Then the door opened and a scrappy-looking guy walked in, no taller than five foot six, but thick like a jeep. He wore a natty three-piece blue suit and carried a beat-up leather briefcase. Bolan guessed him to be around forty-two. "I got about two minutes, Culver. What we got here?" He had a soft Georgia accent.

"We got one smartass bad guy who won't give us his name."

"Mirandized?"

"Signed and seated, Captain."

"Fingerprints?"

"Sent them in. They're checking now."

"Evidence?"

"Silent alarm from the liquor store. Boggs and Simpson caught him running away. Had a .38 and a bag from the liquor store with the exact amount of cash stolen. No ID on him."

"Witnesses?"

"We're bringing the liquor-store clerk down for a lineup. The clerk had been knocked on the head, but the wound's minor. There shouldn't be any problem. This guy fits the description perfectly."

The captain looked at Bolan. "You took like you been around the block before, sport. You gotta know that playing dummy won't get you nothing but hard time and pain."

"I'm saying nothing till I see my lawyer," Bolan said.

The captain shook his head. "Lock his ass up."

"Right." The skinny cop stood. "Notice those tiny scars around the eyes and nose, Captain?" The captain squinted at Bolan's face. "You mean those wrinkles?"

"They're scars. My sister was in an accident when she was a kid. Her boyfriend had a snoot full and crashed his Studebaker into a tractor. Mashed her face something awful. Doctors did the best they could back then, but she never could breathe proper. Always chewing with her mouth open so's she could breathe. Ever watched yams chewed like that? Yeech."

"Get on with it, Jimmy." The cop patted his toupee, shifting it.

"Anyway, couple years ago she had it fixed and figured while they was at it they might as well do a little adjusting and tightening here and there. Had tiny threadlike scars just like this fella."