"Olympic fucking speed," he repeated, standing over Roger and the suspect, watching across the park and picking up the blue and red flashes of other units rolling up on the perimeter.

"Hear that, shit-head? Snared your fat ass with Olympic speed," he said and kicked the soles of the man's thick leather boots.

"Where'd you come in, anyway?" Roger said, finally standing up. "I didn't see your car."

"I figured the park, too," he said. "But not on that speed of yours, Rog. Thought I'd cut him off at the tree line."

The two cops talked as if there were no third party, both of them watching the other marked cars swing their headlights into the parking area to the west of the field. They both leaned over and grabbed an arm and brought him to his knees.

"On your feet, shit-head. Time to march the perp march, brother," he said.

"I ain't your fuckin' brother," the man said, slurring his words, talking through clenched teeth like his mouth didn't work right. "An' I didn' do no felony. I was jus' walkin' downa street an' this fuck…"

The man snorted when the first spray of Mace hit him in the face. The second shot of chemical started him coughing and squirming between them.

"Jesus, man," Roger said, turning his own face away from the stinging spray and the canister that had suddenly appeared in the other cop's hand. "Easy with that stuff. We got him."

He looked into Roger's face and gave him that smile of his, holstered the canister and looked back at the gagging prisoner.

"Hey, big man. You do have the right to remain silent," he said, and now they were half dragging the man into the cross-hatching lights of the other squad cars. Behind them their tracks were three dark stains in the wet grass.

"And if you give up that right, I'll give you another shot of that shit into that wired-up mouth of yours."

The big man said nothing.

"That's it, brother," the cop said. "Now you know who's in control."