Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

Pamela looked up from the transcript of the first interrogation. “He got a mental problem?”

“Those are his answers,” said the other woman.

“Let’s try again,” said Pamela.

Robert Standing was unshaven and unshowered, the underarms of his shirt sweat-rimed, and he was red-eyed. There was a smell. In total contrast, the lawyer beside him was immaculate in pinstripes, with a mustache and goatee in a miasma of after-shave and cologne. He insisted on a formal exchange of cards, identifying himself as Albert Lang, which she already knew. Pamela had to search through her purse for a card to return.

He looked pointedly at the recording apparatus, waiting for it to be turned it on. As soon as Anne Stovey did so, the man said, “My client has cooperated fully with your investigation. Having done so, he has the right to refuse this second interview, but I have advised him to continue to cooperate. I want to place on record, at this juncture, that it is my client’s intention to sue the Federal Bureau of Investigation for harassment and illegal arrest.”

“Thank you. Your cooperation and future intentions have been noted,” said Pamela. Textbook testosterone, she decided. Not difficult to understand how Anne Stovey had been steam-rollered. It would be interesting how long the pomposity would last under different questioning by someone from out of town. Pamela slid a printout of the General’s e-fit across the table toward Standing and said, “Who is this man?”

Standing studied it for several moments. “I have never seen or met anyone like him before.” His voice was strong but he was moving one hand over the other, as if he were washing them.

“For the benefit of the tape, I would like this image identified,” intruded Lang.

“The General,” said Pamela, still talking to Standing. “The man-the pseudonym-to whom you sent two messages at the Cyber Shack on Halsted Street, Chicago. I’d like you to tell me his real name.”

“I do not know anyone who calls himself the General. Or of the Cyber Shack on Halsted Street or anywhere else in Chicago,” replied the man. “I have never been to the city.”

“I am showing the suspect an electrically generated depiction of an American eagle,” said Pamela, doing so. “Who do you know who has this type of tattoo within a scroll?”

“I don’t know anyone. Or what you’re talking about.”

“I consider this questioning technique irregular,” said the lawyer.

“A protest that can be made in open court to test admissibility,” dismissed Pamela. To Standing she said, “What’s a Land Cruiser?”

“This is preposterous!” said Lang.

“Sir, your objections do not concern points of law, they are intentionally diverting interferences which I am objecting to, on record, for later consideration by the court.” She went to Standing, who had begun to sweat again. “Will you answer, Mr. Standing?”

“A car?” The man frowned.

“Who do you know who owns a maroon Toyota Land Cruiser?” To the tape she said, “I am showing the suspect a dealer’s photograph of such a vehicle.”

“No one.”

Copies of the Cyber Shack messages were added to the exhibit pile, identified by Pamela as she offered them. She said, “What do those mean?”

Standing again took several minutes. “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

Pamela pushed over another piece of evidence, conscious that the lawyer’s interruptions had stopped. “Is this your personal computer log-on that identifies you, by name, to your bank’s computer system?”

“Yes,” confirmed Standing.

“Both messages I have just shown you were sent to the Cyber Shack in Chicago from your branch on your computer log-on.”

“Not by me.”

Another sheet of paper went across the table. “Do you recognize this photocopy to be that of your current bank statement?”

“Yes, but I don’t know anything about the deposits you’re talking about.”

“What deposits are those, Mr. Standing?”

“The ones she asked me about before, that come to $3,400,” said Standing, nodding toward the silent Anne Stovey. He was sweating more heavily now, soaking his shirt anew.

“That amount, in total, was stolen from client accounts in branches of your bank in Schenectady, Rochester, and Rome, and your computer ID has been traced to those illegal withdrawals,” Pamela set out. “How do you explain that?”

“Somebody else must have done it.”

“No one else has-or should have-access to your personal computer identification, should they?”

Sweat was leaking from the man now. “No.”

“Have you shared or given your personal ID to an unauthorized person?” Her warmth was frustration.

“No.”

“Then how was it used to withdraw these amounts of money and send messages to Chicago?”

“I don’t know!” erupted the man, so unexpectedly that both women and the lawyer jumped. Standing began to cry. He let his nose run, uncaringly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happening. I haven’t done any of this. Any of anything. I’m being framed.”

“Why? By whom?” demanded Pamela. She wished he’d wipe his nose.

“I don’t know!”

“Is there anything you do know, Mr. Standing?”

“No!” said the man, answering the ridicule genuinely as he at last wiped his eyes and nose. “Please believe me!”

“Your problem is that I don’t.” She tapped the bank statement and computer ID. “That’s prima facie evidence of grand larceny.”

“My client is prepared to undertake a polygraph test,” said Lang. There was very little pomposity now.

“That’s a trial defense prerogative,” accepted Pamela.

“I meant now, at this stage of the investigation.”

“Mr. Lang, my investigations concern the attack upon the United Nations building, the massacre of FBI personnel at New Rochelle, the bombing and attempted bombing of the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial, and several other matters. I intend charging your client today with grand larceny, pending further investigation, and the government will oppose in the strongest terms any bail application.”

The bearded lawyer sat regarding her open-mouthed, wordless, able only to shake his head.

Robert Standing fainted.

“Clever ploy. Never had it happen before,” said Pamela. At her suggestion they’d gone directly across the street from the police headquarters and sat with coffee and Danish between them.

“The doctor said it was genuine,” reminded Anne.

“Shit scared of medical malpractice,” dismissed Pamela. “Safer to put him in the hospital for observation.”

“Delays the formal charge though.”

“He’s still in official custody. I’ll speak to Washington. I don’t want him copping any medical plea.”

“You going to go along with the polygraph?”

“Washington’s decision, but I don’t see why not. If he sweats while he’s on the lie detector like he did today, he’ll send the needle off the paper.” Her anger at being tricked was going, but only very gradually.

“You think he’s guilty?”

Pamela regarded the other woman disbelievingly over the rim of her coffee cup. “Do I think he’s guilty! Come on!”

“Why make stupid mistakes now?” questioned the local agent. “If he’s our man, he’s been doing it for years and could have gone on doing it except for a bookkeeper named Clarence Snelling who literally counted his pennies. And who we still might not have caught on even if the amounts went into dollars. Why, suddenly, does Standing start stealing so obviously and leaving ID traces all over the place-send crazy, war-type messages-and dump over three grand in his own account, in his own bank, where everybody knew there was an FBI audit going on?”