave Latson a theatrical look, got one back. Then both men shrugged.
    “I don’t see why not,” Latson said. “If you’re cooperative, I’m sure Mr. Corday would give me permission to have one of my boys take you over to the hospital. Mr. Corday recently lost his wile himself; he’s sympathetic.”
    Dave Corday heard the prisoner say, “Oh, I’m sorry,” through the roaring that his blood was making in his ears. He swallowed hard, and said, “Yes, yes, of course, no objection. Anything more you want to say?”
    “Only that I didn’t kill Miss DeLisle. She was a very nice lady, very good to me.” The voice was sad as November sweeping the last dead leaves out of a street; it was obvious that Ralph Guild already saw himself convicted and executed. Dave Corday had a picture, wholly sympathetic for the moment, of Guild’s background; a Czech of thirty would have no mature or adolescent memory of a fair government, of any kind of government except that of a foreign secret service organization.
    Corday said, “This is the United States. If you are innocent, you will have plenty of chance to prove it. Who is your lawyer?”
    “Mr. Justin.”
    Jim Latson coughed. Jule Justin was low-ranking man on the public defender’s totem pole; only the fact that he was the mayor’s nephew kept him there. The gamin Trib had once said that Jule Justin was to the executioner as a plunger was to a plumber: a friend.
    “Well, exactly,” Dave Corday was saying. “Mr. Justin is a native-born citizen, graduated from one of our best universities. Why, he is connected with the mayor.”
    Jim Latson said, “First you tell him everything’s on the up and up in this country, Dave. Then you imply that being related to the mayor is what a guy needs. Stick to one story or the other.” He leaned forward, tapped on the table that separated them from Guild. “Ralph, here’s the