"What would be your suggestion?" Bolan asked, eyeing the other sharply.
"Give me a statement. A confession. It's the only way you can get the protection of the law."
Bolan laughed tartly. "Some protection. All the way to the electric chair, eh? And then what becomes of the lad brother, eh, Weatherbee?"
"I don't think it'd be that rough. There are circumstances."
"Sure. Sure, there are." Bolan got to his feet. "You're playing games with me, Lieutenant. If I'm free to go..."
"Look, soldier, I don't have a case on you," the policeman fumed. "Am I being honest? How much more honest can a cop get? I can't take a war hero into court on nothing more than a hunch and a couple of suspicions. I don't have enough evidence to get an indictment. But I can't forget that a guy like you is prowling my streets, 'The Executioner' for Christ's sake, with a hard-on for the mob. And don't think for one small second that they can forget it, either."
"Well- thanks for the honesty," Bolan said. He smiled. "See you around." He opened the door and walked out, nodded his head at the uniformed officer, and made for the open doorway at the other end of the large room. Pausing as he rounded the corner, he tossed a glance over his shoulder. The big plainclothesman was leaning against his doorjamb, hands thrust deeply into pockets, gazing disconsolately after him. A sudden chill shot down Bolan's spine, and he knew a moment of self-doubt.