mean, Mr. Forensics?"
He went back to his folder. "Mr. Cole, do you own a stainless steel Ruger .357 revolver, serial number 468723698?"
Something cold started touching the back of my neck and the back of my hands. "I do own a Ruger .357 revolver. I don't have the serial number memorized."
"They never do. Well, let's get right to it, shall we?"
"Let's," I said, now deeply regretting I hadn't called anybody before coming here.
"Mr. Cole, have you lent or given away this revolver recently?"
"No."
"Have you sold it?"
"No."
"Then can you tell us why your revolver, with your fingerprints and your fingerprints only, was found on the floor of the Tyler Conference Center yesterday? With three unfired and two fired cartridges?"
I said not a word.
"Two rounds were removed from the stage wall at the conference center. Ballistics conclusively show that they were fired from your revolver. And you were there."
"But I wasn't in the room when the shots were fired. I was out in the parking lot, puking up my guts."
"You see anybody in the parking lot? Anybody at all while you were out there conveniently being sick?"
“No."
Agent Reynolds carefully closed the folder. "Are you sure you don't want to change any of your previous answers?"
"Positive."
"Because there's an opportunity you have, right now, to make everything right."
"How?"
"By telling me why you brought your revolver to the campaign rally yesterday, and why you tried to shoot Senator Hale."
My hands were underneath the table, clasped tightly together. "I was at the rally, but I wasn't armed. And I didn't try to kill the senator."
"And that is going to be your story?"
"No."
"Good," he said. "Now we're getting somewhere."
"No, we're not, because you're not understanding what I'm trying to say. That's not my story. Those are the facts."
He stared at me and then made a crisp nod. "Mr. Cole; in a few minutes we're going to place you under arrest for the attempted murder of Senator Hale. You're going to be transported from this police station to the county jail nearby, and from there, I imagine the nearest federal facility, which will be in Boston. It's your choice as to whether you will then wish to have representation. I imagine you will."
"You imagine right," I said. "And you'll find out in a very short while that I had nothing to do with that shooting."
"Why? Because you're telling the truth?"
"Of course I am," I said.
"Interesting thought," he said, standing up. "Especially since I'm stationed in the Boston office, and I've never heard of a Spenser Harris."
Some hours later, I was in a cell at the Wentworth County jail, staring at the stainless steel toilet in the corner of my new little universe. While the processing in was efficient and proper, the ride over was anything but. After formally being placed under arrest and being handcuffed, I was quickly led out of the Tyler police station ---- not seeing Diane Woods in the process ---- and was taken to a dark blue van, pulled up to the entrance where I had earlier walked in as a free man. I was placed inside the van by two other agents, who carefully seat belted me in. We then left in a little convoy; the van was led and followed by dark blue Ford LTDs, similar to the one Diane drove.
When we turned the corner of the police station parking lot, we drove through a phalanx of television cameras, reporters, and news photographers, all flashing their cameras, all taking notes, all sucking in bits of information. One of the Secret Service agents said, "Hey, you're famous."
"Lucky me," I said.
"Too bad the windows are tinted. Your face would be seen by half the planet in an hour or so."
I didn't say anything more, and the agents also kept quiet on the drive west. We got out to Route 101, and along the way, I could see that the media interest was chasing us all the way along the state road. Other camera crews were stationed along the side of the road, and there was a moment, hearing the steady
He went back to his folder. "Mr. Cole, do you own a stainless steel Ruger .357 revolver, serial number 468723698?"
Something cold started touching the back of my neck and the back of my hands. "I do own a Ruger .357 revolver. I don't have the serial number memorized."
"They never do. Well, let's get right to it, shall we?"
"Let's," I said, now deeply regretting I hadn't called anybody before coming here.
"Mr. Cole, have you lent or given away this revolver recently?"
"No."
"Have you sold it?"
"No."
"Then can you tell us why your revolver, with your fingerprints and your fingerprints only, was found on the floor of the Tyler Conference Center yesterday? With three unfired and two fired cartridges?"
I said not a word.
"Two rounds were removed from the stage wall at the conference center. Ballistics conclusively show that they were fired from your revolver. And you were there."
"But I wasn't in the room when the shots were fired. I was out in the parking lot, puking up my guts."
"You see anybody in the parking lot? Anybody at all while you were out there conveniently being sick?"
“No."
Agent Reynolds carefully closed the folder. "Are you sure you don't want to change any of your previous answers?"
"Positive."
"Because there's an opportunity you have, right now, to make everything right."
"How?"
"By telling me why you brought your revolver to the campaign rally yesterday, and why you tried to shoot Senator Hale."
My hands were underneath the table, clasped tightly together. "I was at the rally, but I wasn't armed. And I didn't try to kill the senator."
"And that is going to be your story?"
"No."
"Good," he said. "Now we're getting somewhere."
"No, we're not, because you're not understanding what I'm trying to say. That's not my story. Those are the facts."
He stared at me and then made a crisp nod. "Mr. Cole; in a few minutes we're going to place you under arrest for the attempted murder of Senator Hale. You're going to be transported from this police station to the county jail nearby, and from there, I imagine the nearest federal facility, which will be in Boston. It's your choice as to whether you will then wish to have representation. I imagine you will."
"You imagine right," I said. "And you'll find out in a very short while that I had nothing to do with that shooting."
"Why? Because you're telling the truth?"
"Of course I am," I said.
"Interesting thought," he said, standing up. "Especially since I'm stationed in the Boston office, and I've never heard of a Spenser Harris."
Some hours later, I was in a cell at the Wentworth County jail, staring at the stainless steel toilet in the corner of my new little universe. While the processing in was efficient and proper, the ride over was anything but. After formally being placed under arrest and being handcuffed, I was quickly led out of the Tyler police station ---- not seeing Diane Woods in the process ---- and was taken to a dark blue van, pulled up to the entrance where I had earlier walked in as a free man. I was placed inside the van by two other agents, who carefully seat belted me in. We then left in a little convoy; the van was led and followed by dark blue Ford LTDs, similar to the one Diane drove.
When we turned the corner of the police station parking lot, we drove through a phalanx of television cameras, reporters, and news photographers, all flashing their cameras, all taking notes, all sucking in bits of information. One of the Secret Service agents said, "Hey, you're famous."
"Lucky me," I said.
"Too bad the windows are tinted. Your face would be seen by half the planet in an hour or so."
I didn't say anything more, and the agents also kept quiet on the drive west. We got out to Route 101, and along the way, I could see that the media interest was chasing us all the way along the state road. Other camera crews were stationed along the side of the road, and there was a moment, hearing the steady
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